Li dous consire
     Quem don’ Amors soven—­

but I English it thus—­

’That gentle thought which love will give sometimes is like a plait of silk and gold, and so is this song of mine to be; wherein you shall find a red deep cry which cometh from the heart, and a thin blue cry which is the cry of what is virgin in my soul, and a golden long cry, the cry of the King, and a cry clear as crystal and colder than a white moon:  and that is the cry of Jehane.’

Bertran, trembling, snatched at the viol.  ’Mine to sing, Richard, mine to sing!  Ha, love me no more!’

     Cantar d’ Amors non voilh,

he began—­

’Your strands are warped and will not accord, for love will warp any song.  It turneth the heart of a man black, and the soul it eateth up.  At fourteen goes the virgin first a-wallowing; and soon the King croaks like a hog.  A plait!  Love is a fetter of hot iron; so my song shall be iron-cruel like the bidding of Jehane.  Say now, shall I set the song?  The love-cry is the cry of a man who drags his way with his side torn; and the colour of it is dry red, like old blood; and the sound thereof maketh the hearers ache, so it quavers and shrills.  For it cries only two things:  sorrow and shame.’

He misconceived his adversary who thought to quell him by such vapours.  Richard took the viol.

’Bertran, it is well seen that thou art pinched and have a torn side; but ask of thy itching fingers who graved the wound.  Dry thou art, Bertran, for thy trough is dry; the husks prick thy gums, but there is no other meat.  Well may the hearers’ ears go aching; for thy cry, man, proceedeth from thy aching belly.  But now I will set the song again, and tell thee of a lady girdled with fine gold.  Beneath the girdle beats a red heart; but her spirit is like a spire of blue smoke, that comes from a fire, indeed, but strains up to heaven.  Warmed by that fire, like that smoke I fly up; and so I lie among the stars with Jehane.’

Bertran’s jaw was at work, mashing his tongue.  ’Ah, Richard, is it so with thee?  Wait now while I strike a blow.’  He made the viol scream.

’What if I twist the song awry, and give thee good cause to limp the sorrowful way?  What if for my aching belly I give thee an aching heart?  Eh, if my fingers scratch my side, there are worse talons at thine.  Watch for the Lion’s claw, Richard, which tears not flesh but honour, and gives more pain than any knife.  Pain!  He is King of Pain!  Mend that, then face sorrow and shame.’

Ending with a snap, he grinned more knowledge out of his red eyes than he pronounced with his mouth.  His terrible excitement, the labour and sweat of it, set Richard’s brows knitting.  He stretched out his hand for the viol slowly; and his eyes were cold on Bertran, and never off him for a moment as he sang to this enemy, and judged him while he sang.  The note was changed.