The great trees stood widely apart, gave way to the grassy space before the Abbey.
The Count of Beauvoisin, his cap in his hand, was granted admittance at the Abbey portal; might, in the abbess’s room, grey nuns attending her, speak with the veiled abbess. But they who were with him waited without, quietly, as the place demanded, in the grassy space. The Knight of the Wood waited.
The minutes passed. When an hour had gone by, Beauvoisin came from the grey building. He mounted his horse, looked steadfastly at the place, then, with the air of a man in a dream, turned toward Angoulême. The knights followed him, riding between huge boles of trees that towered. Robert of Mercœur was again at Garin’s side.
“Do you mark that look of exaltation? One man has one heaven and another, another—or that is the case while they are men. Count Rainier has seen his heaven—felt the waving of its hands over his head!”
In Angoulême, in its widest street, they saw approaching a cavalcade from the castle, a brilliant troop, glittering steel, shimmering fine apparel, pushing with gaiety through the town upon some short journey, half errand of state, half of pleasure. At its head rode one who had the noblest steed, the richest dress. He was a man very fair, long-armed, sinewy, of medium height. There was great vigour of bearing, warmth from within out, an apparent quality that drew, save when from another quarter of the nature came, scudding, wrath and tempest. The mien of command was not lacking, nor, to a given point, of self-command. He drew rein to speak to the Count of Beauvoisin; who with his following had given room, backing their horses into the opening of a narrower street.
“Ha, Beauvoisin, we sent for you but found you not!—Come to supper, man, with me to-night!” His roving blue eye found out Robert of Mercœur. “Do you come with him, Robert—and we will talk of how the world will seem when all are poets!”
“Beausire,” said the count, “at your will! Now I turn beggar and beg for you for guest in my house to-morrow.”
“I will come—I will come!” said Richard.
He nodded to Beauvoisin, put his horse into motion, clattered down the ill-paved street. His train followed, lords and knights speaking to the count as they passed. When all were gone in noise and colour, those who had ridden to the Abbey of the Fountain reëntered the wider street and so came to the house whence they had started. Dismounting in the court where Garin had sung, they went, one to this business or pleasure, one to that. But the count, entering, mounted a great echoing flight of stairs to his chamber, and here, obeying his signal, came also the Knight of the Wood. Beauvoisin dismissed all attendants, and the two were alone.
“I have seen your princess,” said Beauvoisin. “She is a gallant lady, though not fair.”