it were night or day.  For he was my mirth and my carol; in him were my joy and my pleasure; he alone was my solace and comfort.  Ah, my friend, how can this have come; you who were always with me, even when I might not see you with my eyes!  What ill has befallen you, that you durst prove false to me?  I deemed you more faithful—­God take me in His keeping—­than ever was Tristan to Isoude.  May God pity a poor fool, I loved you half as much again than I had love for myself.  From the first to the last of our friendship, never by thought, or by word, or by deed, have I done amiss; there is no wrong doing, trifling or great, to make plain your hatred, or to excuse so vile a betrayal as this scorning of our love for a fresher face, this desertion of me, this proclaiming of our secret.  Alas, my friend, I marvel greatly; for as God is my witness my heart was not thus towards you.  If God had offered me all the kingdoms of the world, yea, and His Heaven and its Paradise besides, I would have refused them gladly, had my gain meant the losing of you.  For you were my wealth and my song and my health, and nothing can hurt me any more, since my heart has learnt that yours no longer loves me.  Ah, lasting, precious love!  Who could have guessed that he would deal this blow, to whom I gave the grace of my tenderness—­who said that I was his lady both in body and in soul, and he the slave at my bidding.  Yea, he told it over so sweetly, that I believed him faithfully, nor thought in any wise that his heart would bear wrath and malice against me, whether for Duchess or for Queen.  How good was this love, since the heart in my breast must always cleave to his!  I counted him to be my friend, in age as in youth, our lives together; for well I knew that if he died first I should not dare to endure long without him, because of the greatness of my love.  The grave, with him, would be fairer, than life in a world where I might never see him with my eyes.  Ah, lasting, precious love!  Is it then seemly that he should publish our counsel, and destroy her who had done him no wrong?  When I gave him my love without grudging, I warned him plainly, and made covenant with him, that he would lose me the self same hour that he made our tenderness a song.  Since part we must, I may not live after so bitter a sorrow; nor would I choose to live, even if I were able.  Fie upon life, it has no savour in it.  Since it pleases me naught, I pray to God to grant me death, and—­so truly as I have loved him who requites me thus—­to have mercy on my soul.  I forgive him his wrong, and may God give honour and life to him who has betrayed and delivered me to death.  Since it comes from his hand, death, meseems, is no bitter potion; and when I remember his love, to die for his sake is no grievous thing.”

When the chatelaine had thus spoken she kept silence, save only that she said in sighing,

“Sweet friend, I commend you to God.”

With these words she strained her arms tightly across her breast, the heart failed her, and her face lost its fair colour.  She swooned in her anguish, and lay back, pale and discoloured in the middle of the bed, without life or breath.