“I would then know from you,” responded Raymond, very solemnly, “on your faith, and by your God, whether the verses that you make are inspired by a real passion?” A warm flush passed over the cheeks of the troubadour; the pride of the artist was offended by the inquiry. That it should be questioned whether he really felt what he so passionately declared, was a disparaging judgment upon the merits of his song. “Ah! my lord,” was the reply, expressed with some degree of mortification, “how could I sing as I do, unless I really felt all the passion which I declare. In good sooth, then, I tell you, love has the entire possession of my soul.” “And, verily, I believe thee, Guillaume,” was the subdued answer of the baron; “I believe thee, my friend, for unless a real passion was at his heart, no troubadour could ever sing as thou. But, something more of thee, Guillaume de Cabestaign. Prithee, now, declare to me the name of the lady whom thy verses celebrate.” Then it was that the cheek of our troubadour grew pale, and his heart sunk within him; but the piercing eye of the baron was upon him. He had no moment for hesitation. To falter now, he was well assured, was to forfeit love, life, and every thing that was proud and precious in his sight. In the moment of exigency the troubadour found his answer. It was evasive, but adroitly conceived and expressed. “Nay, my lord, will it please you to consider? I appeal to your own heart and honour—can any one, without perfidy, declare such a secret? Reveal a thing that involves the rights and the reputation of another, and that other a lady of good fame and quality? Well must you remember what is said on this subject by the very master of our art, no less a person than the excellent Bernard de Ventadour. He should know—what says he?” The baron remained silent, while Guillaume repeated the following verses of the popular troubadour, whose authority he appealed to: “The spy your secret still would claim, And asks to know your lady’s name; But tell it not for very shame! “The loyal lover sees the snare, And neither to the waves nor air, Betrays the secret of his fair. “The duty that to love we owe, Is, while to her we all may show, On others nothing to bestow.” Though seemingly well adapted to his objects, the quotation of our troubadour was unfortunate. There were yet other verses to this instructive ditty, and the Baron of Roussillon, who had listened very patiently as his companion recited the preceding, soon proved himself to have a memory for good songs, though he never pretended to make them himself. When Guillaume had fairly finished, he took up the strain after a brief introduction.