"You have as much soul as a rat in a sewer. Come, list to me, breathe a word of this, and I’ll starve you in our topmost turret. Leave truth alone, gaffer, with your rheumy, broken-kneed wisdom. You have no wit in these matters, no, not a crust. Blurt a word, and I pack you off to grovel in Gilderoy." The man of physic shrugged his shoulders, seemed grieved and incredulous, prepared to wash his hands of the whole business. "Have your way, my lord; you are too hot-blooded for me; I will meddle no further." "Ha, Master Gallipot, you shall acknowledge anon that I have a soul." XLV Trumpets were blowing in Avalon of the Twelve Towers, echoing through the valley where the sun shone upon the woods, the sere leaves glittering like golden byzants as they fell. The sky was a clear canopy, drawn as blue silk from height to height, tenting the green meadows. Avalon’s towers rose black and strong above the sheen of her quiet waters. From Gambrevault came the Lord Flavian to claim his wife once more. Through the brief days of autumn Aurelius of Gilderoy had decreed him an exile from the Isle of Orchards, pleading for the girl’s frail breath and her lily soul that might fade if set too soon in the noon of love. In Gambrevault the Lord Flavian had moped like a prisoned falcon, listening to the far cry of the war, hungry for the touch of a woman’s hand. Modred had snatched the Madonna of the Pine Forest from burning Gilderoy. She had been throned at last above the tides of violence and wrong. That day the Lord Flavian rode in state for Avalon, even as an Arthurian, prince coming with splendour from some high-souled quest. The woods had blazoned their banners for his march. Trumpets hailed him from the towers and battlements. The sun, like a great patriarch, smoothed his gold beard and beamed upon the world. Over the bridge and beneath the gate, Modred led his master’s horse. The garrison had gathered in the central court; they tossed their swords, and cheered for Gambrevault. Trumpets set the wild woods wailing. Bombards thundered from the towers. In the court, amid the panoply of arms, Flavian dismounted, took Modred’s hand, leant upon the great man’s shoulder. "Old friend, is she well?" "Ah, sire, youth turns to youth." "Let my minstrels play below the stair some old song of Tristan and Iseult. And now I go to her. Lead on." In dead Duessa’s bower a drooping figure knelt before a crucifix in prayer. Foreshadowings of misery and woe were stirring in the woman’s heart. She had heard the bray of trumpets on the towers, the thunder of cannon, the shouts of strong men cheering in the court. She heard lute, viol, and flute strike up from afar a mournful melody sweet with an antique woe.