‘And the King, when he heard Bertran’s words, wept for his son, and great grief rose to his heart and to his eyes, and he could not constrain himself, and fainted away from pain. And when he recovered himself he called out to Bertran, and said, weeping, ‘“Sir Bertran! Sir Bertran! you are right and wise in saying that you lost your sense for the sake of my son, for he loved you better than any other man in the world; and for the love of him I release your person, your lands, and your castle, and I will receive you to my grace and favour, and I give you five hundred marks of silver for the damage you have suffered at my hands.” ‘And Bertran fell at his feet, tendering him service and gratitude.’ We may feel inclined to look upon the substantial data of the closing sentences with some amount of scepticism; but the consummate skill with which Bertran at first excites the curiosity of the King, the way in which he finally acts upon his feelings, all the more powerfully as his own grief is true and powerful—all this is much beyond the invention of a simple-minded Provençal scribe. These traits are too intrinsically real for mere fiction; they are inherent in the nature of a strong man and a great poet. It is also an undeniable fact that soon after the events described, Bertran was again in possession of his castle, and that the remonstrances of his unfortunate brother Constantine were treated with scorn by both Richard and King Henry. To the former Bertran now seems to have attached himself, and during the incessant feuds in which the lion-hearted monarch subsequently was involved with the King of France and his own unruly vassals the troubadour seems to have remained faithful to him, barring always such inclinations towards whoever might be the aggressive party, which Bertran’s unbounded love of fighting made excusable. We possess a _sirventes_ dated many years later in which the poet rejoices at Richard’s release from the German prison, ‘because now again we shall see walls destroyed and towers overthrown and our enemies in chains.’ But I must not detain the reader with further stories of feuds and battles, of which most likely he has had already more than his fill. It remains to add a few words with regard to another side of Bertran’s life and poetry, his love affairs. These, it must be hoped, will form a somewhat more harmonious conclusion to an account of a wild, reckless career.