“In God’s name,” said he, “I make what promise thou wilt.”

So they did the oath, and Aucassin let mount him on a horse, and took another and so led him back till he was all in safety.

Here one singeth: 

   When the Count Garin doth know
   That his child would ne’er forego
   Love of her that loved him so,
   Nicolete, the bright of brow,
   In a dungeon deep below
   Childe Aucassin did he throw. 
   Even there the Childe must dwell
   In a dun-walled marble cell. 
   There he waileth in his woe
   Crying thus as ye shall know.

   “Nicolete, thou lily white,
   My sweet lady, bright of brow,
   Sweeter than the grape art thou,
   Sweeter than sack posset good
   In a cup of maple wood! 
   Was it not but yesterday
   That a palmer came this way,
   Out of Limousin came he,
   And at ease he might not be,
   For a passion him possessed
   That upon his bed he lay,
   Lay, and tossed, and knew not rest
   In his pain discomforted. 
   But thou camest by the bed,
   Where he tossed amid his pain,
   Holding high thy sweeping train,
   And thy kirtle of ermine,
   And thy smock of linen fine,
   Then these fair white limbs of thine,
   Did he look on, and it fell
   That the palmer straight was well,
   Straight was hale—­and comforted,
   And he rose up from his bed,
   And went back to his own place,
   Sound and strong, and full of face! 
   My sweet lady, lily white,
   Sweet thy footfall, sweet thine eyes,
   And the mirth of thy replies. 
   Sweet thy laughter, sweet thy face,
   Sweet thy lips and sweet thy brow,
   And the touch of thine embrace. 
   Who but doth in thee delight? 
   I for love of thee am bound
   In this dungeon underground,
   All for loving thee must lie
   Here where loud on thee I cry,
   Here for loving thee must die
      For thee, my love.”

Then say they, speak they, tell they the Tale: 

Aucassin was cast into prison as ye have heard tell, and Nicolete, of her part, was in the chamber.  Now it was summer time, the month of May, when days are warm, and long, and clear, and the night still and serene.  Nicolete lay one night on her bed, and saw the moon shine clear through a window, yea, and heard the nightingale sing in the garden, so she minded her of Aucassin her lover whom she loved so well.  Then fell she to thoughts of Count Garin de Biaucaire, that hated her to the death; therefore deemed she that there she would no longer abide, for that, if she were told of, and the Count knew whereas she lay, an ill death would he make her die.  Now she knew that the old woman slept who held her company.  Then she arose, and clad her in a mantle of silk she had by her, very goodly, and took napkins, and sheets of the bed, and knotted one to the other, and made therewith a cord as long as she might, so knitted it to a pillar in the window, and let herself slip down into the garden, then caught up her raiment in both hands, behind and before, and kilted up her kirtle, because of the dew that she saw lying deep on the grass, and so went her way down through the garden.