en of France or
of England, there were but little in it, so noble is she and gracious and
debonair and endued with all good conditions."

_Here they sing_.

Aucassin was of Beaucaire;
His was the fine castle there;
But on slender Nicolette
Past man's moving is he set,
Whom his father doth refuse;
Menace did his mother use:

"Out upon thee, foolish boy!
Nicolette is but a toy,
Castaway from Carthagen,
Bought a slave of heathen men.
If for marrying thou be,
Take a wife of high degree!"

"Mother, I will none but her.
Hath she not the gentle air,
Grace of limb, and beauty bright?
I am snared in her delight.
If I love her 'tis but meet,
So passing sweet!"

_Here they speak and tell the story_.

When Warren Count of Beaucaire perceived that Aucassin his son was not to
be moved from his love of Nicolette, he betook him to the Viscount of the
place, who was his liegeman; and addressed him thus:

"Sir Viscount, come, rid me of Nicolette your god-daughter! A curse on
the land whence ever she was fetched to this country! Now Aucassin is
lost to me, and all because of her. He refuses knighthood and leaves
undone all his devoir. Rest assured that if I can get hold of her I will
burn her in a fire; and for yourself too you may fear the worst."

"Sir," said the Viscount, "'tis grief to me that he go to her, or come to
her, or speak to her. I had bought her with my poor pieces. I had held
her at the font, and christened her, and stood god-father to her; and I
would have given her a young fellow to win bread for her in wedlock. What
is this to Aucassin your son? But seeing your will is so and your good
pleasure, I will send her to such a land and to such a country that he
shall never set eyes on her more."

"See you do so!" said Count Warren. "Else it might go ill with you."

Thus they parted. Now the Viscount was a very rich man, and had a fine
palace with a garden before it. He had Nicolette put in a room there, on
an upper storey, with an old woman for company; and he had bread put
there, and meat and wine and all they needed. Then he had the door
locked, so that there was no way to get in or out. Only there was a
window of no great size which looked on the garden and gave them a little
fresh air.

_Here they sing_.

Nicolette is prisoner,
In a vaulted bed-chamber,
Strange of pattern and design,
Richly painted, rarely fine.
At the window-sill of stone
Leaned the maiden sad and lone.
Yellow