Sang Sire Edward: 

  “Incuriously he smites the armored king
  And tricks his counsellors—­

“yes, the jingle ran thus.  Now listen, madame—­listen, the while that I have my singing out, whatever any little cut-throats may be planning in corners.”

Sang Sire Edward: 

  “As, later on,
  Death will, half-idly, still our pleasuring,
  And change for fevered laughter in the sun
  Sleep such as Merlin’s,—­and excess thereof,—­
  Whence we, divorceless Death our Viviaine
  Implacable, may never more regain
  The unforgotten rapture, and the pain
  And grief and ecstasy of life and love.

  “For, presently, as quiet as the king
  Sleeps now that planned the keeps of Ilion,
  We, too, will sleep, whilst overhead the spring
  Rules, and young lovers laugh—­as we have done,—­
  And kiss—­as we, that take no heed thereof,
  But slumber very soundly, and disdain
  The world-wide heralding of winter’s wane
  And swift sweet ripple of the April rain
  Running about the world to waken love.

  “We shall have done with Love, and Death be king
  And turn our nimble bodies carrion,
  Our red lips dusty;—­yet our live lips cling
  Despite that age-long severance and are one
  Despite the grave and the vain grief thereof,—­
  Which we will baffle, if in Death’s domain
  Fond memories may enter, and we twain
  May dream a little, and rehearse again
  In that unending sleep our present love.

  “Speed forth to her in halting unison,
  My rhymes:  and say no hindrance may restrain
  Love from his aim when Love is bent thereon;
  And that were love at my disposal lain—­
  All mine to take!—­and Death had said, ’Refrain,
  Lest I, even I, exact the cost thereof,’
  I know that even as the weather-vane
  Follows the wind so would I follow Love.”

Sire Edward put aside the lute.  “Thus ends the Song of Service,” he said, “which was made not by the King of England but by Edward Plantagenet—­hot-blooded and desirous man!—­in honor of the one woman who within more years than I care to think of has at all considered Edward Plantagenet.”

“I do not comprehend,” she said.  And, indeed, she dared not.

But now he held both tiny hands in his.  “At best, your poet is an egotist.  I must die presently.  Meantime I crave largesse, madame, and a great almsgiving, so that in his unending sleep your poet may rehearse our present love.”  And even in Rigon’s dim light he found her kindling eyes not niggardly.