“For reason of a lady’s silver laughter.  A notable reason this; for, mark me, ye lovers, an thy lady flout thee one hour, grieve not—­she shall be kind the next; an she scorn thee to-day, despair nothing—­she shall love thee to-morrow; but, an she laugh and laugh—­ah, then poor lover, Venus pity thee!  Then languish hope, and tender heart be rent, for love and laughter can ne’er be kin.  Wherefore a woeful wight am I, foredone and all distraught for love.  Behold here, the blazon on my shield—­lo! a riven heart proper (direfully aflame) upon a field vert.  The heart, methinks, is aptly wrought and popped, and the flame in sooth flame-like!  Here beneath, behold my motto, ‘Ardeo’ which signifieth ‘I burn.’  Other device have I laid by for the nonce, what time my pilgrimage shall be accompt.”

But Beltane looked not so much upon the shield as on the face of him that bore it, and beholding its high and fearless look, the clear, bright eyes and humorous mouth (albeit schooled to melancholy) he smiled, and got him to his feet.

“Now, well met, Sir Knight of the Burning Heart!” quoth he.  “What would ye here, alone, within these solitudes?”

“Sigh, messire.  I sing and sigh, and sigh and sing.”

“’Tis a something empty life, methinks.”

“Not so, messire,” sighed the rueful knight, “for when I chance to meet a gentle youth, young and well beseen—­as thou, bedight in goodly mail —­as thou, with knightly sword on thigh, why then, messire, ’tis ever my wont to declare unto him that she I honour is fairer, nobler, and altogether more worthy and virtuous than any other she soever, and to maintain that same against him, on horse or afoot, with lance, battle-axe or sword.  Thus, see you messire, even a love-lorn lover hath betimes his compensations, and the sward is soft underfoot, and level.”  Saying which, the knight cocked a delicate eyebrow in questioning fashion, and laid a slender finger to the pommel of his long sword.

“How,” cried Beltane, “would’st fight with me?”

“Right gladly would I, messire—­to break the monotony.”

“I had rather hear thy song again.”

“Ha, liked you it in sooth?  ’Tis small thing of mine own.”

“And ’tis brief!” nodded Beltane.

“Brief!” quoth the knight, “brief! not so, most notable youthful sir, for even as love is long enduring so is my song, it being of an hundred and seventy and eight cantos in all, dealing somewhat of the woes and ills of a heart sore smitten (which heart is mine own also).  Within my song is much matter of hearts (in truth) and darts, of flames and shames, of yearnings and burnings, the which this poor heart must needs endure since it doth constant bleed and burn.”

“Indeed, messire, I marvel that you be yet alive,” said Beltane gravely, whereat the young knight did pause to view him, dubious-eyed.  Quoth he: 

“In sooth, most youthful and excellent sir, I have myself marvelled thereat betimes, but, since alive am I, now do I declare unto you that she for whom I sigh is the fairest, gentlest, noblest, most glorious and most womanly of all women in the world alive—­”