"For thee," he said, turning to Vidal the minstrel, who, sumptuously dressed, stood to pay his respects among the other attendants, "I will give thee nought at present; but do thou remain by my bedside until I am asleep, and I will next morning reward thy minstrelsy as I like it." "My lord," said Vidal, "I am already rewarded, both by the honour, and by the liveries, which better befit a royal minstrel than one of my mean fame; but assign me a subject, and I will do my best, not out of greed of future largess, but gratitude for past favours." "Gramercy, good fellow," said the Constable. "Guarine," he added, addressing his squire, "let the watch be posted, and do thou remain within the tent--stretch thyself on the bear-hide, and sleep, or listen to the minstrelsy, as thou likest best. Thou thinkest thyself a judge, I have heard, of such gear." It was usual, in those insecure times, for some faithful domestic to sleep at night within the tent of every great baron, that, if danger arose, he might not be unsupported or unprotected. Guarine accordingly drew his sword, and, taking it in his hand, stretched himself on the ground in such a manner, that, on the slightest alarm, he could spring up, sword in hand. His broad black eyes, in which sleep contended with a desire to listen to the music, were fixed on Vidal, who saw them glittering in the reflection of the silver lamp, like those of a dragon or a basilisk. After a few preliminary touches on the chords of his rote, the minstrel requested of the Constable to name the subject on which he desired the exercise of his powers. "The truth of woman," answered Hugo de Lacy, as he laid his head upon his pillow. After a short prelude, the minstrel obeyed, by singing nearly as follows:-- "Woman's faith, and woman's trust-- Write the characters in dust; Stamp them on the running stream, Print them on the moon's pale best, And each evanescent letter, Shall be clearer, firmer, better, And more permanent, I ween, Than the thing those letters mean. I have strain'd the spider's thread 'Gainst the promise of a maid; I have weigh'd a grain of sand 'Gainst her plight of heart and hand; I told my true love of the token, How her faith proved light, and her word was broken Again her word and truth she plight, And I believed them again ere night." "How now, sir knave," said the Constable, raising himself on his elbow, from what drunken rhymer did you learn that half-witted satire?" "From an old, ragged, crossgrained friend of mine, called Experience," answered Vidal. "I pray Heaven, he may never take your lordship, or any other worthy man, under his tuition."