“It doth not yet descend to shepherdesses,” said the jongleur. “For them the antique way suffices.” Garin mounted his horse and sat still in saddle, his eyes upon a fair green branch that the sun was transfiguring, making it very lively and intense in hue. “Great love,” he said. “By the soul of my father, I think it is a great thing! But if there is none set in your eyes to love—” “Can you not,” said the jongleur, “like Lord Rudel, love one unseen?” Garin sat regarding the green branch. “I do not know.... We love the unseen when we love Honour.” He sat for a moment in silence, then drew a sigh and spoke as though to himself. “It is with me as if all things were between coming and going, and a half-light, and a fulness that presses and yet knows not its path where it will go. I know not what I shall do, nor how I shall carry life. Now I feel afire and now I am sad—” He broke off and looked beyond the green branch; then, before the other could speak, shook Paladin’s reins and moved down the leafy way. He glanced over his shoulder at the jongleur. “I will remember you.” “Aye, remember!” returned the jongleur. He faced toward the town, put one leg before the other, and, going, swept his fingers across the strings of his lute. He, too, looked over his shoulder and called across the widening distance. “Choose Love!” he called. Garin, turning the corner of the jutty hill, lost sight of him. The tinkle of the lute came a moment longer, then it, too, vanished. The wind in the leaves sighed and sighed. “O Our Lady,” prayed Garin, “give thy guidance to the best man within me!” It was now full afternoon, the road growing narrower and worse, until at last it was a mere track. It ran through a forest large and old, and it grew quite lonely. The squire passed no one at all, saw only the great wood and its inmates that were four-footed or feathered. He was sympathetic to such life, and ordinarily gave it attention and found in an inward and disinterested pleasure attention’s reward. But to-day his mind was divided and troubled, and he rode unseeingly. “The Abbot and Holy Church,” said part of his mind. “Raimbaut and some day knighthood,” said another part. “There is earthly power,” said the first part, “for those who serve Holy Church—serve Her to Her profit and liking. Earthly power—and in Heaven, prelates still!” Spoke the second part; “Ripe grapes of power fall, too, to the warrior’s hand. Only be tall enough, strong enough to pluck them from the stoutest fortress wall! Knights have become barons, barons counts, counts kings!—And is not a good knight welcome in Heaven? I trow that he is, and that the angels vie with one another to do him honour!” It seemed to Garin, though it seemed dimly enough, that other voices were trying to make themselves heard. But the first two were the loud ones, the distinct ones. They were the fully formed, the sinewy, the inherited concepts.