Chapter 17 Chapter Seventeen

In the silent study at dusk, I opened the ancient book inlaid with copper, Reviewed the deeds of many saints, Martyrdom has brought them to heaven. As the candlelight gradually dimmed, I sang hymns and fell asleep. But who would give up fame and wealth, Take the staff and wrap around the gray cloth shawl, Leaving the hustle and bustle of the world, Residing in a quiet hermitage? Wharton The guests are naturally willing to obey the hermit's earnest advice, but tuning the strings is not as easy as drinking. Father, said he, I think the instrument is missing a string, and the others seem to be broken.

oh, did you see that?The hermit replied, then you really know this stuff, it's all the result of drinking too much, and he raised his eyes.He said solemnly again that everything was to be blamed on his excessive drinking!I mean our Scottish troubadour, Alan Adair. ], I told him not to touch my harp after seven glasses of wine, or it would be ruined, but he would not listen.My friend, let me have a drink and wish you success in playing and singing. With that, he drank down another glass of wine solemnly, shaking his head at the same time, expressing his disapproval of the Scotch harper's gluttonous wine.

At this time, the knight had already made some adjustments to the strings of the zither, and after playing a passage, he asked the master whether he was singing a Norman tune, a French tune, or an English folk song. Ballads, ballads, said the hermit, I will hear no Normans nor French.Sir Cavalier, I am as much an Englishman as my saint Dunstan, my protector, is as much an Englishman, and I love Norman and French as much as he loves to trim the devil's hooves. According to British folklore, St. Dunstan worked as a blacksmith during his lifetime. Once the devil went to him to repair his hoof and played a trick on him. 】.Only English songs can be sung in this room.

I'll try, then, said the knight. It's an English ballad composed by a Saxon bard I knew in the Holy Land. The situation became clear immediately. Even if the knight was not good at playing and singing, at least his singing style showed that he had been taught by a famous teacher.His range was not very wide, and his voice was naturally rough and unmellow; yet his cultivation did what it should, and made up for all natural defects, so that even a better judge than a hermit would have judged his singing I think it is impeccable, not to mention that the knight sometimes appears impassioned in playing and singing, and sometimes becomes sad and sad, which adds vivid vitality to his tunes.

Return of the Crusaders Honor won in fierce battle, The warriors have returned from Palestine; The cross pattern embroidered on the shoulder, Faded and worn by battle and weather; Every knife mark left on the shield, Both marked a bloody battle. When twilight falls upon the earth, He came to the girl's window and sang: Tell the girl the good news!your knight Returned from that golden land. But he brought no treasure, nor did he need it, All he has is a sharp sword and a horse, His spurs charge the enemy, The spear with which he overwhelms the enemy; Here are all the souvenirs of his bloody battle,

I just hope they can win a beautiful smile! Tell the beauty a good news!her loyal knight Inspired by love to build great feats; From then on her name will be spread far and near, A glorious and dignified reception awaits her at all times; The poets sang of her, and the magistrate announced to the world: Look carefully at that beautiful maiden, It was for her bright eyes, The knight just won the tournament in Ashkelon! Look carefully at her smile!It sharpens the sword, Despite the mighty army and the protection of Muhammad, The turbaned idol Sultan fell by his sword, His fifty wives and concubines became widows in an instant!

Look at her curly hair, it's so gorgeous, half-hidden on her white neck, There is not a thread of gold and silver among them, But for them, the heathen fell in a pool of blood. Tell the girl the good news!I don't want to be famous, All merit and praise belong to you. Only in this cold hour of night, Please open this humble door; Accustomed to living in the Syrian heat, The north wind makes me feel cold as death. Let grateful love take away maiden shyness, Give happiness to those who bring you honor. As the song was played and sung, the hermit had the air of a first-rate critic of the day admiring a new opera.He leaned back, raised his head, half-closed his eyes, sometimes crossed his hands and rubbed his thumbs, as if he was concentrating on listening, and sometimes stretched out his palms and waved them lightly with the beat of the music .When encountering one or two pieces of music he liked, he seemed to feel that the knight's voice was not loud enough to reach the height required by his appreciation level, so he couldn't help helping him by humming a few times along with it.At the end of the singing, the hermit solemnly announced that this is a good song, and it is sung melodiously and melodiously.

Yet I think, he said, that my fellow Saxons have been with the Normans for so long that they have acquired their sentimentality.You say, why did this righteous knight leave his homeland?When he came back, what else could he hope for, except to find that his lover had fallen into someone else's arms, and that his serenade, according to the Normans, could only be like a cat crying spring in the gutter, without any response?However, brother knight, I drink this toast with you, and wish all lovers truly become family members.But I am afraid you are not one of them, he added, noticing that the knight had been drinking so much that his mind had grown so clouded that he poured water from the jug into the glass.

Why, said the knight, did you not tell me just now that the water in the pitcher was the spring of Dunstan, your guardian saint? It is true, replied the hermit, that hundreds of heathens were baptized here, but I never heard of him drinking it as wine.Everything in the world has a fixed purpose.St. Dunstan understood, as well as anyone else, the special needs of the merry monk. As he said this, he brought the harp, and sang to his guests the following song, (an English folk tune sung in primitive balladry): Song of the Barefoot Friar Friend, I can give you a year or two, Let you search all over Europe from Byzantium to Spain,

But no matter how hard you look, you can't find it Such a merry man as the barefoot friar. Your knights go through fire and water for the one they love, Returning to her with a gunshot wound in the sound of evening prayers, But she hastily called me to make his dying confession, Because she wanted no company but the barefoot friar. Your king is worth nothing!because many monarchs Willing to exchange his dragon robe for a monk's clothes, But who among us would have a whim, To exchange a mitral for a crown! Our monks travel far and wide, making homes everywhere, All delicacies in the world can be enjoyed by him,

He is free to come and go wherever he is, without any attachments, For every man's home is the home of a barefoot friar. He is scheduled to arrive at noon, before noon Everyone has prepared a rich feast for empty seats, For good food and fireside seats, Forever the inalienable right of the barefoot friar. He was scheduled to arrive in the evening, strong ale, The steaming pies are waiting to be cursed, The housewife would rather let the family sleep in the open, Nor do barefoot monks have no warm beds. The monks' sandals, girdles and robes are all the rage, The devil fears them, the pope trusts them; To gather roses without thorns, and enjoy the joys of life, The best way is to be a barefoot monk. To tell the truth, said the knight, you sing very well and uplift the soul, and speak highly of your order.But speaking of the devil, are you not afraid that he will come to your hut when you violate the rules and seek pleasure? I broke the rules!The hermit replied, this is an accusation made out of nothing, not at all under my words!I abide by the rules in the church and pray on time.Two Masses a day, morning and evening, morning prayer, noon prayer, evening prayer, Lord's Prayer, Hail Mary, Apostles' Creed The exception is moonlit nights, when venison is hunted.The guest said. Exceptions are only exceptions, replied the hermit, and the old abbot of our monastery taught me that if the layman asked me if I obeyed the rules of the order, I could answer them in this way. That is right, Father, said the knight, but the devil always has his eye on these exceptions; you know, he roams about like a roaring lion. Let him roar when he wants to, said the Friar, and when my girdle touches him, he dares not bark his teeth, as if his nose were caught in St. Dunstan's pincers. The latter caught it off guard and pinched his nose with red-hot iron pliers. 】.I am not afraid of anyone, nor the devil and his disciples.St. Dunstan, St. Dubrique, St. Winibald, St. Winifred, St. Swipert, St. Willick, and not forgetting St. Thomas of Kent and my own merits all will protect me , I am not afraid of any devil, long-tailed or short-tailed.But to tell you a secret, my friend, I never talk about these matters before morning prayers. He changed the subject, so the two were very happy, drank to their heart's content, and sang a lot of songs to echo each other. At this moment, someone knocked loudly on the door. This brought an end to their drinking and merrymaking; as for who was knocking at the door, we have to go back and talk about the activities of other characters, because we are also like old Ariosto. ], you can’t stay the same, always keep company with one or two characters in the story.