“It was truly felt. But as to the gain for which all was risked!—Jaufre has been to him an evil companion, but a companion. But,” said the Count of Beauvoisin, “even at my proper danger, I will get for her who, by Saint Michael! with courage has come here, the meeting she asks!” * * * * * The castle of Angoulême was not so huge and strong a place as the castle of Roche-de-Frêne, but still was it great and strong enough. The high of rank among its usual population remained within its walls, but the lesser sort were crowded out and flowed into the town, so making room for Duke Richard’s great train. Martialness was the tone where he went, with traceable threads of song, threads of religiousness. Colours had violence, and yet with suddenness and for short whiles might soften to tenderness. There was brazen clangour, rattle as of armour, dominance of trumpets, yet flute notes might come in the interstices, and lute and harp had their recognized times. And all and whatever was in presence showed with him intense and glowing. Idea clothed itself promptly in emotion, emotion ran hotfoot into action, but none of the three were film-like, momentary. Impetuous, they owned a solidity. He could do, he had done, many an evil thing, but there was room for a sense of realms that were not evil. It was afternoon, and the red sun reddened the castle hall. There had been planned some manner of indoor festivity, pageantry. The world of chivalry, men and women, gathered in Angoulême about Richard Lion-Heart, was there to see and be seen. But after the first half-hour Richard rose and went away. His immediate court was used to that, too. His mood had countered the agreed-upon mood for the hour: naught was to do but to watch him depart. Music that was playing played more loudly; a miracle-story in pantomime was urged to more passionate action; as best might be, the chasm was covered. “It is the Duke’s way—applaud the entertainers or the thing will drag!” The duke went away to a great room in another part of the castle. With him he drew two or three of his intimates; in the room itself attended the Count of Beauvoisin and several knights of fame and worthiness. Among these stood that newcomer to Angoulême, the Knight of the Wood. The room was richly furnished, lit by the red light of the sun streaming through three deep windows. A door in the opposite wall gave into a smaller room. Richard, entering, flung himself into the chair set for him in the middle of a great square of cloth worked with gold. His brow was dark; when he spoke, his voice had the ominous, lion note. “My lord of Beauvoisin!” Beauvoisin came near. “Lord, all is arranged—” The duke made a violent movement of impatience, of anger beginning to work. “This is a madness that leads to naught! Does this princess think I am so fickle—?” His blue eye, roving the room, came to the group of knights at the far end. “Yonder knight—is he Garin of the Golden Island?”