The day descended to evening, the evening to night. Darkness had prevailed for a length of time when Ammonet returned to the small, bare room where Garin rested, stretched upon a bench. “Come, jongleur!” said the page. “My lord is ready for bed and would, methinks, be sung to sleep.”
Rising, he followed, and came again to the Count’s chamber, where now was firelight and candle-light, and the Count of Beauvoisin in a furred robe, pacing the room from side to side. “Wait without,” he said to Ammonet, and the two men were alone together. The count paced the floor, Garin stood by the hooded fireplace. He had seen in the afternoon that he and this lord might understand each other.
The count spoke. “No marvel that we liked your singing! What if there had been in hall knight and crusader who had heard you beyond the sea?”
“Chance, risk, and brambles grow in every land.”
“Garin of the Golden Island.—I know not who, in Angoulême, may know that you fight with Roche-de-Frêne. Duke Richard, who knows somewhat of all troubadours, knows it.”
“I do not mean to cry it aloud.—Few in this country know my face, and my name stays hidden.—May we speak, my lord count, of another presence in Angoulême?”
The other ceased his pacing, flung himself down on a seat before the fire, and leaned forward with clasped hands and bent head. He sat thus for an appreciable time, then with a deep breath straightened himself. “When she was the Lady Madeleine the Abbess Madeleine ruled a great realm in my life. God knoweth, in much she is still my helm!... Sit you down and let us talk.”