whit less
winning than of yore, Love made her stretch out her arms to embrace him,
whilst her pity at seeing him in such a plight so enfeebled her heart,
that she sank swooning to the floor.

The poor monk, who was not void of brotherly charity, lifted her up and
set her upon a seat in the chapel. Although he had no less need of
aid than she had, he feigned to be unaware of her passion, and so
strengthened his heart in the love of God against the opportunities now
present with him, that, judging by his countenance, he seemed not to
know what was actually before him. Having recovered from her weakness,
she turned upon him her beautiful, piteous eyes, which were enough to
soften a rock, and began to utter all such discourse as she believed apt
to draw him from the place in which he now was. He replied as virtuously
as he was able; but at last, finding that his heart was being softened
by his sweetheart's abundant tears, and perceiving that Love, the cruel
archer whose pains he long had known, was ready with his golden dart to
deal him fresh and more deadly wounds, he fled both from Love and from
his sweetheart, like one whose only resource lay, indeed, in flight.

When he was shut up in his room, not desiring to let her go without some
settlement of the matter, he wrote her a few words in Spanish, which
seem to me so excellent in their matter that I would not by translating
them mar their grace. These were brought to her by a little novice,
who found her still in the chapel and in such despair that, had it been
lawful, she too would have remained there and turned friar. But when she
saw the words, which were these--

"Volvete don venesti, anima mia,
Que en las tristas vidas es la mia," (1)

she knew that all hope was gone, and she resolved to follow the advice
of him and her friends, and so returned home, there to lead a life as
melancholy as that of her lover in his monastery was austere.

1 "Return whence thou earnest, my soul,
for among the sad lives is mine."'

"You see, ladies, what vengeance the gentleman took upon his harsh
sweetheart, who, thinking to try him, reduced him to such despair that,
when she would have regained him, she could not do so."

"I am sorry," said Nomerfide, "that he did not lay aside his gown and
marry her. It would, I think, have been a perfect marriage."

"In good sooth," said Simontault, "I think he was very wise. Anyone who
well considers what marriage is wil