At this Azénor wept afresh, but was comforted by her little page. At the church door one could see that her heart was breaking.
“Approach, my daughter,” said the aged priest. “Draw near, that I may place the ring upon your finger.”
“Father,” replied Azénor, “I beg of you not to force me to wed him whom I do not love.”
“These are wicked words, my child. The Seigneur Yves is wealthy, he has gold and silver, châteaux and broad lands, but the Clerk of Mezléan is poor.”
“Poor he may be, Father,” murmured Azénor, “yet had I rather beg my bread with him than dwell softly with this other.”
But her relentless parents would not hearken to her protestations, and she was wed to the Lord Yves. On arriving at her husband’s house she was met by the Seigneur’s mother, who received her graciously, but only one word did Azénor speak, that old refrain that runs through all ballad poetry.
“Tell me, O my mother,” she said, “is my bed made?”
“It is, my child,” replied the châtelaine. “It is next the Chamber of the Black Cavalier. Follow me and I will take you thither.”
Once within the chamber, Azénor, wounded to the soul, fell upon her knees, her fair hair falling about her.