She said no more and her eyes fell again upon her long, brown hands. They were as brown as a berry; they looked as though she had been roving like an Egyptian. The duke had a strong movement of distaste. She appeared to him as Babylonish as the jongleur. The court seemed used to her. Naturally, it failed in no observance. She had her ladies, and a page stood at her call. The troubadours when they sang bent to her as they bent to the other chairs of state. Lord and knight made due obeisance. That marvellous Alazais spoke to her ever and anon, and she answered. But her words were few and short; the duke saw that she had not the gift of discourse. He saw no gift that she had. Certainly, she was not trying to please a great duke. It was not that she showed any discourtesy—that were impossible. But there was no right sense of his presence. She sat, young and without beauty, unsmiling, her eyes now upon the watch-tower drawn against the blue, and now upon the face of the singer. They said that Prince Gaucelm doated upon her. He was her father—let him doat! “What shall a knight do for his lady? He shall love her, love her, pardie!” sang Gilles de Valence, reprobation of Messire Æneas being now in hand. “All his nights and all his days He shall study but her praise. Her word against all words he weigheth, Saith she ‘Stay,’ in joy he stayeth. Saith she ‘Go,’ all meek he goeth. A heart in chains is all he knoweth, From other wit release he showeth! Wit may plead, but Love is nigher, Jove may call, but Love calls higher! What shall a knight do for his lady? He shall love her, love her, pardie! All his nights and all his days, He shall study but her praise!” Applause arose. Raimon de Saint-Rémy took his lute. But the duke noted how stiff and silent sat the ugly princess. The entertainment of that forenoon over, they went to dinner—a considerable concourse, so considerable that when all were seated the great hall appeared to blossom like the garden. At the table of state sat the prince and Alazais and the Princess Audiart, the duke, Bishop Ugo, and three or four others whom Gaucelm would honour. Musicians played in a gallery. Waiting men in long procession brought the viands—venison and peacocks, pasties of all kinds, mutton, spitted small birds, wheaten bread—a multitude of matters. Afterwards came cakes and tarts, with many fruits. Always there was wine served in rich cups. The oddity to a later taste would have been the excess of seasoning,—the pepper, saffron, ginger, cloves, the heat and pungency of the solid meats,—and then the honey dropped in wine. At the prince’s table a knight carved, at the others the noblest esquires. The apparel of the tables was rich; there were gold and silver vessels of many sorts, dishes, bowls, fine knives and spoons,—but, high and low, no fork.