“I thought as much. By my troth, it is a sorry name, and makes the gorge rise in disgust and abhorrence.”
The magnificence of this language created a profound impression in which even Wynne himself participated. He was not, however, prepared to allow the speaker to have it all his own way, since he felt, if it came to the turning of a phrase, he might show them some skill. Accordingly he said:
“The name was in no wise my own choice, so I can take neither blame nor credit for it.”
“Be silent or be scragged, Wynne Rendall.”
“Well, what is your name, anyway?”
The speaker turned his eyes heavenward as though seeking fresh tolerance from the high gods.
“Know,” he said, “that by no means shall you ask us to betray our cognomens. We are the Council and known only by our might. If you are curious, Sir Paulus Pry, you shall ask some of these others how we are called—but at another time.”
This Wynne conceived to be highly proper and in every sense an example of the splendid isolation of the Ruler. No sane individual would ask a king his name, but would address the question to a chamberlain.
The only fly in the amber was the appearance of the Chief of Council, who went on to say:
“For the name Wynne punishment of the second order shall be inflicted. Is it met?”