They had not been long at Panemonde when they had news that eastward of Toulouse the Count of Montmaure made bitter war against Roche-de-Frêne, and that Aquitaine greatly helped Montmaure, while King Philip, distracted by quarrels nearer home, sent to the aid of Roche-de-Frêne but a single company of spears. Now, traditionally, Toulouse was friendly to Roche-de-Frêne, but Toulouse was weary of war, and had made pact with Duke Richard. Moreover Toulouse had present trouble with a spreading heresy and Holy Church’s disfavour. Panemonde heard that Montmaure made very grim war. For Sir Garin and Sir Aimar the future pushed its head above the present’s rich repose. When war swung his iron bell knights must hearken—not the old knight, ready now for rest from war, for contemplation of a Heaven where that bell lay broken—but the young men, the inheritors of wrath. Aimar wished to ride to Toulouse, to Count Raymond. Garin of the Golden Island would not show restlessness in the house of his benefactor, but those who were awake saw him pacing at dawn the castle wall, or leaning against the battlement, watching the rose in the east. Once he had assured Sir Eudes and his son that he was of Limousin. But ere he received knighthood he had told plainly his birthplace and home, name, and fealty, and that anger of Montmaure against him. In the land beyond the sea much of the past had drifted toward remoteness, many degrees of experience coming between it and him. But now, early and late, he began to think of Castel-Noir and of Foulque—Foulque who had heard naught of him since that night in which they had parted, beneath the old cypress. The cypress itself rose before him, and the thought of Sicart and Jean. Paladin might be living. Tower and crag and wood, the stream that slipped through the wood—he wished to see them. Not only Castel-Noir—even Raimbaut’s half-ruinous hold—even Raimbaut the Six-fingered himself. Garin half laughed at the thought of the giant. And he wished to follow down that stream again—to see again the boundary stone of Our Lady of Egypt—to find again that little lawn with the cedar, plane, and poplar—to touch again that carved seat, so near the laurels.... He rose from his bed and, while the morning star was still shining, went down the stair and crossing the court mounted the castle wall. Here he rested arms against the stone and gazed at the east where was now a little colour.