"Now, well met, Sir Knight of the Burning Heart!" quoth he. "What would ye here, alone, within these solitudes?"
"Sigh, messire. I sing and sigh, and sigh and sing."
"'Tis a something empty life, methinks."
"Not so, messire," sighed the rueful knight, "for when I chance to meet a gentle youth, young and well beseen—as thou, bedight in goodly mail —as thou, with knightly sword on thigh, why then, messire, 'tis ever my wont to declare unto him that she I honour is fairer, nobler, and altogether more worthy and virtuous than any other she soever, and to maintain that same against him, on horse or afoot, with lance, battle-axe or sword. Thus, see you messire, even a love-lorn lover hath betimes his compensations, and the sward is soft underfoot, and level." Saying which, the knight cocked a delicate eyebrow in questioning fashion, and laid a slender finger to the pommel of his long sword.
"How," cried Beltane, "would'st fight with me?"
"Right gladly would I, messire—to break the monotony."
"I had rather hear thy song again."
"Ha, liked you it in sooth? 'Tis small thing of mine own."
"And 'tis brief!" nodded Beltane.
"Brief!" quoth the knight, "brief! not so, most notable youthful sir, for even as love is long enduring so is my song, it being of an hundred and seventy and eight cantos in all, dealing somewhat of the woes and ills of a heart sore smitten (which heart is mine own also). Within my song is much matter of hearts (in truth) and darts, of flames and shames, of yearnings and burnings, the which this poor heart must needs endure since it doth constant bleed and burn."