‘He should love his wife, my child.’
‘His wife, indeed! Not he!’ cried Adam. ‘Why, he loved your Majesty from the very first, and begged you to trust him. And should he go back upon his word?’
‘Well,’ said the Queen, smiling, ‘maybe I will try him again.’
‘So please your Majesty, think of this,’ Adam said. ‘A man, they say, weds with his hand. But he loves not with the hand.’
‘Would you wed with the hand, boy?’
He blushed. ‘I would, madam, if I must. But I would cut it off first.’
The Queen was delighted with him. She asked about his sister—was very curious. How old was his sister Jean? She was told. Nineteen years! Younger than herself, then—and looking so much older. Was she affianced? Not yet? What made the men such laggards in the North? She looked proud and cold: was she so indeed?
‘She is cold,’ says Adam, ‘until you warm her.’
‘A still girl,’ says the Queen.