The wind blew and hurled the leaves on high. The sun shone, the sky was bright, but the moving air, dry and keen, was as a grindstone upon which tempers were edged. A shrivelled, lame man must feel it. Under the hooded mantel a fire was laid, but not kindled. Foulque could not decide whether the abbot would feel the wind as he felt it, and want to be welcomed with physical as well as other warmth, or whether, riding hard, he would be heated and would frown at the sight of the fire. Foulque would have liked a roaring blaze, out-sounding the wind. But the Abbot of Saint Pamphilius was of a full body, tall and stout, a hunter and a hawker. Foulque determined to have a torch from the kitchen immediately at hand and kindle or not kindle according to the first glimpse of his kinsman’s face.
The window embrasures were deep enough to swallow a family. Foulque, a sensitive, knew without turning his head when Garin, too, stood within the one that overlooked the road where it emerged from the wood. “He should be here at any minute,” said Foulque. “Well? Well?”
“Brother Foulque,” said Garin, “I have determined, an it please you, to bide with Lord Raimbaut and become a knight.”
Foulque let his wrath gather to a head. When it was at the withering point, his gaze having been directed upon Garin for full thirty seconds, he spoke. “Marry and crave pardon! Who is it hath determined?”
“I,” said Garin. “I.”
Foulque moistened his lips. “What has come to you? Raimbaut will let you go. The Abbot of Saint Pamphilius invites—nay, he will himself smooth your way to Holy Church’s high places. I, your elder brother, command—”
“Your entreaty would do more, brother,” said Garin. “But I can no other.”
“‘Can no other!—can no other!’ Does the fool see himself Alexander or Roland or Arthur?” Foulque laughed. “Raimbaut the Six-fingered’s squire!”
Garin was patient. “All the same he can give me knighthood.”
His brother laughed again and struck his hands together. “Knighthood! Knighthood! Oh, your advantage from his buffet on your shoulder! Raimbaut!” He held by the wall and stamped with the foot that was not lamed. “Fight—fight—fight! then eat an ox and drink a cask and go sleep! Ride abroad whenever you hear of a tourney that’s not too difficult to enter. Tilt—tilt—tilt! and if you are not killed or dragged to the barrier, win maybe prizes enough to keep body and soul together until you hear of another joust! Between times, eat, drink, and sleep and have not a thought in your head! Sprawl in the sun by the keep, or yawn in the hall, or perhaps hunt a boar until there’s more fighting! When there is, be dragged from the wall or smothered in the moat or killed in the breach when the castle’s taken! Oh aye! Your lord may take his foe’s castle and you be drunk for a day with victory and smothering and hanging and slaying on your part! Yet forecast the day when you’ll drink the cup you’re giving others! Look at the dice in your hand and know that if you throw six, yet will you throw ace!”