“Messire, the locket contains the portrait of a lady whom in my youth I loved very greatly.  Save to me, it is valueless.  I pray you, do not rob me of it.”

But the trooper shook his head with drunken solemnity.  “I do not like the looks of this.  Yet I will sell it to you, as the saying is, for a song.”

“It shall be the king of songs,” said Osmund,—­“the song that Arnaut Daniel first made.  I will sing for you a Sestina, messieurs,—­a Sestina in salutation of Spring.”

The men disposed themselves about the dying grass, and presently he sang.

Sang Messire Heleigh: 

  “Awaken! for the servitors of Spring
  Proclaim his triumph! ah, make haste to see
  With what tempestuous pageantry they bring
  The victor homeward! haste, for this is he
  That cast out Winter and all woes that cling
  To Winter’s garments, and bade April be!

  “And now that Spring is master, let us be
  Content, and laugh, as anciently in spring
  The battle-wearied Tristan laughed, when he
  Was come again Tintagel-ward, to bring
  Glad news of Arthur’s victory—­and see
  Ysoude, with parted lips, that waver and cling.

  “Not yet in Brittany must Tristan cling
  To this or that sad memory, and be
  Alone, as she in Cornwall; for in spring
  Love sows against far harvestings,—­and he
  Is blind, and scatters baleful seed that bring
  Such fruitage as blind Love lacks eyes to see!”

Osmund paused here for an appreciable interval, staring at the Queen.  You saw his flabby throat a-quiver, his eyes melting, saw his cheeks kindle, and youth seeping into the lean man like water over a crumbling dam.  His voice was now big and desirous.

Sang Messire Heleigh: 

  “Love sows, but lovers reap; and ye will see
  The loved eyes lighten, feel the loved lips cling,
  Never again when in the grave ye be
  Incurious of your happiness in spring,
  And get no grace of Love there, whither he
  That bartered life for love no love may bring.

  “No braggart Heracles avails to bring
  Alcestis hence; nor here may Roland see
  The eyes of Aude; nor here the wakening spring
  Vex any man with memories:  for there be
  No memories that cling as cerements cling,
  No force that baffles Death, more strong than he.

  “Us hath he noted, and for us hath he
  An hour appointed; and that hour will bring
  Oblivion.—­Then, laugh!  Laugh, dear, and see
  The tyrant mocked, while yet our bosoms cling,
  While yet our lips obey us, and we be
  Untrammeled in our little hour of spring!

  “Thus in the spring we jeer at Death, though he
  Will see our children perish and will briny
  Asunder all that cling while love may be.”