him captive to his car.  The god loosed a shaft which entered deeply in his breast.  The arrow pierced to his heart, and from thenceforth he cared nothing for measure, or kingship, or delight.  Equitan was so surprised of the lady, that he remained silent and pensive.  He heard nothing, and nothing he could do.  All night he lay in unrest upon the bed, reproaching himself for what had come to pass.

“Alas,” said he, “what evil fate has led me into this land!  The sight only of this lady has put such anguish into my heart that my members fail beneath me.  It is Love, I deem, who rides me thus cruelly.  But if I love this lady I shall do a great wrong.  She is the wife of my seneschal, and it is my duty to keep the same love and faith to him as I would wish him to observe with me.  If by any means I could know what is in her mind, I should be the easier, for torment is doubled that you bear alone.  There is not a dame, however curst, but would rather love than not; for if she were a contemner of love where would be her courtesy?  But if she loves, there is not a woman under the sky who would not suck thereout all the advantage that she may.  If the matter came to the ears of the seneschal, he ought not to think too hardly of me.  He cannot hope to keep such treasure for himself alone; and, certes, I shall claim my portion.”

Equitan tossed on his bed, and sighed.  His thoughts were still on the lady, so that in a little he said, “I think of the ford, before I come to the river.  I go too quickly, for I know not yet whether the lady will take me as her friend.  But know I will as swiftly as I can, since I cannot get rest or sleep.  I will come before her as soon as it is day, and if she feels as I feel, the sooner I shall be rid of my pain.”

The King kept vigil till the daylight came at last.  He arose and went forth, as if to the chase.  He returned presently, telling that he was sick, and going straight to his chamber, lay upon his bed.  The seneschal was very troubled, for he could not imagine the sickness of which his master felt the pangs.  He counselled his wife to seek their guest, that she might cheer and comfort him in his trouble.  When they were alone the King opened to her his heart.  He told her that he was dying for her love, and that if she had no more than friendship to offer, he preferred death before life.

“Sire,” replied the dame, “I require a little time to think of what you say, for I cannot answer yes or no, without thought, in a business of this moment.  I am not of your wealth, and you are too high a lord, for your love to do more than rest lightly on me.  When you have had your desire, it will as lightly fly away.  My sorrow would be overlong, if I should love you, and grant you what you wish.  It is much the best that between you and me love should not be spoken of.  You are a puissant prince; my husband is one of your vassals, and faith and trust should bind us—­not the dangerous bond of love.  Love is only lasting