The young knight frowned the truth of these few words; and then turning to the pilgrim troubadour, gave him some money, and asked him what he could sing. “Ho--ho!” said the minstrel, laughing and yet trembling in the presence of the splendid company. “Ho--ho! I can sing all songs; but, my faith, the best is the history of our young duke, whom they call Robert the Devil. He hath the evil eye on him, my masters.” Here he turned to the crowd of warriors who were drawing near, and did not mark the young knight place his right hand quickly upon his dagger. “Sing of Robert, minstrel; sing of Robert the Devil.” 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. “I am Robert,” he cried haughtily, and looking with defiance at the knights. “The fiend!” cried the minstrel, falling on his knees. “An hour for thy prayers, and the hour following thy purgatory! The next tree shall bear thee as its fruit.” “Good, my prince; verily we have come all the way to see thee, bearing a holy message.” “Message--we--who is your companion?” “She who shall be my wife, if thou wilt let me live, master.” “A Normandienne, Bertram; a _Normandienne_. Are there any women, think’st thou, their equals? Well, minstrel, thy wife’s eyes have gained for thee a pardon. Send her hither.” “Good master.” “Thou art courageous!”