‘Come in, come in, Richard,’ said Bertran de Born.

* * * * *

For a day or two Richard was bathed in golden calm, hugging his darling thought, full of Jehane, fearful to share her.  Often he remembered it in later life; it held a place and commanded a mood which no hour of his wildest possession could outvie.  The mountain air, still, but latently nimble, the great mountains themselves dreaming in the sunlight, the sailing birds, hinted a peace to his soul whither his last conquest of his baser part assured him he might soar.  Now he could guess (thought he) that quality in love which it borrows from God and shares with the angels, ministers of God, the steady burning of a flame keen and hard.  So on an afternoon of weather serene beyond all belief of the North, mild, tired, softly radiant, still as a summer noon; as he sat with Bertran in a courtyard where were lemon-trees and a fountain, and above the old white walls, and above the strutting pigeons, a square of blue, he began to speak of his affairs, of what he had done and of what was to do.

Bertran’s was a grudging spirit:  you shall hear the Abbot Milo upon that matter anon, than whom there are few better qualified to speak.  He grudged Richard everything—­his beauty, his knit and graceful body, his brain like a sword, his past exploits, his present content.  What it was contented him he knew not altogether, though a letter from Saint-Pol had in part advised him; but he was sure he had wherewithal to discontent him.  ‘Foh! a juicy orange indeed,’ he said to himself, ’but I can wring him dry.’  If Richard hugged one thought, Bertran hugged another, and took it to bed with him o’ nights.  Now, therefore, when Richard spoke of Jehane, Bertran said nothing, waiting his time; but when he went on to Madame Alois and his duty (which really coloured all the former thought) Bertran made a grimace.

‘Rascal,’ says Richard, shamming rough, ‘why do you make faces at me?’

Bertran began jerking about like the lid of a boiling pot, and presently sends a boy for his viol.  At this, when it came, he snatched, and set to plucking a chord here and a chord there, grinning fearfully all the time.

‘A tenzon! A tenzon! beau sire!’ cries he.  ’Now a tenzon between you and me!’

‘Let it be so,’ says Richard; ’have at you.  I sing of the calm day, of the sweets of true love.’

‘Accorded,’ says the other.  ’And I sing of the sours of false love.  Do you set the mode, prince of blood royal as you are.’

Richard took the viol without after-thought and struck a few chords.  A great tenderness was in his heart; he saw Duty and himself hand in hand walking a long road by night; two large stars beaconed the way; these were Jehane’s eyes.  A watcher or two stole into the upper gallery, leaned on the parapet and listened, for both men were renowned singers.  Richard began to sing of green-eyed Jehane, who wore the gold girdle, whose hair was red gold.  His song was—­