“True love—wide love, deep love and high love, round love and square love! Golden love out of leaden love! Lo, my diamond! Love with a myriad faces—love in the centre—love thrown afar—love sublimed—”
“Do we not love?”
“Tourney love—pilgrimage love—canzon and serenade and aubade love—glove in helm love—nightingale and nightingale love—and all for a time and a season! Then, ‘Sparrow, stay at home, while I, hawk and eagle, go sailing!’ But in words, ‘Immortal May and Guiding Star and Saint Enshrined!’... But few women are Saints, and only one is Queen of Heaven.... The mantle of love is not wide enough, and the thread that was spun for it is not strong enough, and the loom for its weaving not great enough.... We cannot get the furnace as it should be, and the lead rests lead! Whether the piece is man or woman, it rests lead! Man knows not how to love woman, and woman knows not how to love man.... Well, I have done! Sing ‘No!’ to all that, Guibour, as you will—as you will!”
Guibour sang “No” as she had said. But while he sang, and when he had done, it seemed that there was poison rankling. Said Tiphaine, and she spoke half angrily and half enviously: “Have we not declared that there is a treason against knight and ladies and love? Have we not, little by little, in our garden meetings, in our love courts, worked out rules and ways?—I hold that Beatrix is traitress, and should be penanced!”
Cried Adelaide, and after her Constance: “I hold so, too!”—“And I!”
The famed in tourney, Aldhelm, spoke stiffly: “The Lady Beatrix says grievous things against love and lovers—”
Beatrix leaned against the stone, and on one side was a black cypress, and on the other a stream and torrent of roses. “Do I so, Sir Aldhelm? Truly I never meant such a thing!... You tourney—and this one and that one goes down beneath your spear. And Adelaide, her cheek upon her hand, sits and watches you and commends you to every Saint and the Queen of Heaven! And when you have won the wreath, you bring it upon your spear, and lay it at her feet.... There is beauty, Our Lady knows I would not deny it!... Hearken to the nightingales! Trill—trill—trill! The orange fragrance comes in waves, and the moonlight makes us silver folk!”
“Still you speak outrageously,” cried Tiphaine. “But we know you study strange things, with books and alembics, sulphur and mercury, tincture and quintessence and spirit—”
“Beatrix the traitress!”
“What penance?”