The barons, vassals or allies of Montmaure, had each his quarter where he planted his standard, and whence he led in assault the men who called him lord. The Free Companies pitched among vineyards or where had been vineyards. The spears from Aquitaine and a huge number of bowmen covered thickly old wheat-fields, pastures, and orchards. Near as might safely be to the walls of Roche-de-Frêne,—so near that the din of the town might be heard, that the alarum bell, when it rang, rocked loud in their ears,—were raised, in the fore-front of tents as numerous as autumn sheaves, the pavilions of Count Savaric and of his son, Count Jaufre. It was August weather, hot and thunderous. Jaufre de Montmaure came to the door of his pavilion and looked at the hill, the town and castle of Roche-de-Frêne. Behind the three were storm clouds, over them storm light. The banner of the Princess Audiart flew high. Against the grey, heaped vapour it showed like an opening into blue sky. Each day and every day assaults were made. One was now in progress, directed against the bridge-head, very visible from Jaufre’s tent. Aimeric the Bastard led it, and Aimeric was a fierce warrior, followed by men whose only trade was fighting. The atmosphere was still, hushed, grey, and sultry, dulling the noise that was made. The mass of the force was not concerned. Jaufre stood, tall and red-gold, hawk-nosed, and with a scar across his cheek. He was without armour and lightly clothed, to meet the still heat. Upon the ground without the tent had been spread skins of wild beasts. He spoke over his shoulder, then, moving to these skins, threw himself down upon them. Unconquered town and castle, the present attack upon the bridge, the slow coming of the storm, the blue, undaunted banner could best be noted just from here. A squire brought a flagon of wine from the tent and set it beside him. Out of a pavilion fifty yards away came Count Savaric, and crossed the space to his son. With an inner tardiness Jaufre rose from the skins and stood. “I have sent word to Gaultier Cap-du-Loup to take his Company to Aimeric’s help,” said Count Savaric. He took a seat that they brought him. Count Jaufre lay down again upon the skins. There held the grey breathlessness and light of the slow-travelling storm. Count Savaric watched the dust-cloud that hid the bridge-head, obscuring the strong tower and the supporting works that Roche-de-Frêne had built and, with the aid of its encamped host, yet held against all assault. But Jaufre regarded moodily the walled town and the castle. He spoke. “This tent has stood here a month to-day, and we have buried many knights.” “Just,” answered Count Savaric. “Barons and knights and a host of the common people. A great jewel is a costly thing!” “I miss my comrade, Hugues le Gai. And Richard will not lightly take the loss of Guy of Perpignan.” “Duke Richard knows how jewels cost.”