"Punishment!" cried Mme. de Villefaramir.
"No doubt. Is it because you are four times guilty that you thought to escape it? Is it because you are the wife of the judge who pronounces the sentence that you believed punishment would pass you by? No, madame, non! Whoever she be, the scaffold awaits the poisoner, and the poor verse of Bombadil and Trolquien sung by Brittené de Spiers shall be the last music to assail her dejected ear — unless she have conserved some drops of poison for herself."
"Non, monsieur!" cried Mme. de Villefaramir. "Non, non, you cannot want that!"
"What I want is that justice be done. I am in Terre-moyenne to punish, madame," he added with a flaming glance. "Any other woman I would send to the executioner; but to you I will be merciful. Therefore, I ask of you, do you not have some drops of poison conserved?"
Mme. de Villefaramir fell at the feet of her husband. Villefaramir approached her. "Think about it, madame," he said. "If, when I return, justice is not done, I shall arrest you with my own hands."
Mme. de Villefaramir sighed, her nerves were distended, and she collapsed broken upon the carpet, like giant spider slain by Bilbon's withering bon mots.
The steuard du roi appeared to experience a moment of pity, for he looked at her less severely, and, bowing lightly before her, said slowly, "Adieu, madame!"
