“You should turn your gifts to the service of your master. Go, woo for him poor Mary of Vendôme, and see if you can cure her who is dying of love for young Talbot of Falaise.”
For a moment the king stood as if struck by the lightning he had just referred to, then staggering back a step, rested his hand on the parapet and steadied himself.
“Good God!” he muttered in low tones, “is that true?”
All coquetry disappeared from the girl as she saw the dramatic effect her words had produced. She moved lightly forward, then held back again, anxiety on her brow.
“Sir, what is wrong with you? Are you ill? Are you a friend of Talbot’s?”
“Yes, I am a friend of his.”
“And did you not know this? I thought every one knew it. Does not the King of Scotland know? What will he do when he learns, think you, or will it make a difference?”
“The King of Scotland is a blind fool; a conceited coxcomb, who thinks every woman that sees him must fall in love with him.”
“Sir, you amaze me. Are you not a subject of his? You would not speak so in his hearing.”
“Indeed and that I would, without hesitation, and he knows it.”