The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins. Lew Wallace

“Verily, minstrel, much familiarity with song has given you courtly speech.”

      “I have courtly friends, and only borrow their words. This place is fair, but to my dull fancy it seems that a maiden would prefer the great hall, unless she has a grief to indulge.”

      “O, I have a great grief,” she returned; “though I do borrow it as you your words.”

      “Then you love some one who is unhappy. I understand. Is this child in your service?” he asked, looking at Yeteve.

      “Call it mine. She loves me well enough to serve me.”

      The minstrel struck the strings of his harp softly, as if commencing a mournful story.

      “I have a friend,” he said, “a prince and warrior, whose presence here is banned. He sits in his palace to-night, and is visited by thoughts such as make men old in their youth. He has seen much of life, and won fame, but is fast finding that glory does not sweeten misfortune, and that of all things, ingratitude is the most bitter. His heart is set upon a noble woman; and now, when his love is strongest, he is separated from her, and may not say farewell. O, it is not in the ear of a true woman that lover so unhappy could breathe his story in vain. What would the princess Nenetzin do, if she knew a service of hers might soothe his great grief?”