Now as he hearkened, Roger's frown grew blacker and his powerful hand clenched upon the bridle.
"And yet," quoth Giles, "as I am in my lord's dear friendship, so art thou in mine, Roger, man, nor in my vaulting fortunes will I e'er forget thee. Belike within Mortain shalt aid me in my new duties, or shall I speak my lord on thy behalf?"
"Ha!" cried Roger suddenly, "first tell me this, my lord Steward and high Bailiff of Mortain, did the Duke my master chance ever to take thy hand, to wet it with his tears and—kiss it?"
"Art mad, Roger! Wherefore should my lord do this?"
"Aye," nodded Roger, "wherefore?"
And when Giles had whistled awhile and Roger had scowled awhile, the archer spake again:
"Hast never been in love, Roger?"
"Never, Saint Cuthbert be praised!"
"Then canst know nought of the joy and wonder of it. So will I make for thee a song of love, as thus: open thine ears and hearken:
"So fair, so sweet, so pure is she
I do thank God;
Her love an armour is to me
'Gainst sorrow and adversity,
So in my song right joyfully
I do thank God for love.