The street ran steeply upward, closing where, in the autumn day, there spread and towered the castle. Ugo, approaching moat and drawbridge, put with a customary action his hand over his lips and so regarded outer and inner walls, the southward-facing barbican and the towers that flanked it,—Lion Tower and Red Tower. Men-at-arms in number lounged within the gate, straightening when the warder cried the bishop’s train. Ugo took his hand from his lips and crossed the hollow-sounding bridge. He rode beneath the portcullis and through the deep, reverberating, vaulted passage opening on either hand into Lion Tower and Red Tower, and so came to the court of dismounting, where esquires and pages started into activity. From here he was marshalled, the secretary and a couple of canons behind him, to the Court of Honour, where met him other silken pages. They bowed before him. “Lord Bishop, our great ones are gathered in the garden, harkening to troubadours.” One of higher authority came and took the word from them. “My lord, I will lead you to where these rossignols are singing! They sing in honour of ladies, and of the court’s guest, the duke from Italy who would marry our princess!” They moved through a noble, great hall, bare of all folk but doorkeepers. “Will the match be made?” asked Ugo. “We do not know,” answered his conductor. “Our Lady Alazais favours it. But we do not know the mind of Prince Gaucelm.” Ugo walked in silence. His own mind was granting with anger the truth of that. Presently he spoke in a measured voice. “If it be made, it will be a fair alliance. Undoubtedly a good marriage! For say that to our sorrow Prince Gaucelm hath never a son of his own, then it may come that his daughter’s son rule that duchy and this land.” “Dame Alazais,” said the other in a tone of discreetness, “hath been six years a wife. The last pilgrimage brought naught, but the next may serve.” “Pray Our Lady it may!” answered Ugo with lip-devoutness, “and so Gaucelm the Fortunate become more fortunate yet.—The Princess Audiart hath been from home.” “Aye, at Our Lady in Egypt’s. But she is returned, the prince having sent for her. Hark! Raimon de Saint-Rémy is singing.” There was to be heard, indeed, a fine, manly voice coming from where, through an arched exit, they now had a glimpse of foliage and sky. It sang loudly and boldly, a chanson of the best, a pæan to woman’s lips and throat and breast, a proud, determined declaration of slavery, a long, melodious cry for mistress mercy. The bishop stood still to listen. “Ha!” he said, “many a song like that does my Lady Alazais hear!” “Just,” answered his companion. “When they look on her they begin to sing.” Moving forward they stood within the door that gave upon the garden. It lay before them, a velvet sward enclosed by walls, with a high watch-tower pricked against the eastern heavens.