She rested her brow upon her hands. The sun touched the mountains, jagged and sharp, shaped long ago by central fires. The castle and town of Roche-de-Frêne were bathed in a golden light. The princess uncovered her eyes. “Well! we travel as we may, or as the inner will doth will.—How long do you think that this castle will go untaken by Montmaure?”
“I think that it will go forever untaken by Montmaure.”
“He is strong—he has old strength.... But I came to the garden and the watch-tower not to think of that and of how the battle goes.... Look at the violet stealing up from the plain.”
“In the morning comes the sun once more! I believe in light.”
“Yea! so do I.” She looked from the cloud-shapes of the western sky to the clear fields of the east and the deeps overhead. Her gaze stayed there a moment, then dropped, a slow sailing bird, to the garden trees below the tower, the late flowers, and the sunburned turf. “The autumn air.... I like that—have always liked it.... In the hurly-burly of this siege, you think yet of the Fair Goal?”
“Yes, lady.”
“Listen to the convent-bells! That is the Convent of Saint Blandina.... Pierol, down there, has a lute. I am tired. I would rest for an hour and forget blood and crying voices. I would think of fairer things. I would forget Montmaure. Let us go down under the trees, and I will listen to your singing of your Fair Goal.”
They descended the tower-stair and came into the garden. Here was a tall cypress and a seat beneath it for the princess, and a lower one for the singer. Pierol gave the lute, then with the dark-eyed girl drew back into the shade of myrtles. Garin touched the strings, but when he sang it was of love itself.
The Princess Audiart listened, wrapped in her mantle. When the song was ended, “That is of love itself, and beautiful it was!—Now sing of your own love.”