And he proceeded with the narrative to which we have already listened. He had only to show her what had passed between her lord and himself, to show how great had been his emergency. The subsequent events at Tarrascon, only convinced her of the quick intelligence, and sweet benevolence of purpose by which her sister had been governed. Her charitable sympathies had seen and favored the artifice in which lay the safety equally of her lover and herself. The revulsion of her feelings from grief to exultation, spoke in a gust of tears, which relieved the distresses of her soul. The single kiss upon his forehead, with which she rewarded the devotion of the troubadour, inspired his fancy. He made the event the subject of a sonnet, which has fortunately been preserved to us. MARGUERITE. That there should be a question whom I love, As if the world had more than one so fair! _Would’st know her name, behold the letters rare,_ _God-written, on the wing of every dove!_ Ask if a blindness darkens my fond eyes, That I should doubt me whither I should turn; Ask if my soul, in cold abeyance lies, That I should fail at sight of her to burn. That I should wander to another’s sway, Would speak a blindnesss worse than that of sight, Since here, though nothing I may ask of right, Blessings most precious woo my heart to stay. High my ambition, since at heaven it aims, Yet humble, _since a daisy’s all it claims_.