He was a minstrel — in his mood

Was wisdom mix’d with folly;

A tame companion to the good,

But wild and fierce among the rude,

And jovial with the jolly.

ARCHIBALD ARMSTRONG.

The events of the preceding day had been of a nature so interesting, and latterly so harassing, that the Constable felt weary as after a severely contested battle-field, and slept soundly until the earliest beams of dawn saluted him through the opening of the tent. It was then that, with a mingled feeling of pain and satisfaction, he began to review the change which had taken place in his condition since the preceding morning. He had then risen an ardent bridegroom, anxious to find favour in the eyes of his fair bride, and scrupulous about his dress and appointments, as if he had been as young in years as in hopes and wishes. This was over, and he had now before him the painful task of leaving his betrothed for a term of years, even before wedlock had united them indissolubly, and of reflecting that she was exposed to all the dangers which assail female constancy in a situation thus critical. When the immediate anxiety for his nephew was removed, he was tempted to think that he had been something hasty in listening to the arguments of the Archbishop, and in believing that Damian’s death or recovery depended upon his own accomplishing, to the letter, and without delay, his vow for the Holy Land. “How many princes and kings,” he thought to himself, “have assumed the Cross, and delayed or renounced it, yet lived and died in wealth and honour, without sustaining such a visitation as that with which Baldwin threatened me; and in what case or particular did such men deserve more indulgence than I? But the die is now cast, and it signifies little to inquire whether my obedience to the mandates of the Church has saved the life of my nephew, or whether I have not fallen, as laymen are wont to fall, whenever there is an encounter of wits betwixt them and those of the spirituality. I would to God it may prove otherwise, since, girding on my sword as Heaven’s champion, I might the better expect Heaven’s protection for her whom I must unhappily leave behind me.”

As these reflections passed through his mind, he heard the warders at the entrance of his tent challenge some one whose footsteps were heard approaching it. The person stopped on their challenge, and presently after was heard the sound of a rote, (a small species of lute,) the strings of which were managed by means of a small wheel. After a short prelude, a manly voice, of good compass, sung verses, which, translated into modern language, might run nearly thus:
I.

“Soldier, wake — the day is peeping:,

Honour ne’er was won in sleeping,

Never when the sunbeams still

Lay unreflected on the hill:

’Tis when they are glinted back

From axe and armour, spear and jack,

That they promise future story

Many a page of deathless glory.

Shields that are the foe man’s terror,

Ever are the morning’s mirror.
II.

“Arm and up — the morning beam

Hath call’d the rustic to his team,

Hath call’d the falc’ner to the lake,

Hath call’d the huntsman to the brake;

The early student ponders o’er

His dusty tomes of ancient lore.

Soldier, wake — thy harvest, fame;

Thy study, conquest; war, thy game.

Shield, that would be foeman’s terror,

Still should gleam the morning’s mirror.
III.

“Poor hire repays the rustic’s pain;

More paltry still the sportsman’s gain;

Vainest of all, the student’s theme

End in gome metaphysic dream.

Yet each is up, and each has toil’d

Since first the peep of dawn has smiled;

And each is eagerer in his aim

Than he who barters life for fame.

Up, up, and arm thee, son of terror!

Be thy bright shield the morning’s mirror.”

When the song was finished, the Constable heard some talking without, and presently Philip Guarine entered the pavilion to tell that a person, come hither as he said by the Constable’s appointment, waited permission to speak with him.

“By my appointment?” said De Lacy; “admit him immediately.”

The messenger of the preceding evening entered the tent, holding in one hand his small cap and feather, in the other the rote on which he had been just playing. His attire was fantastic, consisting of more than one inner dress of various colours, all of the brightest and richest dyes, and disposed so as to contrast with each other — the upper garment was a very short Norman cloak, in bright green. An embroidered girdle sustained, in lieu of offensive weapons, an inkhorn with its appurtenances on the one side, on the other a knife for the purposes of the table. His hair was cut in imitation of the clerical tonsure, which was designed to intimate that he had arrived to a certain rank in his profession; for the Joyous Science, as the profession of minstrelsy was termed, had its various ranks, like the degrees in the church and in chivalry. The features and the manners of the man seemed to be at variance with his profession and habit; for, as the latter was gay and fantastic, the former had a cast of gravity, and almost of sternness, which, unless when kindled by the enthusiasm of his poetical and musical exertions, seemed rather to indicate deep reflection, than the thoughtless vivacity of observation which characterized most of his brethren. His countenance, though not handsome, had therefore something in it striking and impressive, even from its very contrast with the particoloured hues and fluttering shape of his vestments; and the Constable felt something inclined to patronize him, as he said, “Good-morrow, friend, and I thank thee for thy morning greeting; it was well sung and well meant, for when we call forth any one to bethink him how time passes, we do him the credit of supposing that he can employ to advantage that flitting treasure.”

The man, who had listened in silence, seemed to pause and make an effort ere he replied, “My intentions, at least, were good, when I ventured to disturb my lord thus early; and I am glad to learn that my boldness hath not been evil received at his hand.”

“True,” said the Constable, “you had a boon to ask of me. Be speedy, and say thy request — my leisure is short.”

“It is for permission to follow you to the Holy Land, my lord,” said the man.

“Thou hast asked what I can hardly grant, my friend,” answered De Lacy —“Thou art a minstrel, art thou not?”

“An unworthy graduate of the Gay Science, my lord,” said the musician; “yet let me say for myself, that I will not yield to the king of minstrels, Geoffrey Rudel, though the King of England hath given him four manors for one song. I would be willing to contend with him in romance, lay, or fable, were the judge to be King Henry himself.”

“You have your own good word, doubtless,” said De Lacy; “nevertheless, Sir Minstrel, thou goest not with me. The Crusade has been already too much encumbered by men of thy idle profession; and if thou dost add to the number, it shall not be under my protection. I am too old to be charmed by thy art, charm thou never so wisely.”

“He that is young enough to seek for, and to win, the love of beauty,” said the minstrel, but in a submissive tone, as if fearing his freedom might give offence, “should not term himself too old to feel the charms of minstrelsy.”

The Constable smiled, not insensible to the flattery which assigned to him the character of a younger gallant. “Thou art a jester,” he said, “I warrant me, in addition to thy other qualities.”

“No,” replied the minstrel, “it is a branch of our profession which I have for some time renounced — my fortunes have put me out of tune for jesting.”

“Nay, comrade,” said the Constable, “if thou hast been hardly dealt within the world, and canst comply with the rules of a family so strictly ordered as mine, it is possible we may agree together better than I thought. What is thy name and country? thy speech, methinks, sounds somewhat foreign.”

“I am an Armorican, my lord, from the merry shores of Morbihan; and hence my tongue hath some touch of my country speech. My name is Renault Vidal.”

“Such being the case, Renault,” said the Constable, “thou shalt follow me, and I will give orders to the master of my household to have thee attired something according to thy function, but in more orderly guise than thou now appearest in. Dost thou understand the use of a weapon?”

“Indifferently, my lord,” said the Armorican; at the same time taking a sword from the wall, he drew, and made a pass with it so close to the Constable’s body as he sat on the couch, that he started up, crying, “Villain, forbear!”

“La you! noble sir,” replied Vidal, lowering with all submission the point of his weapon —“I have already given you a proof of sleight which has alarmed even your experience — I have an hundred other besides.”

“It may be so,” said De Lacy, somewhat ashamed at having shown himself moved by the sudden and lively action of the juggler; “but I love not jesting with edge-tools, and have too much to do with sword and sword-blows in earnest, to toy with them; so I pray you let us have no more of this, but call me my squire and my chamberlain, for I am about to array me and go to mass.”

The religious duties of the morning performed, it was the Constable’s intention to visit the Lady Abbess, and communicate, with the necessary precautions and qualifications, the altered relations in which he was placed towards her niece, by the resolution he had been compelled to adopt, of departing for the Crusade before accomplishing his marriage, in the terms of the precontract already entered into. He was conscious that it would be difficult to reconcile the good lady to this change of measures, and he delayed some time ere he could think of the best mode of communicating and softening the unpleasant intelligence. An interval was also spent in a visit to his nephew, whose state of convalescence continued to be as favourable, as if in truth it had been a miraculous consequence of the Constable’s having complied with the advice of the Archbishop.

From the lodging of Damian, the Constable proceeded to the convent of the Benedictine Abbess. But she had been already made acquainted with the circumstances which he came to communicate, by a still earlier visit from the Archbishop Baldwin himself. The Primate had undertaken the office of mediator on this occasion, conscious that his success of the evening before must have placed the Constable in a delicate situation with the relations of his betrothed bride, and willing, by his countenance and authority, to reconcile the disputes which might ensue. Perhaps he had better have left Hugo de Lacy to plead his own cause; for the Abbess, though she listened to the communication with all the respect due to the highest dignitary of the English Church, drew consequences from the Constable’s change of resolution which the Primate had not expected. She ventured to oppose no obstacle to De Lacy’s accomplishment of his vows, but strongly argued that the contract with her niece should be entirely set aside, and each, party left at liberty to form a new choice.

It was in vain that the Archbishop endeavoured to dazzle the Abbess with the future honours to be won by the Constable in the Holy Land; the splendour of which would attach not to his lady alone, but to all in the remotest degree allied to or connected with her. All his eloquence was to no purpose, though upon so favourite a topic he exerted it to the utmost. The Abbess, it is true, remained silent for a moment after his arguments had been exhausted, but it was only to consider how she should intimate in a suitable and reverent manner, that children, the usual attendants of a happy union, and the existence of which she looked to for the continuation of the house of her father and brother, could not be hoped for with any probability, unless the precontract was followed by marriage, and the residence of the married parties in the same country. She therefore insisted, that the Constable having altered his intentions in this most important particular, the fiancailles should be entirely abrogated and set aside; and she demanded of the Primate, as an act of justice, that, as he had interfered to prevent the bridegroom’s execution of his original purpose, he should now assist with his influence wholly to dissolve an engagement which had been thus materially innovated upon.

The Primate, who was sensible he had himself occasioned De Lacy’s breach of contract, felt himself bound in honour and reputation to prevent consequences so disagreeable to his friend, as the dissolution of an engagement in which his interest and inclinations were alike concerned. He reproved the Lady Abbess for the carnal and secular views which she, a dignitary of the church, entertained upon the subject of matrimony, and concerning the interest of her house. He even upbraided her with selfishly preferring the continuation of the line of Berenger to the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre, and denounced to her that Heaven would be avenged of the shortsighted and merely human policy, which postponed the interests of Christendom to those of an individual family.

After this severe homily, the Prelate took his departure, leaving the Abbess highly incensed, though she prudently forbore returning any irreverent answer to his paternal admonition.

In this humour the venerable lady was found by the Constable himself, when with some embarrassment, he proceeded to explain to her the necessity of his present departure for Palestine.

She received the communication with sullen dignity; her ample black robe and scapular seeming, as it were, to swell out in yet prouder folds as she listened to the reasons and the emergencies which compelled the Constable of Chester to defer the marriage which he avowed was the dearest wish of his heart, until after his return from the Crusade, for which he was about to set forth.

“Methinks,” replied the Abbess, with much coldness, “if this communication is meant for earnest,— and it were no fit business — I myself no fit person,— for jesting with — methinks the Constable’s resolution should have been proclaimed to us yesterday before the fiancailles had united his troth with that of Eveline Berenger, under expectations very different from those which he now announces.”

“On the word of a knight and a gentleman, reverend lady,” said the Constable, “I had not then the slightest thought that I should be called upon to take a step no less distressing to me, than, as I see with pain, it is unpleasing to you.”

“I can scarcely conceive,” replied the Abbess, “the cogent reasons, which, existing as they must have done yesterday, have nevertheless delayed their operation until today.”

“I own,” said De Lacy, reluctantly, “that I entertained too ready hopes of obtaining a remission from my vow, which my Lord of Canterbury hath, in his zeal for Heaven’s service, deemed it necessary to refuse me.”

“At least, then,” said the Abbess, veiling her resentment under the appearance of extreme coldness, “your lordship will do us the justice to place us in the same situation in which we stood yesterday morning; and, by joining with my niece and her friends in desiring the abrogation of a marriage contract, entered into with very different views from those which you now entertain, put a young person in that state of liberty of which she is at present deprived by her contract with you.”

“Ah, madam!” said the Constable, “what do you ask of me? and in a tone how cold and indifferent do you demand me to resign hopes, the dearest which my bosom ever entertained since the life-blood warmed it!”

“I am unacquainted with language belonging to such feelings, my lord,” replied the Abbess; “but methinks the prospects which could be so easily adjourned for years, might, by a little, and a very little, farther self-control, be altogether abandoned.”

Hugo de Lacy paced the room in agitation, nor did he answer until after a considerable pause. “If your niece, madam, shares the sentiments which you have expressed, I could not, indeed, with justice to her, or perhaps to myself, desire to retain that interest in her, which our solemn espousals have given me. But I must know my doom from her own lips; and if it is as severe as that which your expressions lead me to fear, I will go to Palestine the better soldier of Heaven, that I shall have little left on earth that can interest me.”

The Abbess, without farther answer, called on her Praecentrix, and desired her to command her niece’s attendance immediately. The Praecentrix bowed reverently, and withdrew.

“May I presume to inquire,” said De Lacy, “whether the Lady Eveline hath been possessed of the circumstances which have occasioned this unhappy alteration in my purpose?”

“I have communicated the whole to her from point to point,” said the Abbess, “even as it was explained to me this morning by my Lord of Canterbury, (for with him I have already spoken upon the subject,) and confirmed but now by your lordship’s own mouth.”

“I am little obliged to the Archbishop,” said the Constable, “for having forestalled my excuses in the quarter where it was most important for me that they should be accurately stated, and favourably received.”

“That,” said the Abbess, “is but an item of the account betwixt you and the Prelate,— it concerns not us.”

“Dare I venture to hope,” continued De Lacy, without taking offence at the dryness of the Abbess’s manner, “that Lady Eveline has heard this most unhappy change of circumstances without emotion,— I would say, without displeasure?”

“She is the daughter of a Berenger, my lord,” answered the Abbess, “and it is our custom to punish a breach of faith or to contemn it — never to grieve over it. What my niece may ............