"Cry out St. Peter now," quoth Aldovrand;
I cried, "St. Peter," broke out from the wood
With all my spears; we met them hand to hand,
And shortly slew them; natheless, by the rood,
We caught not blackhead then, or any day;
Months after that he died at last in bed,
From a wound pick'd up at a barrier-fray;
That same year's end a steel bolt in the head,
And much bad living kill'd Teste Noire at last;
John Froissart knoweth he is dead by now,
No doubt, but knoweth not this tale just past;
Perchance then you can tell him what I show.
In my new castle, down beside the Eure,
There is a little chapel of squared stone,
Painted inside and out; in green nook pure
There did I lay them, every wearied bone;
And over it they lay, with stone-white hands
Clasped fast together, hair made bright with gold;
This Jaques Picard, known through many lands,
Wrought cunningly; he's dead now—I am old.
