ay
in bondage within the stern walls of a German prison.

And now we feel tempted to leave awhile the domain of sober history, and
enter that of romance, which tells one of its prettiest stories about
King Richard's captivity. The story goes that the people of England knew
not what had become of their king. That he was held in durance vile
somewhere in Germany they had been told, but Germany was a broad land
and had many prisons, and none knew which held the lion-hearted king.
Before he could be rescued he must be found, and how should this be
done?

Those were the days of the troubadours, who sang their lively lays not
only in Provence but in other lands. Richard himself composed lays and
sang them to the harp, and Blondel, a troubadour of renown, was his
favorite minstrel, accompanying him wherever he went. This faithful
singer mourned bitterly the captivity of his king, and at length, bent
on finding him, went wandering through foreign lands, singing under the
walls of fortresses and prisons a lay which Richard well knew. Many
weary days he wandered without response, almost without hope; yet still
faithful Blondel roamed on, heedless of the palaces of the land, seeking
only its prisons and strongholds.

At length arrived a day in which, from a fortress window above his head,
came an echo of the strain he had just sung. He listened in ecstasy.
Those were Norman words; that was a well-known voice; it could be but
the captive king.

"O Richard! O my king!" sang the minstrel again, in a song of his own
devising.

From above came again the sound of familiar song. Filled with joy, the
faithful minstrel sought England's shores, told the nobles where the
king could be found, and made strenuous exertions to obtain his ransom,
efforts which were at length crowned with success.

Through the alluring avenues of romance the voice of Blondel still comes
to us, singing his signal lay of "O Richard! O my king!" but history has
made no record of the pretty tale, and back to history we must turn.

The imprisoned king was placed on trial before the German Diet at Worms,
charged with--no one knows what. Whatever the charge, the sentence was
that he should pay a ransom of one hundred thousand pounds of silver,
and acknowledge himself a vassal of the emperor. The latter, a mere
formality, was gone through with as much pomp and ceremony as though it
was likely to have any binding force upon English kings. The former, the
raising o