“Such things have been,” said she, “and so may chance again.  Many more marvellous works have been wrought than this, and the day of miracles is not yet past.  Tell me, know you not yet that you have gained the love of some high princess, even mine?”

The knight made answer forthwith, “Lady, I know it not.  I would desire to have your love in a fair and honourable fashion; but may God keep me from such love between us, as would put shame upon my lord.  In no manner, nor for any reason, will I enter on such a business as would lead me to deal my true and lawful lord so shrewd and foul a wrong.”

Bitter at heart was the dame to see her love so scorned.

“Fie upon you,” she cried, “and who required of you any such thing?”

“Ah, lady, to God be the praise; you have said enough to make your meaning passing plain.”

The lady strove no more to show herself kind to him.  Great was the wrath and sharp the malice that she hid within her heart, and well she purposed that, if she might, she would avenge herself speedily.  All the day she considered her anger.  That night as she lay beside the Duke she began to sigh, and afterwards to weep.  Presently the Duke inquired of her grief, bidding her show it him forthwith.

“Certes,” said the dame, “I make this great sorrow because no prince can tell who is his faithful servant, and who is not.  Often he gives the more honour and wealth to those who are traitors rather than friends, and sees nothing of their wrong.”

“In faith, wife,” answered the Duke, “I know not why you speak these words.  At least I am free of such blame as this, for in nowise would I nourish a traitor, if only a traitor I knew him to be.”

“Hate then this traitor,” cried she,—­and she named a name—­“who gives me no peace, praying and requiring me the livelong day that I should grant him my love.  For a great while he had been in this mind—­as he says—­but did not dare to speak his thoughts.  I considered the whole matter, fair lord, and resolved to show it you at once.  It is likely enough to be true that he cherished this hope, for we have never heard that he loves elsewhere.  I entreat you in guerdon, to look well to your own honour, since this, as you know, is your duty and right.”

Passing grievous was this business to the Duke.  He answered to the lady,

“I will bring it to a head, and very quickly, as I deem.”

That night the Duke lay upon a bed of little ease.  He could neither sleep nor rest, by reason of that lord, his friend, who, he was persuaded, had done him such bitter wrong as justly to have forfeited his love.  Because of this he kept vigil the whole night through.  He rose very early on the morrow, and bade him come whom his wife had put to blame, although he had done nothing blameworthy.  Then he took him to task, man to man, when there were but these two together.