“At dusk a jongleur will come to your lodging, bringing with him a dress like his own, his lute and other matters. Clothe yourself like him, cut your hair closer, somewhat darken your face. Let him aid you; he is faithful. Wear a dagger, but no other arms nor armour. You will go, too, afoot. Knightly courage you will need, but keen wit must do for hauberk and destrier, sword and lance. When you are dressed you are henceforth, for I know not how many days or weeks, the jongleur Elias of Montaudon.” “Thus far, I have it in mind.—_Elias of Montaudon._” “You know the postern called the rock-gate, on the northern face, between Black Tower and Eagle Tower?” “Yes.” “When the bells are ringing complin you will go there alone. You will wait, saying naught to any who may come or go. If you are challenged you will say that you are there upon the princess’s errand, and you will give the word of the night. It is _Two Falcons_.” “At complin. _Two Falcons._” “You will wait until there comes to you one mantled. That one will give you a purse, and will say to you, ‘Saint Martin’s summer.’ You will answer ‘Dreams may come true.’” “‘_Saint Martin’s summer._’—‘_Dreams may come true._’” “The purse you will take and keep—keep hidden. It will be for need. That mantled one you are to follow, and, without question, obey.—Now tell over each direction.” Garin told, memory making no slip. He ended, “I am to follow that one who, giving me a purse, says _Saint Martin’s summer_. He commands and I obey—” “As you would myself,” said the princess. She turned in her chair, looked beyond him out of the window upon tower and roof and wall and the November sky of a southern land. “I hold you true knight, true poet, true man,” she said. “Else never should I give you this charge! Keep that likewise in memory, Sir Garin de Castel-Noir, Sir Garin de l’Isle d’Or!—And now you will go. Tell Sir Aimar de Panemonde that you have been set a task and given an errand full of danger, but that, living, he may see you again by Christmas-tide. Tell no one else anything.” “Going on such an errand and so long,” said Garin, “and one from which there may be no returning, I would kiss your hands, my liege—” She gave her hand to him. He knelt and kissed the slender, long, embrowned fingers. As they rested, that moment, upon his own hand, there came into his mind some association. It came and was gone like distant lightning, and he could not then give it name or habitation. He rose and stepped backward to the door. “God be with you, my Lady Audiart—” “And with you,” the princess answered gravely.