ade the scrutiny, I
will prove, that if he had not loved me he would never have
called himself wholly mine; for just as I could not be wholly
his, nor could in honour say so if love had not drawn me to him,
so Cliges, on his side, could not in any wise have said that he
was wholly mine if love has him not in his bonds. For if he loves
me not, he fears me not. Love, which gives me wholly to him,
perhaps, gives him wholly to me; but this thought quite dismays
me, that the phrase is one in common use and I may easily be
deceived; for many a man there is who in flattery says, even to
strangers: 'I am quite at your service, I, and whatsoever I
have.' And such men are more mocking than jays. So I know not
what to think; for it might well be that thus he spake to flatter
me. But I saw him change colour and weep right piteously. To my
mind his tears, his shamefaced and cast-down countenance, did not
come from deceit; no deceit or trickery was there. The eyes from
which I saw the tears fall did not lie to me. Signs enow could I
see there of love if I know aught of the matter. Yea! I grant
that evil was the hour in which I thought it. Evil was the hour
that I learnt it, and stored it in my heart; for a very great
misfortune has happed to me from it. A misfortune? Truly, by my
faith! I am dead, since I see not him who has flattered and
cajoled me so much that he has robbed me of my heart. Through his
deceit and smooth words, my heart is quitting its lodging and
will not stay with me, so much it hates my dwelling and my manor.
Faith! then, he who has my heart in his keeping has dealt ill
with me. He who robs me and takes away what is mine, loves me
not; I know it well. I know it? Why then did he weep? Why? It was
not for nothing, for he had reason enow. I ought to apply nought
of it to myself because a man's sorrow is very great at parting
from those whom he loves and knows. I marvel not that he had
grief and sorrow, and that he wept when he left his
acquaintances. But he who gave him this counsel to go and stay in
Britain could have found no better means of wounding me to the
heart. One who loses his heart is wounded to the heart. He who
deserves sorrow ought to have it; but I never deserved it. Alas!
Unhappy that I am! Why, then, has Cliges slain me without any
fault of mine? But in vain do I reproach him; for I have no
grounds for this reproach. Cliges would never, never, have
forsaken me--I know this well--if his heart had be