A certain excitement awoke in Matthiette's eyes. "It must be very beautiful at Court," said she, softly. "Masques, fêtes, tourneys every day;--and they say the new King is exceedingly gallant--"
Sieur Raymond caught her by the chin, and for a moment turned her face toward his. "I warn you," said he, "you are a d'Arnaye; and King or not--"
He paused here. Through the open window came the voice of one singing to the demure accompaniment of a lute.
"Hey?" said the Sieur d'Arnaye.
Sang the voice: "When you are very old, and I am gone, Not to return, it may be you will say-- Hearing my name and holding me as one Long dead to you,--in some half-jesting way Of speech, sweet as vague heraldings of May Rumored in woods when first the throstles sing-- 'He loved me once.' And straightway murmuring My half-forgotten rhymes, you will regret Evanished times when I was wont to sing So very lightly, 'Love runs into debt.'"
"Now, may I never sit among the saints," said the Sieur d'Arnaye, "if that is not the voice of Raoul de Prison, my new page."
"Hush," Matthiette whispered. "He woos my maid, Alys. He often sings under the window, and I wink at it."
Sang the voice: "I shall not heed you then. My course being run For good or ill, I shall have gone my way, And know you, love, no longer,--nor the sun, Perchance, nor any light of earthly day, Nor any joy nor sorrow,--while at play The world speeds merrily, nor reckoning Our coming or our going. Lips will cling, Forswear, and be forsaken, and men forget Where once our tombs were, and our children sing-- So very lightly!--'Love runs into debt.'
"If in the grave love have dominion Will that wild cry not quicken the wise clay, And taunt with memories of fond deeds undone,-- Some joy untasted, some lost holiday,-- All death's large wisdom? Will that wisdom lay The ghost of any sweet familiar thing Come haggard from the Past, or ever bring Forgetfulness of those two lovers met When all was April?--nor too wise to sing So very lightly, 'Love runs into debt.'
"Yet, Matthiette, though vain remembering Draw nigh, and age be drear, yet in the spring We meet and kiss, whatever hour beset Wherein all hours attain to harvesting,-- So very lightly love runs into debt."
"Dear, dear!" said the Sieur d'Arnaye. "You mentioned your maid's name, I think?"