“Now verily am I sure that thou dost not love me,” cried the lady; “for all men do say of mine eyes--” Thereat she stayed words, and said no more, that he might speak again. “Lady,” said Sir Verity, and spake right solemnly, “as I said before I do say again, and in truth, that thine eyes are to me the dearest of all eyes. But they might be the bluest or the blackest, the greenest or the grayest, yet would I love them all the same. For for none of those colours would they be dear to me, but for the cause that they were thine eyes. For I love thine eyes because they are thine, not thee because thine eyes are or this or that.” Then that lady brake forth into bitter weeping, and would not be comforted, neither thereafter would hold converse with the knight. For in that country it was the pride of a lady’s life to lie lapt in praises, and breathe the air of the flatteries blown into her ears by them who would be counted her lovers. Then said the knight to himself, “Verily, and yet again, her eyes are not the bluest in the world! It seemeth to me as that the ladies in this land should never love man aright, seeing, alas! they love the truth from no man’s lips; for save they may each think herself better than all the rest, then is not life dear unto them. I will forsake this land, and go where the truth may be spoken nor the speaker thereof hated.” He put on his armour, with never lady nor squire nor page to draw thong or buckle spur, and mounted his horse and rode forth to leave the land. And it came to pass, that on his way he entered a great wood. And as he went through the wood, he heard a sobbing and a crying in the wood. And he said to himself, “Verily, here is some one wronged and lamenteth greatly! I will go and help.” So about he rode searchingly, until he came to the place whither he was led. And there, at the foot of a great oak, he found an old woman in a gray cloak, with her face in her hands, and weeping right on, neither ceased she for the space of a sigh. “What aileth thee, good mother?” he said. “I am not good, and I am not thy mother,” she answered, and began again to weep. “Ah!” thought the knight, “here is one woman that loveth the truth, for she speaks the truth, and would not that aught but the truth be spoken!”-- “How can I help thee, woman,” he said then, “although in truth thou art not my mother, and I may not call thee good?” “By taking thyself from me,” she answered. “Then will I ride on my way,” said the knight, and turning, rode on his way. Then rose the woman to her feet, and followed him. “Wherefore followest thou me,” said the knight, “if I may do nothing to serve thee?” “I follow thee,” she answered him, “because thou speakest the truth, and because thou art not true.” “If thou speakest the truth, in a mystery speakest thou it,” said he. “Wherefore then ridest thou about the world?” she asked. And he replied, “Verily, to succour them that are oppressed, for I have no mistress to whom I may do honour.”