The moon poured splendour, the nightingales were drunken with love.
There was a perron, a curving wide stair with landings mounting from the garden to a main doorway, and here were flung cushions and cloths of bright hues, all silvered now with the silver night. Here, after some pacing of the paths, gathered the couples.
“How much lovelier than in hall where candles put out the moon! Let us stay here and weave moonshine and go to the nightingales’ heaven! Let us not go indoors the livelong night!”
“It is midnight now. Dawn comes soon!”
“Let us tell tales and sing! But first we finish our question that we were debating—”
“Sing, Guibour, sing vers or canzon! Then shall we talk of love!”
“Where are Tanneguy and Beatrix?”
They came from the castle palace—Tanneguy and Beatrix. “Sing, Guibour! sing this perfect night!”
The troubadour sang—outsang the nightingales. “Love—love—love—love!” he sang.
The moon shone. When the singer ceased they heard again the nightingales. From the perron they saw, beyond the cypresses, the sea.