“Or late or soon they would have lost.—Does it in truth anger us that Thibaut Canteleu and the others should wish to choose their magistrates?” “No. Montmaure angers me, but not Thibaut.” “Then let us act toward the town from our own thought and mind, and not from that of our fathers.” She paced the floor. “I sorrow for Bishop Ugo’s disappointment. It will be a sword thrust if we and the town embrace!” “Aye. Ugo desires that quarrel for us.... Well, then we say to Thibaut Canteleu, ‘Burgher, grow your own man!’” “I counsel it,” said Audiart. “It is right.” “And wise?” She turned from the window. “Pardieu! If war is upon us Montmaure’s self might say that it were wise!” The prince pondered it. “Yes—Put, then, Thibaut Canteleu and the town to one side. Now Montmaure—Montmaure—Montmaure!” The princess came to the settle and sat down, leaning her elbow upon a small table drawn before it. Upon the table lay writing materials, together with a number of small counters and figures of wood. There was also a drawing, a rude map as it were, of the territory of Roche-de-Frêne, bordered by the names of contiguous great fiefs. She drew this between them, and the two, father and daughter, studied it as they talked. With her left hand she moved the little pieces of wood to and fro. Upon each was painted a name—names of castles, towns, villages, abbeys that held from Gaucelm. One piece had the name of that fief for which Montmaure had been wont to give homage. Gaucelm looked at the long space upon the drawing marked “Aquitaine.” “Guiraut of the Vale is a braggart. I know not if he bragged beyond reason of Richard’s great help.” “It is like enough that he did. But Richard Lion-Heart has often backed another’s quarrel. Pity he looks not to see if it be stained or clean!” “Toulouse still holds him.... Stephen the Marshal must go quickly to King Philip at Paris.” “Yes. Before Guiraut of the Vale’s week is gone by—or right upon that departure? Right upon it, I think.” “Yes. No need to show Guiraut what you expect.” He touched the wooden pieces with his finger, running over the names of his barons. “Letters must be written and heralds sent. Madonna Alazais and Guida. Raimon Seneschal and Aimeric the Gay, had best plan shining and dazzling entertainment for Guiraut and his following.... I know well that the ‘great count’ is making his muster.” “He makes no secret of it.... _But one road to peace for Roche-de-Frêne._” “That is not a road,” said Prince Gaucelm, “or it is a road of dishonour. Savaric of Montmaure and his son have in them a demon. Waste no words upon a way that we are not going!”