Here and there it was pure and in action, but in between and all around was imitation, a little gold drawn out into much filagree. The filagree was the fashion; it drew being from the real, but the depth of its being was slight. But it was the fashion, no doubt of that. As the jongleur had said, it raged. Where it was received, in court and castle, hall and bower, sensuality grew sensuousness with sparks of something higher. But the framework of feudal society imposed all manner of restrictions. The elaborate gradation of rank, the perpetual recurrence of “lord” and “vassal,” the swords about women, marriage that was bargaining for wealth and power—all blocked the torrent’s natural course. Thrown back upon itself, the feeling inbred artifices and illusions, extravagances, sometimes monstrosities. It became the mock-heroic, the pseudo-passionate. It cultivated a bright-hued fungus garden of sentimentality. It rose from earth, not by its own wings but by some Icarian apparatus that the first fire scorched away. It picked up the bright dropped feathers of the true bird of Paradise, but though it made a mantle of them, its own hue showed beneath. It did not understand what it was that it admired, but it made a cult of the admiration.... And yet all the while there was something real, and Extravagance and Mistake were dimly its seekers. Life was richer and longer of stride than it had used to be. A host of perceptions had at last melted into a concept of mutual love such as had not before been in the earth. Those that the crown fell upon might be silent or not, but no one else was silent. It was the Discovery—the age’s Indies—and polite conversation came round to it as the needle to the pole. Nay, _conversazioni_ were planned to discuss this and this alone. Troubadours sang in contests songs of love—and once more songs of love. Now and again they might dispute other matters in a _tenso_, lash the time’s recognized vices in a _sirvente_. But these were asides. Their true business was to sing of love and lovers and the service of love. Some sang with a springtime freshness, force, and simplicity. Some took all that was strained, far-fetched, and hectic in the time’s regard of the Discovery and made of it a heady drink. To-day this garden sat or stood to consider Love—that is, to consider love of an individual of one sex for an individual of the other. Here were knights who, when they fought, tied their lady’s sleeve or girdle about arm or helm. Here were troubadours of note, each of whom flung far and wide through the land the praise of some especial fair. And here were women who were thus praised and sung.