He slept that night, stirred in the early morning, rose, and, dressing, called to Sicart’s son in the courtyard to bring his horse. Old Pierre gave him wheaten bread and a bowl of milk. Foulque, wrapped in his furred mantle, came from the hall and talked with him while he ate and drank. The sun at the hill-tops, he rode down the narrow way from the black tower and was lost to sight in the fir wood. He rode until he reached a certain craggy height of earth from which might be viewed the road by which the Princess of Roche-de-Frêne must approach Our Lady in Egypt. The height was shaggy with tree and bush, it overhung the way, commanding long stretches to either hand. Dismounting, he tied his horse in a small, thick wood at the back of the hill, then climbed afoot to the rough and broken miniature plateau atop. Even as he came to this he saw upon the western stretch of the road two horsemen, and presently made out that they were men of Beauvoisin’s sent ahead. They passed beneath him, cantered on, faces set for Our Lady in Egypt. Garin found a couch of rock, a hollow, sandstrewn cleft where, lying at length, small bushes hid him from all observation. Here he stretched himself, pillowed his head upon his arms, and waited to see the princess pass. Time went by, and the morning air brought him sound from the other hand. He parted the bushes and looking east saw approaching a great and gallant troop—lords and knights of Roche-de-Frêne, coming to greet their princess close within the boundaries of her own land.... They came on with banners—a goodly column and a joyful. Close at hand, he began to single out forms and faces that he knew, and first he saw Stephen the Marshal riding at the head, and then Raimon of Les Arbres, and beside this lord, Aimar de Panemonde. Garin’s heart rejoiced that Aimar lived. He looked fondly upon his brother-in-arms, riding beneath the craggy hill. Many another that he knew he saw. Others he missed, and feared that they did not live or that they lay hurt, for else they would have been here. The great troop, for all it rode with a singing heart, with exultation and laughter and triumph, had a war-worn look. The men and the horses were gaunt. The men’s eyes seemed yet to be looking on battle sights. Their gestures were angular, energetic and final, their speech short, not flowing. The colour of bronze, the hardness of iron, the edge of steel were yet in presence. It was to be seen that they had known hunger and weariness and desperation, and had withstood with courage. The man stretched upon the rock-edge above the passing numbers felt his communion with them. They were his brothers....