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It does not appear that love trespassed in this instance beyond
the sweet but narrow boundaries of sentiment. The lovers
met daily, as usual, secretly as well as publicly, and their
professions of attachment were frankly made in the hearing of
the world; but the vows thus spoken were not articulated any
longer in that formal, conventional phraseology and manner,
which, in fact, only mocked the passion which it affectedly professed.
It was soon discovered that the songs of Guillaume de
Cabestaign were no longer the frigid effusions of mere gallantry,
the common stilt style of artifice and commonplace. There was
life, and blood, and a rare enthusiasm in his lyrics. His song
was no longer a thing of air, floating, as it had done, on the
winglets of a simple fancy, but a living and a burning soul, borne
upward and forward, by the gales of an intense and earnest passion.
It was seen that when the poet and his noble mistress
spoke together, the tones of their voices mutually trembled as
if with a strange and eager sympathy. When they met, it was
noted that their eyes seemed to dart at once into each other,
with the intensity of two wedded fires, which high walls would
vainly separate, and which, however sundered, show clearly
that they will overleap their bounds, and unite themselves in
one at last. Theirs was evidently no simulated passion. It
was too certainly real, as well in other eyes as their own. The
world, though ignorant of the mutual purity of their hearts, was
yet quick enough to discern what were their real sentiments.
Men saw the affections of which they soon learned, naturally
enough, to conjecture the worst only. The rage of rivals, the
jealousy of inferiors, the spite of the envious, the malice of the
wantonly scandalous, readily found cause of evil where in reality
offence was none. To conceive the crime, was to convey
the cruel suspicion, as a certainty, to the mind of him whom the
supposed offence most affected. Busy tongues soon assailed the
ears of the lord of Roussillon, in relation to his wife. They
whispered him to watch the lovers — to remark the eager intimacy
of their eyes — the tremulous sweetness of their voices, and
their subdued tones whenever they met — the frequency of their
meetings — the reluctance with which they separated; and they

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dwelt with emphasis upon the pointed and passionate declarations,
the intensity and ardor of the sentiments which now filled
the songs of the troubadour — so very different from what they
had ever been before. In truth, the new passion of Guillaume
had wrought wondrously in favor of his music. He who had
been only a clever and dextrous imitator of the artificial strains
of other poets, had broken down all the fetters of convention,
and now poured forth the most natural and original poetry of
his own, greatly to the increase of his reputation as a troubadour.

Raymond de Roussillon hearkened to these suggestions in
silence, and with a gloomy heart. He loved his wife truly, as
far as it was possible for him to love. He was a stern, harsh
man, fond of the chase, of the toils of chivalry rather than its
sports; was cold in his own emotions, and with an intense self-esteem
that grew impatient under every sort of rivalry. It was
not difficult to impress him with evil thoughts, even where he
had bestowed his confidence; and to kindle his mind with the
most terrible suspicions of the unconsciously offending parties.
Once aroused, the dark, stern man, resolved to avenge his supposed
wrong; and hearing one day that Guillaume had gone out
hawking, and alone, he hastily put on his armor, concealing it
under his courtly and silken vestments, took his weapon, and
rode forth in the direction which the troubadour had taken. He
overtook the latter after a while, upon the edge of a little river
that wound slowly through a wood. Guillaume de Cabestaign
approached his lord without any misgiving; but as he drew near,
a certain indefinable something in the face of Raymond, inspired
a feeling of anxiety in his mind, and, possibly, the secret consciousness
in his own bosom added to his uneasiness. He remembered
that it was not often that great lords thus wandered
forth unattended; and the path which Raymond pursued was
one that Guillaume had taken because of its obscurity, and with
the desire to find a solitude in which he might brood securely
over his own secret fancies and affections. His doubts, thus awakened,
our troubadour prepared to guard his speech. He boldly
approached his superior, however, and was the first to break
silence.

“You here, my lord, and alone! How does this chance?”

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“Nay, Guillaume,” answered the other, mildly; “I heard
that you were here, and hawking, and resolved to share your
amusement. What has been your sport?”

“Nothing, my lord. I have scarcely seen a single bird, and
you remember the proverb — `Who finds nothing, takes not
much.'”

The artlessness and simplicity of the troubadour's speech and
manner, for the first time, inspired some doubts in the mind of
Raymond, whether he could be so guilty as his enemies had
reported him. His purpose, when he came forth that morning,
had been to ride the supposed offender down, wherever he encountered
him, and to thrust his boar-spear through his body.
Such was the summary justice of the feudal baron. Milder
thoughts had suddenly possessed him. If Raymond of Roussillon
was a stern man, jealous of his honor, and prompt in his
resentment, he at least desired to be a just man; and a lurking
doubt of the motives of those by whom the troubadour had been
slandered, now determined him to proceed more deliberately in
the work of justice. He remembered the former confidence
which he had felt in the fidelity of the page, and he was not
insensible to the charm of his society. Every sentence which
had been spoken since their meeting had tended to make him
hesitate before he hurried to judgment in a matter where it was
scarcely possible to repair the wrong which a rash and hasty
vengeance might commit. By this time, they had entered the
wood together, and were now concealed from all human eyes.
The Lord of Roussillon alighted from his horse, and motioned
his companion to seat himself beside him in the shade. When
both were seated, and after a brief pause, Raymond addressed
the troubadour in the following language: —

“Guillaume de Cabestaign,” said he, “be sure I came not
hither this day to talk to you of birds and hawking, but of something
more serious. Now, look upon me, and, as a true and
loyal servant, see that thou answer honestly to all that I shall
ask of thee.”

The troubadour was naturally impressed by the stern simplicity
and solemnity of this exordium. He was not unaware
that, as the knight had alighted from his steed, he had done so
heavily, and under the impediment of concealed armor. His

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doubts and anxieties were necessarily increased by this discovery,
but so also was his firmness. He felt that much depended
upon his coolness and address, and he steeled himself,
with all his soul, to the trial which was before him. The recollection
of Marguerite, and of her fate and reputation depending
upon his own, was the source of no small portion of his present
resolution. His reflections were instantaneous; there was no
unreasonable delay in his answer, which was at once manly and
circumspect.

“I know not what you aim at or intend, my lord, but —
by Heaven! — I swear to you that, if it be proper for me to
answer you in that you seek, I will keep nothing from your
knowledge that you desire to know!”

“Nay, Guillaume,” replied the knight, “I will have no conditions.
You shall reply honestly, and without reserve, to all
the questions I shall put to you.”

“Let me hear them, my lord — command me, as you have
the right,” was the reply of the troubadour, “and I will answer
you, with my conscience, as far as I can.”

“I would then know from you,” responded Raymond, very
solemnly, “on your faith and by your God, whether the verses
that you make are inspired by a real passion?”

A warm flush passed over the cheeks of the troubadour; the
pride of the artist was offended by the inquiry. That it should
be questioned whether he really felt what he so passionately
declared, was a disparaging judgment upon the merits of his
song.

“Ah! my lord,” was the reply, expressed with some degree
of mortification, “how could I sing as I do, unless I really felt
all the passion which I declare. In good sooth, then, I tell you,
love has the entire possession of my soul.”

“And verily I believe thee, Guillaume,” was the subdued
answer of the baron; “I believe thee, my friend, for, unless a
real passion was at his heart, no troubadour could ever sing as
thou. But, something more of thee, Guillaume de Cabestaign.
Prithee, now, declare to me the name of the lady whom thy
verses celebrate.”

Then it was that the cheek of our troubadour grew pale, and
his heart sunk within him; but the piercing eye of the baron

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was upon him. He had no moment for hesitation. To falter
now, he was well assured, was to forfeit love, life, and everything
that was proud and precious in his sight. In the moment
of exigency the troubadour found his answer. It was evasive,
but adroitly conceived and expressed.

“Nay, my lord, will it please you to consider? I appeal to
your own heart and honor — can any one, without perfidy, declare
such a secret? — reveal a thing that involves the rights
and the reputation of another, and that other a lady of good
fame and quality? Well must you remember what is said on
this subject by the very master of our art — no less a person
than the excellent Bernard de Ventadour. He should know —
what says he?”

The baron remained silent, while Guillaume repeated the following
verses of the popular troubadour, whose authority he
appealed to: —

Though seemingly well adapted to his object, the quotation
of our troubadour was unfortunate. There were yet other verses
to this instructive ditty, and the Baron of Roussillon, who had
listened very patiently as his companion recited the preceding,
soon proved himself to have a memory for good songs, though
he never pretended to make them himself. When Guillaume
had fairly finished, he took up the strain after a brief introduction.

“That is all very right and very proper, Guillaume, and I
gainsay not a syllable that Master Bernard hath written; nay,
methinks my proper answer to thee lieth in another of his verses,
which thou shouldst not have forgotten while reminding me of
its companions. I shall refresh thy memory with the next that

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follows.” And without waiting for any answer, the baron proceeded
to repeat another stanza of the old poem, in very creditable
style and manner for an amateur. This remark Guillaume
de Cabestaign could not forbear making to himself, though he
was conscious at the same time that the utterance of the baron
was in singularly slow and subdued accents — accents that
scarcely rose above a whisper, and which were timed as if every
syllable were weighed and spelled, ere it was confided to expression.
The verse was as follows: —

“Now, methinks,” continued the baron, “here lieth the wisdom
of my quest. Who better than myself can help to secure
thee thy desires, to promote thy passion, and gain for thee the
favor of the fair? Tell me, then, I command thee, Guillaume,
and I promise to help thee with my best efforts and advice.”

Here was a dilemma. The troubadour was foiled with his
own weapons. The quotation from his own authority was conclusive
against him. The argument of Raymond was irresistible.
Of his ability to serve the young lover there could be no question;
and as little could the latter doubt the readiness of that
friendship — assuming his pursuit to be a proper one — to which
he had been so long indebted for favor and protection. He
could excuse himself by no further evasion; and, having admitted
that he really and deeply loved, and that his verses declared
a real and living passion, it became absolutely necessary that
our troubadour, unless he would confirm the evident suspicions
of his lord, should promptly find for her a name. He did so.
The emergency seemed to justify a falsehood; aud, with firm
accents, Guillaume did not scruple to declare himself devoted,
heart and soul, to the beautiful Lady Agnes de Tarrascon, the
sister of Marguerite, his real mistress. At the pressing solicitation
of Raymond, and in order to render applicable to this case
certain of his verses, he admitted himself to have received from
this lady certain favoring smiles, upon which his hopes of future
happiness were founded. Our troubadour was persuaded to
select the name of this lady, over all others, for two reasons.
He believed that she suspected, or somewhat knew of, the

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mutual flame which existed between himself and her sister;
and he had long been conscious of that benevolence of temper
which the former possessed, and which he fondly thought would
prompt her in some degree to sympathize with him in his necessity,
and lend herself somewhat to his own and the extrication
of Marguerite. After making his confession, he concluded by
imploring Raymond to approach his object cautiously, and by
no means to peril his fortunes in the esteem of the lady he
professed to love.