Outside the White Tower he paused a moment and looked about him, his eyes saying farewell to a place that in actuality he might not see again. It was the same with the garden through which he presently passed. Now it was sunshine, but he thought of it in dusk, the eve when he had been there with the princess. Later in the day he found Aimar, and told him as much as he had been told to tell and no more. The two brothers-in-arms spent an hour together, then they embraced and Aimar went to the men of both, defending the city wall. When the sun hung low in the west, Garin sent there also his squire Rainier. The sun sank and he stood at his window watching. Around the corner came a man in brown and yellow like autumn leaves. Slung from his neck by a red ribbon he had a lute, and under his arm a bundle wrapped in cloth. He reached the entrance below, spoke to the porter and vanished within. Garin, turning from the window, answered presently to a knock at the door. “Enter!” There came in, the room being yet lit by the glow from the western sky, the brown and yellow man. He proved to be a slender, swarthy person, with long, narrow eyes and a Moorish look. “I speak,” he asked, “to the right noble knight and famed troubadour Sir Garin of the Black Castle—also called of the Golden Island?” “I am Sir Garin. I know you for the jongleur, Elias of Montaudon.” “That poor same, fair sir!—Moreover I have here that which will make in the castle of Roche-de-Frêne two of me!” He laid the bundle on a bench, and slipping the ribbon from his neck placed there the lute as well. “When I think that from so famous a troubadour I am set to make a poor jongleur, I know not how to take my task! But princesses are to be obeyed, and truly I would do much for this one! And for your comfort, lord,—only for that and never for vain-glory,—I would have you to wit that Elias of Montaudon hath a kind of fame of his own!” As he spoke he untied the bundle. “It is an honour that you should deign to wear me, so to speak, in whatever world you are repairing to—and Saint Orpheus my witness, I know not where that world may be! So, noble sir, here is, at your pleasure, a holiday suit—only a little worn—and a name no more frayed than is reasonably to be expected!” “Gramercy for both,” answered Garin. “How have you fared between the days of Guy of Perpignan and now?” He took the lute from the bench, swept the strings, and sang, though not loudly:— “In the spring all hidden close, Lives many a bud will be a rose! In the spring ’tis crescent morn, But then, ah then, the man is born! In the spring ’tis yea or nay, Then cometh Love makes gold of clay! Love is the rose and truest gold, Love is the day and soldan bold—” He owned a golden voice. The notes throbbed through the room. The last died and he laughed. “That song of Guy of Perpignan!—I heard it first from you.”