“Sir,” said Guiraut of the Vale, “he is poet himself and theme of poets! He is the emerald of knights, the rose of chivalry! That lady counts herself fortunate for whom he rides in tournament. His lance unhorses the best knights, and behind him, in his quarrels, are the many spears of Montmaure—I will be highly bold and say the spears, for number like the trees in the forest, of Duke Richard of Aquitaine!”
Gaucelm smiled. “Duke Richard,” he said, “hath just now, I think, need of his spears before Toulouse.”
Guiraut of the Vale waved his hand. “Count Raymond will come to terms, and the Duke’s spears be released. But all this, sir, is not the matter of my message! Truly, when I think of Count Jaufre I forget myself in praises!”
“Guiraut, Guiraut!” thought the Princess Audiart. “You forget not one word of what you have been taught to say!”
Gaucelm the Fortunate spoke with serenity. “A servant so devoted is as a sack of gold in the count’s treasury!—Now your message, sir envoy, and the matter upon which you were sent?”
Guiraut of the Vale breathed deep, lifted his chest beneath bliaut and robe of costly stuffs, made his shoulders squarer, included now in the scope of his look alike Gaucelm and his daughter.
“Prince of Roche-de-Frêne,” he said, “it is to my point—though the Blessed Virgin is my witness I am not so commissioned!—to cause you and this priceless lady, the princess your daughter, to see Sir Jaufre de Montmaure as the glass of the world shows him, the brightest coal upon the hearth of chivalry! The world hears of the wisdom of the Princess Audiart—well wot I that did she see and greet him, she would value this knight aright! As for him, like his sword to his side, he would wear there this wisdom! Fair prince, my master, the great count, would see Montmaure and Roche-de-Frêne one in wedlock. Count Savaric of Montmaure offers his son, Count Jaufre, for bridegroom to the Princess Audiart!”
The great hall rustled loudly. Only the dais seemed quiet, or only the two figures immediately fronting Sir Guiraut of the Vale. Out of the throng seemed to come a whisper, electric and flowing, “Here is a suitor that would hang Roche-de-Frêne at his belt!” It lifted and deepened, the whispering and muttering. It took the tone of distant thunder.