It is difficult to believe that the same hand which thus heaped shame on Simon’s grave should have penned the eulogistic lines of the first part of the poem, particularly if one considers that the change of opinion from the particular point formerly alluded to coincides with certain metrical and dialectical variations totally overlooked by Fauriel, but since pointed out by M. Paul Meyer. The theory of there being only one author, however, has by no means been totally abandoned. Its champions explain the revolution in the poet’s feeling partly from the impression made on him by the cruelties of the invaders, partly from a change in his situation during the interval of several years, which undoubtedly lies between the end of the first and the commencement of the second part of his work. Into the philological details of this interesting controversy this is not the place to enter. Suffice it to say that, all things considered, the dualistic supposition seems to be decidedly the more probable of the two, both on external and internal grounds. One or two specimens from the interesting poem must serve the reader to judge of the poetic gift of William, or whoever the author or authors may have been. It has already been said that in his dealings with Count Raimon the conduct of Innocent III. himself was marked by greater leniency than that of his legates. This feature in the Pope’s character has suggested to our author a most curious scene, which he introduces into his elaborate account of the Council of the Lateran in 1215. Raimon of Toulouse, the Count of Foix, and several others of the threatened nobles of Provence, attended personally to plead their cause before the Holy Father. The legates and many of the local clergy of the south of France—the implacable Folquet, Bishop of Toulouse, foremost amongst them—upheld the claims of Simon de Montfort. A long and passionate dispute on the subject between the Count of Foix and the Bishop of Toulouse is given verbatim. The Pope tries to quiet them. ‘Friends, justice shall be done,’ he exclaims. At last he retires for a few minutes to his orchard. But the zealous prelates will not let him rest. The Pope asks for a few minutes of reflection. He opens a book, and concludes from the passage that first meets his eye that the Count of Toulouse may yet hold his own. ‘My lords,’ he says to the prelates, ‘I cannot agree with you. How can I disinherit the Count, who is a true Catholic?’ But the prelates do not, it appears, believe in book messages. They clamour against the sentence, and Folquet, the most dangerous of all, unites his sweet persuasion with their violent remonstrance. The Archbishop of Auch and—awful to relate—three hundred cardinals follow suit. No wonder that the poor Pope at last grants the decree in Simon’s favour. ‘My lords,’ he finally exclaims, ‘the cause is decided. The Count (Raimon) is a Catholic, and of loyal conduct; but let Simon hold the lands.’