oung sons came bounding into the hall,--Gerin, the elder born,
fair-haired and tall, brave and gentle as his father; and Hernaudin,
the younger, a child of six summers, his mother's pet, and the joy of
the household. With them were six other lads, sons of noblemen; and
all together laughed and played, and had their boyish pleasure.

When the duke saw them, he remembered his own boyhood days and the
companions who had shared his sports, and he sighed. The fair Beatrice
heard him, and she said, "My lord, what ails you, that you are so
thoughtful to-day? Why should a rich duke like you sigh and seem sad?
Great plenty of gold and silver have you in your coffers; you have
enough of the vair and the gray,[2] of hawks on their perches, of mules
and palfreys and war steeds; you have overcome all your foes, and none
dare rise up against you. All within six days' journey are your
vassals. What more would you desire to make you happy?"

"Sweet lady," answered Bego, "you have spoken truly. I am rich, as the
world goes; but my wealth is not happiness. True wealth is not of
money, of the vair and the gray, of mules, or of horses. It is of
kinsfolk and friends. The heart of a man is worth more than all the
gold of a country. Had it not been for my friends, I would have been
put to shame long ago. The king has given me this fief, far from my
boyhood's home, where I see but few of my old comrades and helpers. I
have not seen my brother Garin, the Lorrainer, these seven years, and
my heart yearns to behold him. Now, methinks, I will go to him, and I
will see his son, the child Girbert, whom I have never seen."

The Lady Beatrice said not a word, but the tears began to well up sadly
in her eyes.

"In the wood of Puelle," said Bego, after a pause, "there is said to be
a wild boar, the largest and fiercest ever seen. He outruns the
fleetest horses. No man can slay him. Methinks, that if it please
God, and I live, I will hunt in that wood, and I will carry the head of
the great beast to my brother the Lorrainer."

Then Beatrice, forcing back her tears, spoke:

"Sir," said she, "what is it thou sayest? The wood of Puelle is in the
march of Fromont the chief, and he owes thee a great grudge. He would
be too glad to do thee harm. I pray thee do not undertake this hunt.
My heart tells me,--I will not hide the truth from thee,--my heart
tells me, that if thou goest thither thou shalt never come back alive."

But the duke