The Princess of Roche-de-Frêne awaited in Angoulême the earliest fruit of this faring. She waited at first at the Abbey of the Fountain, but presently in the town as Duke Richard’s guest. A great house was given her, with all comfort and service. Ladies came to wait upon her; she had seneschal, chamberlain and page. If she would go abroad she had palfreys with their grooms; in her hall waited knights to attend her. Angoulême and its castle and the court about Duke Richard buzzed of her presence in this place, of what adventure had been hers to reach it, and of the attitude now of Richard Lion-Heart. They did not know detail of her adventure, but they knew that it had taken courage. They knew that Richard had in him power to turn squarely. They did not know all the whys and wherefores, depths and reasons of the right angle that made in Angoulême a whirling cloud of speculation, but as a fact they accepted it and proceeded with their own adaptation. The party that, for reasons personal to itself, had backed Montmaure, wagering in effect upon the permanency of his influence with Richard, took its discomforture as enforced surgery and found it wisdom’s part to profess healing. The party that had been hostile to Montmaure found a clearing day and walked with satisfaction in the sun. Those—not many—who had stood between the two, found usual cautious pleasure in changing scenery and event. The most in Angoulême could give nine days to wonder. The Princess Audiart stayed with them no greatly longer time. Duke Richard came to her house in state. In state she returned the visit, was met by him at the castle gate. He would give a joust in her honour, and afterward a contest of troubadours. She sat beside him on the dais, and watched all with a gentle face, a still and inscrutable look. Beauvoisin was of those who tourneyed, and among the knights whom he brought into the lists rode Garin of the Black Castle, who did most well and was given great observance. The next day, when there was song, Richard called for Garin of the Golden Island, naming him famed knight, famed poet, famed bird of song, bird that sang from itself. Garin came before the dais, took from a jongleur his lute. “Sir Garin of the Golden Island,” said Richard, “sing _Within its heart the nightingale_—” He sang—a golden song sung greatly. “Ah!” sighed Richard Lion-Heart, and bade him sing _When in my dreams thou risest like a star_. “Ah God!” said Richard. “Some are kings one way, and some another! Sing now and lastly to-day, _Fair Goal_.” Garin sang. All Angoulême that might gather in the great hall, in the galleries, in the court and passages without, listened with parted lips. Richard listened, and in some sort he may have felt what the singer felt of goals beyond goals, of glories beyond the loveliness and glories of symbols, of immortal union behind, beneath, above the sweetness of an earthly fact.