“On this day I am to tell thee of—oh, Mother of God, that it would leave my memory!—I sat alone by the little gate in the wall behind the falconry, weeping because Laure had deserted our game and run to her mother in the Castle. So, while I sat there, wailing like the little fool I was, came the Seigneur and the demoiselle Lenore out by the gate on their way over the moat and to the beach by the steps that still lead thither down the cliff. The demoiselle paused in her going to comfort me, and presently, more, methinks, to tease the Seigneur than for mine own sake, insisted that I go sailing with them in their boat. I can remember how I screamed out with delight at the thought; for I loved to sail better than I loved to eat; and though Gerault somewhat protested, Lenore had her way, and presently we had come down the cliff and were on the beach by the inlet where the boat was kept. “’Twas the early afternoon of an April day: warm, the sun covered over with a gray mist that was like smoke, and but little wind for our pleasure. Howbeit, as we put off into the full tide, a breath caught our sail and we started out toward an island near the coast, round the north point of the bay, which from here thou canst not see. I lay down in the bottom of the boat, near to the mast, and listened to the gurgling sound of the water as it passed underneath the planks, and later grew drowsy with the rocking. I ween I slept; for I remember naught of that sail till we were suddenly in the midst of a fog so thick that where I lay I could scarce see the figure of my lord sitting in the stern. There was no wind at all, for the sail flapped against the mast; and I was a little frightened with the silence of everything; so I rose and went to the demoiselle Lenore, who laid her hand on my shoulder, and patted me. She and Sieur Gerault were not talking together, for I think both were a little nervous of the fog. All at once, in the midst of the calm, a streak of wind caught us, and the little boat heeled over under it. Gerault caught at the tiller, swearing an oath that was born more from uneasiness than from anger. Reading his mind, Lenore moved a little out of his way, and began to sing. Ah, that voice and its sweetness! I mind it very well—and also her chansonette. Since that day I have not heard it sung, yet the words are fresh in my mind. Dost know it, madame? It beginneth,— “‘Assez i a reson porqoi L’eu doit fame chière tenir—’