With a practised and skilful hand, Adrian touched the strings; and
selecting a song which was less elaborate than those mostly in vogue
amongst his countrymen, though still conceived in the Italian spirit,
and in accordance with the sentiment he had previously expressed to
Adeline, he sang as follows:--

Love's Excuse for Sadness.

Chide not, beloved, if oft with thee I feel not rapture wholly; For aye
the heart that's fill'd with love, Runs o'er in melancholy. To streams
that glide in noon, the shade From summer skies is given; So, if my
breast reflects the cloud, 'Tis but the cloud of heaven! Thine image
glass'd within my soul So well the mirror keepeth; That, chide me not,
if with the light The shadow also sleepeth.

"And now," said Adrian, as he concluded, "the lute is to you: I but
preclude your prize."

The Provencal laughed, and shook his head.--"With any other umpire, I
had had my lute broken on my own head, for my conceit in provoking such
a rival; but I must not shrink from a contest I have myself provoked,
even though in one day twice defeated." And with that, in a deep and
exquisitely melodious voice, which wanted only more scientific culture
to have challenged any competition, the Knight of St. John poured forth:

The Lay of the Troubadour.

1.