There is a frequently-repeated story told of one of the most celebrated counts of Poitiers, though attributed sometimes to William VIII. and sometimes to William IX. The series of _Williams_ all appear to have been more or less _de rudes seigneurs_, who were divided between the vices and virtues of their period. There is William _Tête d'Etoupes_, William _Fier-à-bras_, William _the Great_, and William _the Troubadour_; the latter--now pious, now profane--was at one time fighting foremost in the christian ranks against the Paynim; at another, "playing on pipes of straw and versing love" to fair ladies, to whom he had no right to make himself captivating. He is said to have repudiated his wife, Phillippa, or Mahaud, and espoused Malberge, the wife of the Viscount de Châtelleraud, in the life-time of her husband. For this offence the Bishop of Poitiers resolved to punish him, and, accordingly, on occasion of a grand public solemnity, in the face of the assembled multitude, he began the formula of excommunication against the offending count, regardless of consequences. When William heard, as he sat with his bold and beautiful lady-love, the first words of the anathema, he started from his seat, in a transport of surprise and rage, and, drawing his sword, rushed upon the unflinching churchman, who entreated him to allow him a short delay. The count paused, and, taking advantage of the circumstance, the bishop raised his voice, and finished the form of excommunication in which he had been interrupted. "Now," said he, "you may strike; I have done my duty and am ready." William was abashed and humbled, and, returning his sword to its scabbard, exclaimed, "No, priest, I do not love you well enough to send you straight to Paradise." He had not, however, the grace to pardon the intrepid priest, for he banished him to Chauvigny, where he shortly afterwards died, in 1115. The following is one of the lays of this famous Troubadour, whose songs are the earliest extant: Anew I tune my lute to love, Ere storms disturb the tranquil hour, For her who strives my truth to prove, My only pride, and beauty's flower; But who will ne'er my pain remove, Who knows and triumphs in her power. I am, alas! her willing thrall; She may record me as her own: Nor my devotion weakness call, That her I prize, and her alone: Without her can I live at all, A captive so accustom'd grown? What hope have I?--Oh lady dear! Do I then sigh in vain for thee; And wilt thou, ever thus severe, Be as a cloistered nun to me? Methinks this heart but ill can bear An unrewarded slave to be! Why banish love and joy thy bowers-- Why thus my passion disapprove? When, lady, all the world were ours If thou couldst learn, like me, to love. CHAPTER IX.