“It is a great pity,” said Ugo guardedly, “that the young princess stands so very far from her stepdame’s loveliness!” “Aye, the court holds it a pity.” “The prince hath an extraordinary affection toward her.” “As great as if she were a son! She hath wit to please him,—though,” said he who acted usher, “she doth not please every one.” They passed a screen of fruit trees and came upon a vision first of formal paths with grass, flowers, and aromatic herbs between, then of a wide raised space, stage or dais, of the smoothest turf that ever was. It had a backing of fruit trees, and behind these of grey wall and parapet, and it was attained by shallow steps of stone. On these, and on low seats and cushions and on banks of turf, sat or half-reclined men and women, for the most part youthful or in the prime of life. Others stood; others, men and women, away from the raised part, strolled through the garden that here was formal and here maintained a studied rusticity. The men wore neither armour nor weapons, save, maybe, a dagger. Men and women were very richly dressed, for even where was perpetual state, this was an occasion. In a greater space than a confined castle garden they would not have seemed so many; as it was there appeared a throng. In reality there might be a hundred souls. The castle was as populous as an ant-heap, but here was only the garland of the castle. The duke who was seeking a mate had with him the very spice-pink of his own court. He and they were of the garden. The festival that was made for him had drawn neighbouring barons and knights, vassals of Gaucelm. There was no time when such a court failed to entertain travellers of note, wandering knights, envoys of sorts, lords going in state to Italy on the one hand, to France or Spain or England on the other. Of such birds of passage several were in the garden. And there were troubadours of more than local fame, poets so great that they travelled with their own servants and jongleurs. When the bishop came with two canons in his train there were churchmen. And, moving or seated, glowed bright dames and damosels. But in the centre sat Alazais, and she seemed, indeed, of Venus’s meinie. She was a fair beauty, with deep-red, perfect lips, and a curve of cheek and throat to make men tremble. Her long brown eyes, set well apart, had a trick of always looking from between half-shut lids. Her limbs spoke the same languor, and yet she had strength, strength, it seemed, of a pard or a great serpent. She was not pard and she was not serpent; she was not evil. She was—Alazais, and they all sang to her. Even though they did not name her name; even though they used other names.