"I do not like your song, Jaufre," he said, and said it with as much sweetness as if he had been crowning Sir Jaufre with a wreath of golden laurel in the heart of hot Provence. Sir Jaufre flushed and looked up angrily. "That makes me no bad minstrel," he retorted, "but it argues you a fool." Sir Guy de Hainault's face was imperturbable, his voice was placid as he answered, smoothly: "Your music and your manners would mend with your health if I let you some fretful blood." Sir Jaufre shrugged his shoulders. "You talk like a barber," he said--"white and red nonsense." Guy smiled on a gradually increasing audience, for Demetrius of Epirus and Andronicus Palæologus had quitted their dice to hear the argument. "You sing like a screech-owl," commented Sir Guy. Stooping swiftly, he caught the lute from Sir Jaufre's hands, ran his fingers skilfully over the strings, and awakened a tender tune. Fernand Ximenes, stately as a cat in his Spanish gravity, leisurely added himself to the circle, watching the rivals sardonically. His coming seemed to stimulate Sir Guy's ambition to sing. "Listen to me, friends," he challenged, and began: "All lovely ladies everywhere, Whose eyes are blue or brown or gray, Whose manes of black or yellow hair Lead your poor lovers' hearts astray, Here on this mirthful morn of May, I turn to ye and make salute; And I would kiss you all to-day, Were all your lips one crimson fruit." Every man of the little group applauded except Sir Jaufre, who yawned affectedly behind a languidly lifted hand. "You mew too lewdly to be true," he asserted, contemptuously. "Your sincere kiss-winner has no leisure to sing of it." Sir Guy made him an extravagant bow. "Suave Sir Jaufre," he said; "smooth Sir Jaufre, by that count you should write red ballads of battles." There came a faint laugh from some of the hearers, others raised their eyebrows and drew nearer. The war of wits promised to quicken. Count Ernault, coming from the palace and conference with Duke Baldwin, spied the excited group and drew nigh. As he came near he heard Sir Jaufre interrogate his critic. "Your meaning?" Sir Guy, still with the same air of extravagant respect, explained, syllabling, with laborious slowness: "I mean that if I am no lucky lover you are no famous fighter." Sir Jaufre propped his hand on his chin for a moment as one drowned in deep thought. Then his eyes travelled slowly along the little line of listeners. "Who can tell me the Latin for 'braggart'?" he asked, meditatively. There was a little silence. Scholarship was not a strong point of Duke Baldwin's companions. Then Fernand Ximenes, to end or extend the embarrassment, asked: "Why the Latin?" Sir Jaufre made a deprecating gesture. "That it may serve for Guy's epitaph to-night," he interpreted. Sir Guy laughed again very softly, swaying a little backward and forward, as one exceedingly amused.