[CHAPTER V]
RAIMBAUT THE SIX-FINGERED
A lord might of course visit one who held from him, often did so. But it was not Raimbaut’s use to ride to Castel-Noir. And Garin, parting from him less than a week ago, had heard no word of his coming.
But here he was, pushing Sicart aside, striding into the hall, a low-browed, thick-skulled giant, savage with his foes, dull and grudging with his friends—Raimbaut the Six-fingered! Foulque hastened to do him reverence, make him welcome; Garin, stepping to his side, took from him his wide, rust-hued mantle and furred cap.
“Well met, my Lord Raimbaut!” said the abbot in his golden tones.
Raimbaut gloomed upon him. “Ha, Lord Abbot! Are you here for this springald, my esquire? Well, I have said that you might have him.”
“Nay,” said the abbot mellowly, “I think that I want him not.”
“—have him,” pursued Raimbaut. “And likewise his quarrel with Savaric of Montmaure.”
He spoke with a deep, growling voice, as of an angered mastiff, and as he spoke turned like one upon Garin. “Why, by every fiend in hell, did you fight a Tuesday, with his son?”