“Madame, I may claim some reverence from you,” came the taunt. “God knows, I am only your husband; a poor reason, it seems. This braggart preacher bulks too large in our house.”
“He is a man, messire. You are jealous, eh?”
“You suggest, madame wife, that there is cause for the passion.”
Silence held a moment, a pause as for breath. Tristan’s mouth hardened. It was the woman’s voice that sounded next, a ringing scorn in it that made Tristan’s eyes glitter.
“Is marriage a surety for insolence?” it said.
“Insolence! Is the truth insolent?”
“Shall I suffer this, though I am your wife?”
“Husbands, madame, suffer no tricking of their honour, save when they are blind bats and fools.”
There was again a pause. Rosamunde’s words came clear and passionate as the notes of a well-tuned harp.
“Man, you have said enough to me, though you are my mate.”