There was once a country in which dwelt a knight whom no lady of the land would love, and that because he spake the truth. For the other knights, all in that land, would say to the ladies they loved, that of all ladies in the world they were the most beautiful, and the most gracious, yea in all things the very first; and thereby the ladies of that land were taught to love their own praise best, and after that, the knight who was the best praiser of each, and most enabled her to think well of herself in spite of doubt. And the knight who would not speak save truly, they mockingly named Sir Verity, which name some of them did again miscall Severity,—for the more he loved, the more it was to him impossible to tell a lie. And thus it came about that one after another he was hated of them all. For so it was, that, greedy of his commendation, this lady and that would draw him on to speak of that wherein she made it her pleasure to take to herself excellences; but nowise so could any one of them all gain from him other than a true judgment. As thus: one day said unto him a lady, “Which of us, think you, Sir Verity, hath the darkest eyes of all the ladies here at the court of our lord the king?”
And he thereto made answer, “Verily, methinketh the queen.”
Then said she unto him, “Who then hath the bluest eyes of all the ladies at the court of our lord the king?”—for that her own were of the colour of the heavens when the year is young. And he answered, “I think truly the Lady Coryphane hath the bluest of all their blue eyes.”
Then said she, “And I think truly by thine answer, Severity, that thou lovest me not, for else wouldst thou have known that mine eyes are as blue as Coryphane’s.”
“Nay truly,” he answered; “for my heart knoweth well that thine eyes are blue, and that they are lovely, and to me the dearest of all eyes, but to say they are the bluest of all eyes, that I may not, for therein should I be no true man.” Therewith was the lady somewhat shamed, and seeking to cover her vanity, did answer and say, “It may well be, sir knight, for how can I tell who see not mine own eyes, and would therefore know of thee, of whom men say, some that thou speakest truly, other some that thou speakest naughtily. But be the truth as it may, every knight yet saith to his own mistress that in all things she is the paragon of the world.”
“Then,” quoth the knight, “she that knoweth that every man saith so, must know also that only one of them all saith the thing that is true. Not willingly would I add to the multitude of the lies that do go about the world!”
“Now verily am I sure that thou dost not love me,” cried the lady; “for all men do say of mine eyes—” Thereat she stayed words, and said no more, that he might speak again. “Lady,” said Sir Verity, and spake right solemnly, “as I said before I do say again, and in truth, that thine eyes are to me the dearest of all eyes. But they might be the bluest or the blackest, the greenest or the grayest, yet would I love them all the same. For for none of those colours would they be dear to me, but for the cause that they were thine eyes. For I love thine eyes because they are thine, not thee because thine eyes are or this or that.” Then that lady brake forth into bitter weeping, and would not be comforted, neither thereafter would hold converse with the knight. For in that country it was the pride of a lady’s life to lie lapt in praises, and breathe the air of the flatteries blown into her ears by them who would be counted her lovers. Then said the knight to himself, “Verily, and yet again, her eyes are not the bluest in the world! It seemeth to me as that the ladies in this land should never love man aright, seeing, alas! they love the truth from no man’s lips; for save they may each think herself better than all the rest, then is not life dear unto them. I will forsake this land, and go where the truth may be spoken nor the speaker thereof hated.” He put on his armour, with never lady nor squire nor page to draw thong or buckle spur, and mounted his horse and rode forth to leave the land. And it came to pass, that on his way he entered a great wood. And as he went through the wood, he heard a sobbing and a crying in the wood. And he said to himself, “Verily, here is some one wronged and lamenteth greatly! I will go and help.”
So about he rode searchingly, until he came to the place whither he was led. And there, at the foot of a great oak, he found an old woman in a gray cloak, with her face in her hands, and weeping right on, neither ceased she for the space of a sigh. “What aileth thee, good mother?” he said.
“I am not good, and I am not thy mother,” she answered, and began again to weep.
“Ah!” thought the knight, “here is one woman that loveth the truth, for she speaks the truth, and would not that aught but the truth be spoken!”—