Not so. It was a showy man advanced; but though A glad cry welcomed him, then every sound Sank and the crowd disposed themselves around, --"This is not he," Sordello felt; while, "Place For the best Troubadour of Boniface!" Hollaed the Jongleurs,--"Eglamor, whose lay Concludes his patron's Court of Love to-day!" Obsequious Naddo strung the master's lute With the new lute-string, "Elys," named to suit [Sidenote: At a Court of Love a minstrel sings.] The song: he stealthily at watch, the while, Biting his lip to keep down a great smile Of pride: then up he struck. Sordello's brain Swam; for he knew a sometime deed again; So, could supply each foolish gap and chasm The minstrel left in his enthusiasm, Mistaking its true version--was the tale Not of Apollo? Only, what avail Luring her down, that Elys an he pleased, If the man dared no further? Has he ceased? And, lo, the people's frank applause half done, Sordello was beside him, had begun (Spite of indignant twitchings from his friend The Trouvere) the true lay with the true end, Taking the other's names and time and place For his. On flew the song, a giddy race, [Sidenote: Sordello, before Palma, conquers him,] After the flying story; word made leap Out word, rhyme--rhyme; the lay could barely keep Pace with the action visibly rushing past: Both ended. Back fell Naddo more aghast Than some Egyptian from the harassed bull That wheeled abrupt and, bellowing, fronted full His plague, who spied a scarab 'neath the tongue, And found 't was Apis' flank his hasty prong Insulted. But the people--but the cries, The crowding round, and proffering the prize! --For he had gained some prize. He seemed to shrink Into a sleepy cloud, just at whose brink One sight withheld him. There sat Adelaide, Silent; but at her knees the very maid Of the North Chamber, her red lips as rich, The same pure fleecy hair; one weft of which, Golden and great, quite touched his cheek as o'er She leant, speaking some six words and no more. He answered something, anything; and she Unbound a scarf and laid it heavily Upon him, her neck's warmth and all. Again Moved the arrested magic; in his brain Noises grew, and a light that turned to glare, And greater glare, until the intense flare Engulfed him, shut the whole scene from his sense. And when he woke 't was many a furlong thence, At home; the sun shining his ruddy wont; The customary birds'-chirp; but his front [Sidenote: Receives the prize, and ruminates.] Was crowned--was crowned! Her scented scarf around His neck! Whose gorgeous vesture heaps the ground? A prize? He turned, and peeringly on him Brooded the women-faces, kind and dim, Ready to talk--"The Jongleurs in a troop