His young head was as full of schemes for the reformation and improvement of the world as that of any modern Socialist; and, having lately met a palmer who had returned from a visit to the Holy Sepulchre, he had fallen a-dreaming on his chances of ever being able to travel thither himself, a project which had haunted him for a long time with more or less persistence, and which had started into prominence again in his mind since Eadgyth had given so discouraging an answer to his suit. Being profoundly religious, he had been inclined to believe that her answer was guided by Heaven to lead him back to the less worldly scheme which had so filled his heart before he met her, and which he must have laid aside for an indefinite period, if not for ever, if she had consented to wed him; and he found comfort for his wounded love in the thought that he was, perhaps, to attain a higher spiritual life through the denial of earthly joy. So, as he rode under the sparkling sky, his breast was full of a tender resignation, and the thought that he was guarding the lady of his love caused him a quiet satisfaction. He liked to feel that he was serving her, and vowed to serve her no less zealously that she had forbidden him ever to expect guerdon, and made all manner of silent vows to prove himself worthy of the love he had asked, and to live knight-like and piously, and do his _devoir_ to God and man. So noble a frame of mind might well bring forth fruit of song, and as he rode he hummed snatches of a _lai_ which had taken his fancy a few weeks before, when he heard it from the lips of the author, a gallant minstrel, who, like Taillefer the famous, was also a knight of goodly prowess, and was devoted to the nobler branches of the _joyeuse science_. Sir Aimand sang but snatches to the jingle of scabbard and harness, but this was the poem at length:-- THE WHYTE LADYE. I. Sir Bors went riding past a shrine, And there a mayd her griefe did tyne. _O sweet Marye!_ A lilye maid with cheekes all pale, And garments whyte, and snowy veil, Shee bitterly did weepe and wail. _O dear Marye!_ II. Sir Bors beheld, and straight hys brest For pitye 'gainst his hauberke prest. _O sweet Marye!_ 'Ladye,' quod hee, 'I love thee soe, That I toe Deth wold gladlye goe, If I might ease thy cruel woe!' _O dear Marye!_ III. Shee answered, 'In a robber's hold Lies chained a comlye knight and bold.' _O sweet Marye!_ 'Mine herte is fulle of dysmal dred Lest hee be foully done to dedde, For I have promised him to wedde!' _O dear Marye!_ IV.