Again the companion spoke. “’Tis but a poor minstrel.”
The knight, obediently, it seemed, moved his hand from the weapon, and said, “True!” Then loudly he called to the minstrel, “Begin, thou.”
“Oh, long ago, in Normandy,
A valiant prince there chanced to reign;
He lived in peace—his wife he loved,
And yet he lived a life of pain.
No child had he; for years and years
He knelt at shrines—he knelt and prayed;
But all in vain—yes all in vain
Was every sacrifice he made.
Then loud he swore, before the court,
That if a son to him were born,
He would devote him to the fiend,
And let his soul from Heaven be torn.
And then in time there came a son,
Of all the land, the dread and shame—
Robert—Robert—the demon’s own;
And truly he deserves the name.
Not long ago—but at this day
The valiant prince—if you’ll believe—
He lives—he lives—as does the son,
For whom the duke doth ever grieve.”
As the gallants laughed at the ballad, and the earnestness with which it was sung, the minstrel stood with his back to the young knight. The next moment, the poor wanderer felt himself thrown to the ground; and, looking up, he saw a bright dagger high in the air above him. But restraining the holder of it, was a small white hand, the fingers of which seemed clawed about the other’s wrist.
“’Tis but a poor minstrel!” he also heard a voice say.
Again the angry hand gave way, and fell to the young knight’s side; but he bade some of his people seize the unlucky singer.