lifted his head. “No siren. Something wakened within me, and now I will be neither monk nor priest. I am sorry to grieve you, Foulque.”
But Foulque nursed his wrath. “The hour has passed,” he said. “So we go back to the abbot and spurn a rich offer!” He rose and with a bleak face left the grass-plot.
Garin followed, but not immediately. He stood, beneath the cypress tree and tried to see his life. He could not do so; he could only tell that his heart was parted between sorrow and joy, and that a nightingale sang and sang. He could tell that he wished to live beautifully, to do noble deeds, to win honour, to serve, if need be to die for, a goddess whose face was veiled. His life whirled; at once he felt generous, wealthy, and great, and poor, humble, and despairing. He seemed to see through drifting mists a Great Meaning; then the cloud thickened and he was only Garin, Raimbaut’s squire—then again images and music, then aching sadness. He stood with parted lips, beneath the cypress, and he looked south. At last he sighed and covered his eyes with his hand, then turned and went back to the hall.
The abbot was awake, had left the great bed and come to the great chair. Seated at ease in the light of the renewed fire, he was goldenly discoursing to Foulque who sat on a stool, of Roche-de-Frêne and its prince and his court, and of Bishop Ugo. “Ah, the great chances in the fair lap of Mother Church! Ugo is ambitious. There it is that we differ. I am not ambitious—no, no! I am an easy soul, and but take things as they come my way!” He turned in his chair and looked at Garin standing behind his brother. “Ha!” he said, “and this is the squire who would become canon?”
Foulque groaned. “Most Reverend Father, the boy is mad! I think that he is bewitched. I pray that of your goodness, wisdom and eloquence you bring him to a right mind—”
The Abbot of Saint Pamphilius smiled, assured as the sun. “What is it? Does he think that already he has Fortune for mistress?”
“He will choose knighthood,” said Foulque. “He has no doubt of winning it.”
The abbot lifted his brows. He looked with dignity into the fire, then back at Foulque and at Garin the squire. “It pains me,” he said, “the folly of mankind! Are you born prince, count or baron, then in reason, you must run the course where you are set. Though indeed, time out of mind, have been found castellans, vavasours, barons, dukes, and princes who have laid aside hauberk, shield, and banner, and blithely come with all their wealth into the peaceful hive of Holy Church—so rightly could they weigh great value against low! But such as you, young man—but such as you—poor liegemen of poor lords! What would you have? Verily, the folly is deep! By no means all who would have knighthood gain it, and if it is gained, what then? Another poor knight in a world where they are as thick and undistinguishable as locusts!—Ha, what do you say?”
Garin’s lips had moved, but now he flushed red.
“Speak out!” commanded the abbot, blandly imperious. “What was it that you said?”
Garin lowered his eyes. “I said that there were many churchmen in the world, as thick and undistinguishable—”
Foulque drew a dismayed breath. But the Abbot of Saint Pamphilius laughed. He sat well back in his chair and looked at the squire with freshened interest. “Granted, Bold Wit! The point is this. Did you show me here the signet ring, not—God defend us!—of Raimbaut the Six-fingered, but of Raimbaut’s lord and yours, Savaric of Montmaure, then would I say, ‘So you have your patron! Good fortune, fair kinsman, who are half-way up the ladder!’ ” He looked at the squire and laughed. “You have it not by you, I think?” Garin shook his head. “Well then,” said the abbot, “choose Holy Church. For here, I think,”—he spoke very goldenly—“you may show a patron. A feeble one, my son—of course, a feeble one—”
Garin came from behind Foulque, kneeled before the abbot, and thanked him for great kindness and condescension. “But, Reverend Father, with all gratefulness and humbleness, yet I will not the tonsure—”
The abbot with a gesture kept him kneeling. “There is some reason here that you hide. You are young, you are young! I guess that your reason goes by name of woman—”
Garin knelt silent, but Foulque uttered an exclamation. “No, Reverend Father, no! What has changed him I know not, but it has happened here at Castel-Noir, since yesterday! There is no woman here, in hut or tower, that could tempt him—”
But the Abbot of Saint Pamphilius continued to gaze upon Garin, and to tap gently with his fingers upon the arm of the great chair. “I hold not,” he said softly, “with those who would condone concubinage, and who see no harm in a too fair cousin, niece, or servant in priests’ dwellings. It is all sin—it is all sin—and Holy Church must reprobate—yea, must chastise. But flesh is weak, my son, flesh is weak! Somewhat may be compounded—somewhat overlooked—somewhat pardoned! Especially, if not solely, in the case of those whose service is great. As for courtly love—” The abbot smiled. “When you come to courtly love,” he said, “there are many lordly churchmen have praised fair ladies!—Do I resolve your scruples, my son?”
But Garin’s look showed no shaken determination. The abbot leaned back in his chair. “The time grows tender,” he said. “Womanish and tender! Your father would have known how to bring you to reason. Your grandfather would have disposed of you like any Roman of old. But now any sir squire is let to say, ‘I will’—or ‘I will not!’—Think not that I wish him about me who is sullen and intractable! Nor that I lack other kinsmen who are pleaders for that kindness I would have shown Castel-Noir! There is young Enric, Bernart’s son—and there are others.—Rise and begone to Raimbaut the Six-fingered’s keep!”
Garin stood up. Foulque made to speak, but the abbot waved the matter down.
“All is said. It is a trifle, and we will disturb ourselves no further. God knows, ungrateful young men are no rarity! Doubtless he hath, after all, Montmaure’s signet—What is it now?”
Into the hall, from the court without, had come a sound of trampling hoofs and of voices—one voice sullen and heavy. Garin started violently, Foulque sprang to his feet. The great door was flung open, admitting a burst of wind that shook the hangings, and behind it, Sicart open-mouthed and breathless.
“Master, master! here is Lord Raimbaut!”
CHAPTER V
RAIMBAUT THE SIX-FINGERED
A lord might of course visit one who held from him, often did so. But it was not Raimbaut’s use to ride to Castel-Noir. And Garin, parting from him less than a week ago, had heard no word of his coming.
But here he was, pushing Sicart aside, striding into the hall, a low-browed, thick-skulled giant, savage with his foes, dull and grudging with his friends—Raimbaut the Six-fingered! Foulque hastened to do him reverence, make him welcome; Garin, stepping to his side, took from him his wide, rust-hued mantle and furred cap.
“Well met, my Lord Raimbaut!” said the abbot in his golden tones.
Raimbaut gloomed upon him. “Ha, Lord Abbot! Are you here for this springald, my esquire? Well, I have said that you might have him.”
“Nay,” said the abbot mellowly, “I think that I want him not.”
“—have
