He struck his vielle lightly, and the two fell into a slower pace as the minstrel sang. Hilarius’ eyes filled with tears, for he was still heart-sore, and Martin’s voice rose and fell like the wind in the tossing tree-tops which had beckoned him over the Monastery wall. The song itself was sad—of a lover torn from his mistress and borne away captive to alien service. When it was ended they took a brisker pace in silence; then, after a while, Hilarius said timidly:—
“Did’st thou sing of thyself, good Martin?”
“Ay, lad, and of my mistress.” He stopped suddenly, louted low to the sky, and with comprehensive gesture took in the countryside. “A fair mistress, lad, and a faithful one, though of many moods. A man suns himself in the warmth of her caresses by day, and at night she is cold, chast
