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 And that hard phalanx, that unbroken line, The ten good miles from thence to Maent's castle, All of his flank—how could he do without her? And all the road to Cahors, to Toulouse? What would he do without her?

"Papiol, Go forthright singing—Anhes, Cembelins. There is a throat; ah, there are two white hands; There is a trellis full of early roses, And all my heart is bound about with love. Where am I come with compound flatteries— What doors are open to fine compliment?" And every one half jealous of Maent? He wrote the catch to pit their jealousies Against her, give her pride in them?

Take his own speech, make what you will of it— And still the knot, the first knot, of Maent?

Is it a love poem? Did he sing of war? Is it an intrigue to run subtly out, Born of a jongleur's tongue, freely to pass Up and about and in and out the land, Mark him a craftsman and a strategist? (St. Leider had done as much at Polhonac, Singing a different stave, as closely hidden.) Oh, there is precedent, legal tradition, To sing one thing when your song means another,