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 two groups parted on the eve, as they expected, of a dreadful future.

“All this is agonizing,” exclaimed Pietro to the grave person already mentioned. “Even so, my brother,” replied the stranger, “but I have seen many such in Bohemia. We seem to be the prey of all the ruffians of the East. During Otakar’s days we enjoyed protection, and the safety of his people from similar inroads formed the fundamental reason of his seemingly ambitious policy. But henceforth, weep. Bohemia, weep! lament, O Moravia, in thy desolation! for the foe ravages at his pleasure, and a more devastating enemy than the Cumanians now controls the destinies of the nation. But, good brother, canst thou not add a word of consolation to—these afflicted children.”

“Speak up, stranger,” added one who overheard the last remark; “we would have a song. Thou comest not unprovided with jingles.”

“A song, jongleur,” exclaimed the crowd; “thou must earn thy entertainment at this castle.” “A song, a song!” shouted the whole vagabond company. Pietro now became far more master of the situation than his jailers were aware. He knew the kind of song, at that bitter moment, most acceptable to his fellow captives. Accordingly he disposed himself a little in the shade and sang:

My love is lost, and a weary way Have I trod through the desert wide; For a man of sin, seeking choicest prey, Hath seized her to be his bride,