very fondly, "Hawise."

"I hate her, too," said Miguel de Rueda; "and I think that the holy
angels alone know how profoundly I envy her."

In the afternoon of the same day they neared Ruffec, and at the ford
found three brigands ready, two of whom the Prince slew, and the other
fled.

Next night they supped at Manneville, and sat afterward in the little
square, tree-chequered, that lay before their inn. Miguel had procured a
lute from the innkeeper, and he strummed idly as these two debated
together of great matters; about them was an immeasurable twilight,
moonless, but tempered by many stars, and everywhere they could hear an
agreeable whispering of leaves.

"Listen, my Prince," the boy said: "here is one view of the affair."
And he began to chant, without rhyming, without raising his voice above
the pitch of talk, while the lute monotonously accompanied his chanting.

Sang Miguel:

"Passeth a little while, and Irus the beggar and
Menephtah the high king are at sorry unison, and
Guenevere is a skull. Multitudinously we tread
toward oblivion, as ants hasten toward sugar, and
presently Time cometh with his broom. Multitudinously
we tread a dusty road toward oblivion; but
yonder the sun shines upon a grass-plot, converting it
into an emerald; and I am aweary of the trodden path.

"Vine-crowned is the fair peril that guards the
grasses yonder, and her breasts are naked. 'Vanity
of Vanities!' saith the beloved. But she whom I love
seems very far away to-night, though I might be with
her if I would. And she may not aid me now, for not
even love is all-powerful. She is most dear of created
women, and very wise, but she may never understand
that at any time one grows aweary of the trodden path.

"At sight of my beloved, love closes over my heart
like a flood. For the sake of my beloved I have striven,
with a good endeavor, to my tiny uttermost. Pardie, I
am not Priam at the head of his army! A little while
and I will repent; to-night I cannot but remember that
there are women whose lips are of a livelier tint, that
life is short at best, that wine evokes in me some admiration
for myself, and that I am aweary of the trodden
path.

"She is very far from me to-night. Yonder in the
Hoerselberg they exult and make sweet songs, songs
which are sweeter, immeasurably sweeter, than this
song of mine, but in the trodden path I falter, for I am
tired, tired in