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Updated: June 3, 2025
But Raimbaut de Vaquieras, a spent fellow, a derelict, barren of aim now that the Holy Wars were over, sat in this unfamiliar place where when he was young he had laughed as a cock crows! and thought how at the last he had crept home to die as a dependent on his cousin's bounty. Thus the evening passed, and at its end Makrisi followed the troubadour to his regranted fief of Vaquieras.
I think you will understand," Makrisi said, calmly as one who states a maxim. The Sire de Vaquieras replied, in the same tone: "I understand. You have contrived my death?" "Ey, messire, would that be adequate? I could have managed that any hour within the last score of years. Oh no! for I have studied you carefully. Oh no! instead, I have contrived this plight.
So Zoraida died. Such is the custom in my country." "You trouble me, Makrisi. Your eyes are like blown coals. . . . Yet you have served me long and faithfully. You know that mine was ever the vocation of dealing honorably in battle among emperors, and of spreading broadcast the rumor of my valor, and of achieving good by my sword's labors. I have lived by warfare.
She, waiting, smiled. Makrisi, seated, stretched his legs, put fingertips together with the air of an attendant amateur. This was better than he had hoped. In such a posture they heard a bustle of armored men, and when all turned, saw how a sword protruded through the arras. "Come out, Guillaume!" people were shouting. "Unkennel, dog! Out, out, and die!"
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