“So God help you, what do you there?”
“What matters it to you?” said he.
“Nothing”; said Aucassin; “I ask not for any ill reason.”
“But wherefore are you weeping,” said he, “and making such sorrow? I’ faith, were I as rich a man as you are, all the world would not make me weep!”
“Bah! Do you know me?” said Aucassin.
“Aye. I know well that you are Aucassin the son of the Count; and if you tell me wherefore
you are weeping I will tell you what I am doing here.”
“Certès,” said Aucassin, “I will tell you right willingly. I came this morning to hunt in this forest; and I had a white greyhound, the fairest in the world, and I have lost it; ’tis for this I am weeping.”
“Hear him!” said he, “by the blessed heart! and you wept for a stinking dog! Sorrow be his who ever again hold you in account! Why there is no man in this land so rich, of whom if your father asked ten, or fifteen, or twenty, he would not give them only too willingly, and be only too glad. Nay, ’tis I should weep and make sorrow.”
“And wherefore you, brother?”