Thibaut Canteleu lifted his cap and stood up. He faced the dais squarely. “My lord the prince and my Lady Audiart, give you thanks! As you deal justly, so may this town deal justly! As you fight for us so may we fight for you! As you give us loving-kindness, so may we give you loving-kindness! As you measure to us, so may we measure to you! May you live long, lord, and be prince of us and of our children! And you, my Lady Audiart, may you stay with us, here in Roche-de-Frêne!” Whereby it might be guessed that Thibaut and Roche-de-Frêne knew well enough of Guiraut of the Vale’s errand. Probably they did. The time was electric, and Montmaure had been seen for some time, looming upon the horizon. Roche-de-Frêne, nor no town striving for liberties, cared for Montmaure. He was of those who would strangle in its cradle the infant named Middle Class. Gaucelm thanked the burghers of Roche-de-Frêne, and the Princess Audiart said, “I thank you, Thibaut Canteleu, and all these with you.” The fifty were marshalled aside. They did not leave the hall; it behooved them to stay and hear the answer to Montmaure. All the gleaming and coloured particles slightly changed place, the bowstring tension grew higher. Here was now Guiraut of the Vale, the accompanying knights behind him, standing to hear what answer he should take to the Count of Montmaure. The answer given him to take was brief, clothed in courtesy, and without a hint in its voice or eye of the possibility of untoward consequences. Roche-de-Frêne thanked Montmaure for the honour meant, but the Princess Audiart was resolved not to wed. Guiraut of the Vale, magnificent in dress and air, heard, and towered a moment in silence, then flung out his hands, took a tone, harsh and imperious. “You give me, Prince of Roche-de-Frêne, an ill answer with which to return to the great count, my master! You set a bale-fire and a threat upon the one road of peace between your land and Montmaure! And for that my master was foretold by a sorceress that so would you answer him, I am here not unprovided with an answer to your answer!” With that he made a stride forward and flung down a glove upon the dais, at Gaucelm’s feet. “Gaucelm the Fortunate, Montmaure will war upon you until he and his son shall sit where now you and your daughter are seated! Montmaure will war upon you until men know you as Gaucelm the Unhappy! Montmaure will war upon you until the Princess Audiart shall kneel for mercy to Count Jaufre—” The hall shouted with anger. The ranks of knights slanted toward the envoy. Gaucelm’s voice at last brought quiet. “The man is a herald and sacred!—My lord Stephen the Marshal, take up the Count of Montmaure’s glove!” So began the war between Roche-de-Frêne and Montmaure. CHAPTER XIII THE VENETIAN