Diligently the white knight, as the knights began to call the pallid Bertram--diligently the white knight arranged the gaming tables, and when his friend took the dice-box into his hand, he came and stood near him, slightly smiling. “Thou shouldst double the stakes, Robert,” said the white knight, after the youth had lost freely. “Fortune hates the niggard hand. Double, friend, double.” And here the white hand gathered up the dice. “Well, double the stakes!” “Nay--if thou treblest, then thy chance is almost a surety.” “Treble the stakes!” Thrown, and lost. “Fortune hates the niggard hand; hesitate not--play!” Again the rattle of the dice was heard, again the knight lost. Again, and yet again, he played and lost! Then he even wagered the jewels from his robe; then his horses, and his armor. Yet with fell purpose fortune turned her back upon him. “Fortune doth try thee, Robert. Still tempt her: she loveth the brave.” Again he plays--again he loses. “Gold is only a bauble--fling it, fling it, fling it away.” At last he had played away all--all! There was yet the sword at his side, and the dagger with which he had threatened the poor minstrel. Another moment and they were lost too. He, Robert of Normandy, had disarmed and beggared himself. But in a moment his natural rage swept over him and he was frantic. With a threatening look at the knights about him, he wrested a battle-axe from a soldier near at hand, and was flying madly at the victorious group. Then indeed, Bertram showed himself a loving friend. He held the youth back, he entreated the gentlemen to pardon his ungracious anger. He shielded him. And all the while he trembled like a woman. PART II. THE DECREE. Not far from the camp stood the poor minstrel, waiting for his sweetheart Alice. While he was waiting, the knight Robert’s catastrophe was achieved, and he was lying in the white knight’s camp; lying with his face upon the ground, and the will to evil strong within him. Raimbault the minstrel waited for some little time, and was beginning to think Alice would never come; when he heard a footstep, a light footstep, like but yet unlike the step of Alice. He turned, and before him stood the knight Bertram, his face more pallid than ever in the moonlight. “Thou art Raimbault.” “Verily; whom the knight Robert would have hanged.” “He hath a strong will. Wherfore art thou here?” “To meet Alice, my good wife, so please thee.” “She is very poor.” “She hath a rich heart, and is no poorer than I.” “See, now, thou art richer than she is now.” “Verily, he hath given me gold; real, real gold!” And the minstrel did not read contempt in the pale face; contempt that gold should make men happy. “Thou art noble, and I will obey thee.” (Oh! man, man, how weak art thou.) “So thou art to be married?” “Yes, now that the young prince has been discovered.” “Folly!” “Folly, nay, Alice is a good girl!”