“Opportunity was lacking, my lord,” replied Ramorny; “and time presses even now.”
“Nay, I am but too apt for a frolic; but my father—”
“He is personally safe,” said Ramorny, “and as much at freedom as ever he can be; while your Highness—”
“Must brook fetters, conjugal or literal—I know it. Yonder comes Douglas, with his daughter in his hand, as haughty and as harsh featured as himself, bating touches of age.”
“And at Falkland sits in solitude the fairest wench in Scotland,” said Ramorny. “Here is penance and restraint, yonder is joy and freedom.”
“Thou hast prevailed, most sage counsellor,” replied Rothsay; “but mark you, it shall be the last of my frolics.”
“I trust so,” replied Ramorny; “for, when at liberty, you may make a good accommodation with your royal father.”
“I will write to him, Ramorny. Get the writing materials. No, I cannot put my thoughts in words—do thou write.”
“Your Royal Highness forgets,” said Ramorny, pointing to his mutilated arm.
“Ah! that cursed hand of yours. What can we do?”