“Merlin, be careful how you tempt me to be angry!”
He looked at her intently, and then, leaning forward, began to speak with a whispering eagerness, his voice sounding like the blowing of a wind through a crack in a shutter. Isoult sat back, rigid, her eyes staring at the fire, her throat stiffening, her lips pressed together. She was very white when he uttered the first words, but a slow surge of blood rose into her face, and her eyes glittered like water touched by the sun at dawn.
Suddenly she started up, and her face flamed.
“Enough! Am I to listen to this?”
Merlin stroked the air with his hands.
“My daughter, I speak advisedly. Is it not a glory to any woman for her to make and unmake kings? And this Fulk is not unworthy. The blood of a great prince runs in him.”
She walked to and fro, and then stood and looked down at him with a scorn that she did not dissemble.
“No. I sing no such song for you, Master Merlin. By my troth, I bid you beware.”
He waved his hands with the same smoothing motion, and dared to meet her eyes.
“My daughter, you are in too hot a hurry. The King of the Commons will not have to wed a princess out of France or Spain. She who is comely and proud and valiant can sit by such a king. Come now—consider.”