"Thy advice," replied the prince, smiling, with some indication of satire, "if followed, by rejecting the counsel of my constituted advisers, would be an advice to reject advice contrary to thy advice; for my council recommend me to marry Elizabeth Douglas, and to reject the March. Dost thou think that any of the greybeards--Albany is too ambitious to marry again--have any private intentions on Bess of Dunbar. If I thought that, I would reject the Douglas, and betake myself to the March." "And thou wouldst act sagely in so doing," replied Ramorgny, who did not yet see the prince's satire. "If any one of these counsellors act from such a motive--and I am not sure of Arran--he ought to lose his mistress and his head at the same time." "Sayest thou so, Ramorgny?" replied the prince. "Is it thy heart that so speaketh, or thy judgment? Thou hast recommended me to the March, whom I have seen and conversed with, and well know, and hast endeavoured to terrify me from the Douglas, whom I have also seen, and can well appreciate. Art thou quite sure thy advice is purer, sounder, truer, and wiser, than that of my council?" This question produced an evident effect upon Ramorgny. He endeavoured to escape the prince's eye; but he found that no easy matter. Rothsay kept looking at him intensely, and plainly showed that he was master of the secret purpose for which he had endeavoured to precipitate him into a connection that would have made him miserable for life. It was now, however, too late for Ramorgny to retreat; and, boldly facing his danger, he replied-- "Thy question carries with it more than meets the ear. If I depreciated Elizabeth Douglas, and overrated Elizabeth Dunbar, a spirit of liberal construction would give me credit for having been myself deceived." "Stop!" said the prince, interrupting him. "I did not say that thou didst depreciate the one and overrate the other. Why take guilt to thyself?" "By St Duthos," cried Ramorgny, who now saw he was caught, and resolved upon another tack, "it is time now to be grave! Will that cursed spirit of devilish frolic which I learned from thee cling to me, even after the dreadful apparition of the first grey hair, which this morning appeared to me in my glass? But thou art thyself to blame. A master of mirth thyself--the prime minister of Momus, as well as of King Robert, and my professor in the science of fun--wert thou unable to discover, in my outrageous and elaborate description of the two damsels, the traces of the pencil--for Momus could paint--of the laughing god? If thou wert not, didst thou not deserve the harmless deception? Say, now, good prince, condemn, if thou darest, thy scholar of a proficiency which thou hast taught. Struck by thy own sword of lath, wilt thou amputate the offending hand? Say, and if thou wilt, strike. A philosopher would laugh--what shall the merry-making Rothsay do?"