The king's eyes were opened to the treacherous artifice of
which he had been made the victim.
Edgar was deeply incensed, but artfully concealed his anger. Reflection,
too, told him that these men were Athelwold's enemies, and that the man
he had loved and trusted ought not to be condemned on the insinuations
of his foes. He would satisfy himself if his favorite had played the
traitor, and if so would visit him with the punishment he deserved.
"Athelwold," said Edgar, in easy tones, "I am surprised you do not bring
your wife to court. Surely the woman, if she is true woman, must crave
to come."
"Not she," answered Athelwold. "She loves the country well and is a
pattern of the rural virtues. The woman is homely and home-loving, and I
should be sorry to put new ideas in her rustic pate. Moreover, I fear my
little candle would shine too poorly among your courtly stars to offer
her in contrast."
"Fie on you, man! the wife of Athelwold cannot be quite a milkmaid. If
you will not bring her here, then I must pay you a visit in your castle;
I like you too well not to know and like your wife."
This proposition of the king filled Athelwold with terror and dismay. He
grew pale, and hesitatingly sought to dissuade Edgar from his project,
but in vain.
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