“Hungry!” cried the abbot. “I am as hungry as Tantalus in hell! I remember when once I came here, a boy, good fishing—”
The fish were good, Pierre’s sauce was good. All received commendation. The abbot was portly and tall, with a massy head, with a countenance so genial, a voice so bland, an eye so approving, that all appeared nature and no art. His lips seemed made for golden syllables, he had an unctuous and a mellow tongue. It was much to hear him speak Latin and much to hear him discourse in the vernacular. The langue d’oc came richly from his mouth. He was a mighty abbot, a gracious power, timber from which were made papal legates.
Foulque sat with him at the raised end of the table, the monks of his company being ranged a foot lower. But Garin, as was squire-like, waited upon the great guest and his brother. The abbot, the keen edge of hunger abated, showed himself gracious and golden, friendly, almost familiar. He spoke of the past, and of the father of his hosts. He asked questions that showed that he knew Castel-Noir, dark wood and craggy hills, mountains to the north, stream to the south. It even seemed that he remembered old foresters and bowmen. He knew the neighbouring fiefs, the disputed ground, the Convent of Our Lady in Egypt. He was warm and pleasant with his kinsmen; he said that he had loved their father and that their mother had been a fair, wise lady. He remarked that poverty was a sore that might be salved; and when he had drunk a great cup of spiced wine,—having, for his health’s sake, a perpetual dispensation in that wise,—he said that he was of mind that a man should serve and be served by his own blood. “Kin may prove faithless, but unkin beats them to the post!”
Dinner was eaten, wine drunken, hands washed. The abbot and Foulque rose, the monks of Saint Pamphilius rose, the table was cleared, the boards and trestles taken from the hall.
Abbot Arnaut, standing by the fire, looked at the great bed. “By the rood!” he said, “to face mistral clean from Roche-de-Frêne to this rock is a wearisome thing! I will repose myself, kinsman, for one hour.”
All withdrew save the lay brother whom he retained for chamberlain. Foulque offered Garin’s service, who stood with ready hands. But the abbot was used to Brother Anselm, said as much, and with a sleepy and mellow voice dismissed the two brothers. “Return in an hour when I shall be refreshed. Then will we talk of that of which I wrote.”
The two left the hall. Without, Foulque must discover from Jean and Sicart if all went well and the abbot’s train was in good humour. “I’ve known a discontented horse-boy make a prince as discontented!” But they who followed the abbot were laughing in the small, bare court, and the bare ward room. Even mistral did not seem to trouble them.
South of the tower, in the angle between it and the wall, lay the tiniest of grass-plots, upbearing one tall cypress. Foulque, his mantle close around him, beckoned hither Garin. Here was a stone seat in the sun, and the black tower between one and that wind from the mountains. Foulque sat and argued, Garin stood with his back against the cypress. The hour dropped away, and Foulque saw nothing gained. He shook with wrath and concern for slipping fortunes. “Since yesterday! This has happened since yesterday! You took your rod and went down to the river to fish. What siren sang to you from what pool?”
Garin lifted his head. “No siren. Something wakened within me, and now I will be neither monk nor priest. I am sorry to grieve you, Foulque.”
But Foulque nursed his wrath. “The hour has passed,” he said. “So we go back to the abbot and spurn a rich offer!” He rose and with a bleak face left the grass-plot.