vassal, untimely parasite of his father’s realm.  He knew he had caused endless mischief, but he could not hate such a cork on a waterspray.  Now, it fretted Bertran to white heat that he should be despised by a great man.  It seemed that at last he could do him considerable harm.  He could embroil him with two kings, France and England, and induce a third to harass him from the South.  So he crossed the mountains and went into Navarre.

Over those stony ridges and bare fields Don Sancho was king, the seventh of his name; and he kept his state in the city of Pampluna.  Reputed the wisest prince of his day, it is certain that he had need to be so, such neighbours as he had.  West of him was Santiago, south of him Castile.  These two urgent kings, edging (as it were) on the same bench with him, made his seat a shifty comfort.  No sooner had he warmed himself a place than he was hoist to a cold one.  In front of him, over against the sun, he saw Philip of France pinched to the same degree between England and Burgundy, eager to stretch his extremities since he could not broaden his sides.  Don Sancho had no call to love France; but he feared England greatly—­the horrible old brindled Lion, and Richard, offspring of the Lion and the Pard, Richard the Leopard, who made more songs and fought more quarrels out than any Christian prince.  Here were quodlibets for Don Sancho’s logic.  In appearance he was a pale vexed man, with anxious eyes and a thin beard, at which (in his troubles) he plucked as often as he could afford the hairs.  Next to his bleached lands he loved minstrels and physicians.  Averrhoes was often at his court; so were Guillem of Cabestaing and Peire Vidal.  He knew and went so far as to love Bertran de Born.  Perhaps he was not too good a Christian, certainly he was a very hungry one; and kings, with the rest of the world, are to be judged by their necessities, not their professions.  So much will suffice, I hope, concerning Don Sancho the Wise.

In those days which saw Count Richard’s back turned on Autafort, and Saint-Pol’s broken at Tours, Bertran de Born came to Pampluna, asking to be received by the King of Navarre.  Don Sancho was glad to see him.

‘Now, Bertran,’ says he, ’you shall give me news of poets and the food of poets.  All the talk here is of bad debts.’

‘Oy, sire,’ says Bertran, ’what can I tell you?  The land is in flames, the women have streaked faces, far and wide travels the torch of war.’

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ says King Sancho, ’and trust that you have not brought one of those torches with you.’

Bertran shook his head; interruptions worried him, for he lived maddeningly, like a man that has a drumming in his ear.

‘Sire,’ he said, ’there is a new strife between the Count of Poictou, “Yea-and-Nay,” and the French King on this account:  the Count repudiates Madame Alois.’

‘Now, why does he do that, Bertran?’ cried King Sancho, opening his eyes wide.