The summer woods were passing sweet—fresh and sweet under whatever strength of sun to those who had come from Syrian towns and Syrian suns. Garin rode with an open heart, smelled sweet odour, heard every song and movement, praised the green wood and the blue sky. At last they saw the olives and the vineyards of Our Lady in Egypt—at last the massy building. And now Paladin stopped before a portal that Garin remembered.... All these years, Jaufre de Montmaure had been in the back of his head, but hardly, it may be said, the herd-girl who first had struggled with Jaufre. Memory might have brought her oftener to view, but memory, when it came to women, had been preoccupied with the Fair Goal—with the lady who wore the blue, fine stuff, the gem-wrought girdle, the eastern veil! But now, sudden and vivid as life, came back the herd-girl who had ridden behind him upon this horse, who, at the convent door under the round arch, had looked back at him through dark and streaming hair. The portress opened to her and she entered—rushed back the very tone and sense of blankness and of wonder with which he had regarded the closed door! “Saint Agatha! how that tastes upon my tongue!” said Garin. He sat staring at the convent portal. Around was midday heat and stillness. Drowned in that past day, he gave no heed to a sound of approaching horsemen. But now Rainier came to his side. “Sir, there are armed men coming! Best knock and gain entrance—” But Garin turned to see who came. A small party rode into sight beneath the convent trees—not more than a dozen horsemen. One bore, depending from a lance, a pensil of blue—the blue of Roche-de-Frêne. It hung unstirring in the windless noon. In the air of the riders there was something, one knew not what, of dejection or of portent. They came neither fast nor slow, the hoofs of the horses making a sullen sound. Garin looked. At times there blew to him, through appearances, a wind from behind appearances. It gave no definite word, but he heard the rustling of the sibyl’s leaves. He drew Paladin a little to one side and awaited the riders. From the convent chapel rose a sound of chanting—the nuns at their office. The cluster of horsemen arrived in the space before the convent door. The one who rode in front, a knight with grizzled hair and a stern, lean face, directed an enquiry to the mounted men here before him. Garin answered. “I am of Castel-Noir—ridden here to-day because there is that which I would ask of the Abbess Angela.” The grizzled knight shook his head. He spoke to one of those behind him. “Strike upon the door, Raynold!” then, turning in his saddle, addressed himself to the stranger knight in the blue surcoat. “Fair sir, my lady Abbess, methinks, will not wish to deal to-day with any matters that may be set aside.” “I see that you bring heavy tidings,” said Garin. “I fight for Roche-de-Frêne. What are they?” “Well may you say that they are heavy! Our lord, Prince Gaucelm, is slain.”