When they had eaten, they washed and dried their hands. Serving-men took away the dishes, the boards and trestles. The arbour was left, a cool and pleasant place, with a table whereon was set wine of the country, with the summer stars brightening overhead, and a vagrant wind lifting the vine leaves. They tarried under the arbour, drinking the red wine and talking now of matters nearer at hand than was Venice or Damascus. Around was the hum of the town, of the long, warm evening settling into night. Out from the inn door came voices of the inn people. The hostess was rating some idle man or maid. “May Aquitaine take you—!” The Venetian, it seemed, was on his way to Barcelona, had travelled yesterday from the city of Toulouse. He had left Venice the past winter, and in the interest of that sea-queen and her trade had been in many towns and a guest of many courts. Of late, war, blazing forth, had disarranged his plans, preoccupied his hosts. He was in a most ill humour with this warring. “Fair sirs, I look not that you should believe me, but one day it will be found that war is the name of the general foe! For what, say I, is the mind given to you?” He drank his wine. “Now the Count of Montmaure wars against the Prince of Roche-de-Frêne! In Montmaure trade is broken on the wheel. In Roche-de-Frêne she is burned at the stake.” He tapped the wine-cup with his fingers. “Trade is the true ship—War is the pirate!” Garin spoke. “I have hours in which I should believe that you were right. Love, too, and the finer thought are broken on the wheel! But it is the way of the world, and we are knights who go to war.” “My lord of Montmaure fights,” said the chant, “like a fiend! Or so the Count of Toulouse told me. The country of Roche-de-Frêne is harried and wasted. Now he goes about to besiege the town and the castle.” “We have been home no great while,” said Aimar, “and our castle is in a corner of the land and away from hearing how the wind blows elsewhere.” The Venetian sipped his wine, then set down the cup. “I spent a week, before this war broke forth, in the castle of Roche-de-Frêne. I found the prince a wise man, with for wife the most beauteous lady my eyes have gazed upon!” “Aye!” said Garin. “Alazais the Fair, men called her.” “Just. Alazais the Fair.—While I was in the castle came the Count of Montmaure’s demand for the prince’s daughter for wife to his son. Certes, I think,” said the merchant, “that he knew she would be refused him! Cause of war, or mask-reason for a meant war—now they war.” “We heard something of all this,” said Aimar. Garin spoke again. He was back in mind at Castel-Noir. “That is the Princess Audiart. I remember their saying that she was ugly and unlike others—like a changeling. They were praying for a son to Prince Gaucelm.”