“It is not a wine of Montmaure but of Roche-de-Frêne,” said Jaufre. “Save indeed that, as I have taken the fields that grew the grapes and the town that sold the wine, it may be said, princess, to be of Montmaure!” Audiart the Wise sat silent a moment, her eyes upon her foe. She was there because the need of Roche-de-Frêne sucked at her heart. But she knew—she knew—that it would not avail! Yet she spoke, low, deep and thrillingly. “My lord, my lord, why should we fight? Truth my witness, if ever I wished Montmaure harm, I’ll now unwish it! Do you so, my lord, toward Roche-de-Frêne! This sunny, autumn day—if we were at peace, how sweet it were! This land garlanded, and Montmaure—and men and women faring upward—and anger, hate, and greed denied—and common good grown dearer, nearer! Ah, my Lord Count Jaufre, lift this siege, and win a knightlier, lordlier name than warring gives—” Jaufre broke in. “Are marriage bells ringing in your pleading, my princess? If they ring not, all that is said says naught!” She looked at him with a steadfast face. “Marriage bells?... Give me all that is in your mind, my lord.” Jaufre drank again. “Marriage bells ringing over our heads where we stand in the Church of Saint Eustace in Montmaure.” “_In Montmaure...._ Did you and I wed, my lord, I must come to you in Montmaure?” “So! I will give you escort—a thousand spears.” “And Roche-de-Frêne?—and Roche-de-Frêne—” “As I may conceive,” said Jaufre, “dealing with my own.” The princess sat very still. Only her eyes moved, and they looked from Count Jaufre to the walled town and back again. Montmaure had pushed back his seat. He sat propping his chin with his hand, his hot gaze upon her. “Roche-de-Frêne,” she said at last,—”Roche-de-Frêne would have no guaranty?” “Eye of God!” answered Jaufre. “I will not utterly destroy what comes to me in wedlock! What interest would that serve? It shall feel scourges, but I shall not tumble each stone from its fellow! Take that assurance, princess!” She sat silent. “After all,” said her thought, “you have only what you knew you would get!” Within she knew grim laughter, even a certain relief. Would she sacrifice or would she not, no good would come from Montmaure to Roche-de-Frêne! Then, fight on, and since thus it was, fight with an undivided will! Resistance rose as from sleep, refreshed. She smiled. “I am glad that I came, my Lord of Montmaure,” she said, and spoke in a pure, limpid, uncoloured voice. “Else, hearing from another your will, I might not have believed—” “Eye of God! Madame, so it is!” said Jaufre, and in mind heard the bells of the Church of Saint Eustace, and the shouting in Montmaure. The Princess of Roche-de-Frêne stood up in her brown samite, and sheath of chain-mail and morion that reflected the sunbeams. “Having now your mind, my lord count, I will return to Roche-de-Frêne!”