"Thou hast made a good turn of the subject, simpleton," said Comyn. "If I beat my political opponents during the day, thou worstest me at night by thy ingenious pleasantry. Thou conquerest even nature's twists and torsels, for my crooked mind and deformed body become straight under the soft ministration of thy simple manners. I cannot help sometimes thinking that, if it had been thy fate to be wedded to such a fair piece of nature's handiwork as the English baron, John Russel, who banqueted with us yesterday--a thing of red and white pigment--an automaton mannerist, without a mind--every woman's slave, and never his own master--thy simplicity would have lost its power, for, having no foil, it would have merged into the idiocy of thy husband, and you would have become a pair of quarrelsome simpletons."
"And if thou hadst got a wife," answered Countess Margaret, smiling, "as deep and subtle as thyself, the charm thou hast for me--thy mental superiority--would have been lost, for want of a foil; but thou wert too clever to fall into that snare, and didst avoid artful and knowing women, though beautiful, as anxiously as I, if I were still unmarried, would avoid that fair painted Jackalent thou hast mentioned, the English baron, John Russel. Sheep, thou knowest often fight, and get entangled in each other's horns. They are then an easy prey to the wolves. I would not give my 'Crooked Comyn' for all the Russels of England."
"Thy rattle pleaseth me, sweet Margaret," said Comyn. "But how is this? I feel ill. What can ail Comyn on the night of his day of triumph? These pains rack me. So sudden an attack! These are not usual feelings that now assail me."
"Ill in the midst of health!" cried Countess Margaret. "What meaneth this!--where is the complaint? Speak, dear husband! tell thy devoted wife what may enable her to yield thee relief."
"A burning pain wringeth my heart," replied Comyn, with an expression of agony, "and unmanneth a soul that never knew subjugation; that is to me the only symptom of danger. When Comyn trembleth, death cannot be far distant."
"Thou alarmest me, dear husband," cried Countess Margaret; "speak not in such ominous terms of what I could not survive one solitary moon. What can I minister to thee?"