‘“No, no, I am no liar, madam,” she answered. “You are his woman, and so am I. Eh, there’s been a many and a many of us—a brave company!”
‘The Queen was tussling with her breast, but could get no breath. I thought she was frightened at the sudden revelation, or confirmation, of how she stood: she faltered—she cast about—and then she said:
‘“I know that you lie, and I know why you lie. You hate me bitterly. This is mere malice.”
‘“It is not malice,” says the Countess; “it is the bare truth. Why should I spare you the truth—you of all women?”
‘“You hate too much, you hate too much! I have accorded with you—we have kissed each other. I tried to serve you. It is not my fault if my lord—if my lord——O Jeannie!” she said, with a pitiful gesture of stretched-out arms—“O Jeannie, have mercy upon me—have a thought for my sorrow!”
‘She came nearer as she spoke, so near that the two could have touched; and then the Countess, who had sat so still, turned her head a little back, and (like a white cat) laid her ears flat and struck at last.
‘“Woman,” she said, “when you raked my father out of his grave, and spat upon his dead corse, what thought had you for his flesh and blood? What mercy upon their sorrow?”
‘The Queen, when she had understood her, wiped her eyes, and grew calmer. “I had no thought for you then, nor durst I have any. Princes must do justice without ruth; and he was a rebel, and so were you all. Your brothers Huntly and Adam have read me better.”
‘“Ay,” said the Countess, “the greedy loons! They put your fingers in their mouths and suck sweetness and solace—like enough they will read you well. But I am not of their fashion, you must know.” Stiffening herself, she spoke swiftly: “And if you could dishonour a dead old man whom you vow you had once loved, what wonder if I dishonour you whom I have always hated?”