“The noble Lady Edith,” said a third voice, “hath never forgiven Calista and me, since we told your Majesty that she dropped two rosebuds in the chapel.”
“If your Majesty,” said Edith, in a tone which Sir Kenneth could judge to be that of respectful remonstrance, “have no other commands for me than to hear the gibes of your waiting-women, I must crave your permission to withdraw.”
“Silence, Florise,” said the Queen, “and let not our indulgence lead you to forget the difference betwixt yourself and the kinswoman of England.—But you, my dear cousin,” she continued, resuming her tone of raillery, “how can you, who are so good-natured, begrudge us poor wretches a few minutes' laughing, when we have had so many days devoted to weeping and gnashing of teeth?”
“Great be your mirth, royal lady,” said Edith; “yet would I be content not to smile for the rest of my life, rather than—”
She stopped, apparently out of respect; but Sir Kenneth could hear that she was in much agitation.
“Forgive me,” said Berengaria, a thoughtless but good-humoured princess of the House of Navarre; “but what is the great offence, after all? A young knight has been wiled hither—has stolen, or has been stolen, from his post, which no one will disturb in his absence—for the sake of a fair lady; for, to do your champion justice, sweet one, the wisdom of Nectabanus could conjure him hither in no name but yours.”
“Gracious Heaven! your Majesty does not say so?” said Edith, in a voice of alarm quite different from the agitation she had previously evinced,—“you cannot say so consistently with respect for your own honour and for mine, your husband's kinswoman! Say you were jesting with me, my royal mistress, and forgive me that I could, even for a moment, think it possible you could be in earnest!”
“The Lady Edith,” said the Queen, in a displeased tone of voice, “regrets the ring we have won of her. We will restore the pledge to you, gentle cousin; only you must not grudge us in turn a little triumph over the wisdom which has been so often spread over us, as a banner over a host.”
“A triumph!” exclaimed Edith indignantly—“a triumph! The triumph will be with the infidel, when he hears that the Queen of England can make the reputation of her husband's kinswoman the subject of a light frolic.”
“You are angry, fair cousin, at losing your favourite ring,” said the Queen. “Come, since you grudge to pay your wager, we will renounce our right; it was your name and that pledge brought him hither, and we care not for the bait after the fish is caught.”