Several other jousts and "gentle passages" were held, the success of which falling principally with the English combatants, the boasting pride of France was again humbled before the king, who seemed to renew his former victories at this memorable "_Tourney of Winchester_." But Isabella had bartered years of repose for this brief season of intoxicating splendour. The barbed arrow was in her heart, and the more she struggled, the more irreclaimable it grew. Doubtless that unlucky dream had rendered her more susceptible to the wound. Dreams have this operation; and whether good or evil, they leave an impression that no simple act of the will can efface. It seems to be the work of a power superior to our own, for "the less begetteth not the greater;" how, then, can the mind originate a train of conceptions, or rather creations, superior to itself--above its own power to control? But Isabella was too much engrossed by her feelings to attempt their solution. She lay restless on her couch, but there was no escape. An unquenchable flame was kindled in her soul, that not all the cool appliances of reason could subdue. Tomorrow she must depart, and that gay pageant vanish as a dream; and yet not like her own dream, for that was abiding and indelible. To-morrow the brave knight must withdraw, and the "Queen of Beauty," homaged for a day, give place to another whose reign should be as brief and as unenduring. In this distempered mood, with a heart all moved to sadness, did the Lady Isabel pass the first hours of the following night. Suddenly the sharp twang of a citerne was heard in the street below her window,--nothing new in these piping times of love and minstrelsy; but so sensitive was the ear now become to exterior impressions, that she started, as though expecting a salutation from the midnight rambler. Her anticipations were in some measure realised, the minstrel pausing beneath her lattice. A wooden balcony projected from it, concealing the musician. Isabella threw a light mantle around her, and rousing one of her maidens, she opened the window. The rich melody came upon her senses through the balmy odour of myrtle boughs and leaves of honeysuckle. The chords were touched with a skilful hand, and the prelude, a wild and extempore commentary on the ballad, was succeeded by the following ditty:-- "My ladye love, my ladye love, The moon through the lift is breaking; The sky is bright, and through the night The queen of love is waking. Yon little star that twinkleth so, Fluttering her bright eyes to and fro, How doth she chide, That thou shouldest hide, All joyance thus forsaking. My ladye love, my ladye love, The moon through the lift is breaking; The sky is bright, and through the night The queen of love is waking."