"And to make it as brief as possible," added the impatient Margaret.
"Say not so, countess," said the abbot, "we will not tire readily of Lady Murielle's voice."
"A churchman turned a gallant in his old age!"
"Your sister is fortunate, lady, in the best gifts of heaven," continued the abbot, "and must have been born—"
"Under a fortunate star, you would say?"
"Yes, countess, if such things exist."
"Nay," said Murielle, laughing, "I had a kind fairy for a godmother, like the good princesses of the old romance."
Then in the chaunting cadence adopted by the singers of those days, she sang the four-and-thirty verses of the old ballad of "Sir Hugh le Blonde," a knight of the Mearns—but with these we will not inflict the reader.
It told of how the subtile Rodinghame made love to a fair coquette, who was queen of Scotland; and how, when she repelled him, in revenge he put a leper man in her bower chamber. Then came the proud and jealous king, who, on finding him in such a place, ordered the queen to be burned at a stake, unless she could find a champion to do battle with Rodinghame, her traducer, but such was the terror of his prowess that none appeared; the day of doom came; the hapless queen was bound to a stake, and the torch was about to be applied, when Sir Hugh le Blonde, in his armour, sprang forward, and lifted the gage of Rodinghame.
They fought long and desperately, but Sir Hugh slew the accuser, after forcing him to confess his treachery. Thus the queen was restored once more to favour and honour, to the joy of her husband and all his court.