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.