skilful hand, Adrian touched the strings; and
selecting a song which was less elaborate than those mostly in vogue
amongst his countrymen, though still conceived in the Italian spirit,
and in accordance with the sentiment he had previously expressed to
Adeline, he sang as follows:--

Love's Excuse for Sadness.

Chide not, beloved, if oft with thee I feel not rapture wholly; For aye
the heart that's fill'd with love, Runs o'er in melancholy. To streams
that glide in noon, the shade From summer skies is given; So, if my
breast reflects the cloud, 'Tis but the cloud of heaven! Thine image
glass'd within my soul So well the mirror keepeth; That, chide me not,
if with the light The shadow also sleepeth.

"And now," said Adrian, as he concluded, "the lute is to you: I but
preclude your prize."

The Provencal laughed, and shook his head.--"With any other umpire, I
had had my lute broken on my own head, for my conceit in provoking such
a rival; but I must not shrink from a contest I have myself provoked,
even though in one day twice defeated." And with that, in a deep and
exquisitely melodious voice, which wanted only more scientific culture
to have challenged any competition, the Knight of St. John poured forth:

The Lay of the Troubadour.

1.

Gentle river, the moonbeam is hush'd on thy tide,
On thy pathway of light to my lady I glide.
My boat, where the stream laves the castle, I moor,--
All at rest save the maid and her young Troubadour!
As the stars to the waters that bore
My bark, to my spirit thou art;
Heaving yet, see it bound to the shore,
So moor'd to thy beauty my heart,--
Bel' amie, bel' amie, bel' amie!

2.

Wilt thou fly from the world? It hath wealth for the vain;
But Love breaks his bond when there's gold in the chain;
Wilt thou fly from the world? It hath courts for the proud;--
But Love, born in caves, pines to death in the crowd.
Were this bosom thy world, dearest one,
Thy world could not fail to be bright;
For thou shouldst thyself be its sun,
And what spot could be dim in thy light--
Bel' amie, bel' amie, bel' amie?

3.

The rich and the great woo thee dearest; and poor,
Though his fathers were princes, thy young Troubadour!
But his heart never quail'd save to thee, his adored,--
There's no guile in his lute, and no stain on his sword.
Ah, I reck not what so