“She is not a changeling,” answered the Venetian. “She is a very wise lady, though she is not fair as is her step-dame. I saw her sit beside the Prince in council and the people love her. Now, they say, she is as brave as a lion. Pardieu! If I were knight, or knight-errant—” “Are they hard pressed?” Garin spoke, his hands before him on the table. “So ’tis said. Montmaure has gathered a host and Richard of Aquitaine gives to Count Jaufre another as great. At Toulouse there was much talk of the matter.” The Venetian emptied his glass, looked up at the stars, and, the day’s travel having been wearying, thought of his bed. Presently he rose, his people with him, said a courteous good night and quitted the arbour. The two knights waited a little longer, sitting in silence. Then they, too, left the arbour, and, Rainier attending, went to the chamber that had been given. Here sleep came soon. But in the first light of morning Sir Aimar, waking, saw Garin standing, half-clothed, at the window. “Aimar,” said Garin, “you must to Toulouse, for Count Raymond is your suzerain and Sir Eudes hath your promise that you follow no adventure until you have received lord’s leave. But for me that makes too long delay. I will ride on to Roche-de-Frêne.” Sir Aimar sat upon the side of the bed. “I thought last eve that I saw the knight-errant look forth from your eye! Will you rescue this ugly princess?” “Ugly or fair, she is a lady in distress—and Jaufre de Montmaure does her wrong.... Her father is my liege lord. I have had a vision too, of my brother Foulque, hard bestead. I cannot tarry to go about by Toulouse.” Aimar agreed to that. “My father hath my promise.—But I will follow you as soon as I may. Pardieu! If what the Venetian said be true, every knight will be welcome!” “I think that it was true.—Ha!” said Garin to himself, “I see again the autumn wood, and Jaufre de Montmaure who beats to her knees that herd-girl!” The two knights, Garin and Aimar, left the town together, in the brightness of the morning. But a mile or two beyond the walls their ways parted. Their followers were divided between them—each had now two esquires and more than a score of men-at-arms. Each small troop came in line behind its leader. Then the two knights, dismounting, embraced. Each commended the other to the care of the Mother of God. They made a rendezvous; they would meet again, brothers-in-arms, as soon as might be. They remounted—each troop cried farewell to the other—Sir Aimar and those with him turned aside into the way to Toulouse.