“Sicart!” called Garin, “remember eight years, come Martinmas, and the serf’s dress you found me! Put the bridge down and let me in!”
Foulque met him in the gateway.
“Brother Foulque—”
“Garin, Garin—”
Fir wood, crag, and black castle travelled from the sun, faced the unlighted deeps. But an inner sun shone and warmed. The squires, the troop, had welcome and welcome again. Nothing there was that Sicart and Jean and Pol and Arnaut and all the others would not do for them! Comforts and treasures were scant, but the whole was theirs. The saints seemed benignant, so smoothly and fragrantly did matters go! Pierre found savoury food for all. And there was forage for the horses. And the courtyard on a summer night, with straw spread down, was good sleeping. But before there was sleeping, came tale-telling—a great ring gathered, with the round moon looking down, and Castel-Noir men and boys and women and girls from the huts below, listening—listening—gaping and exultant! Sir Garin of the Golden Island—and how he had taken the cross—and what he had done in the land over the sea, and the tale-tellers with him!
Fairyland had somehow come to Castel-Noir—a warm Paradise of pride in the native-born, relish for brave deeds, forward felt glow from perhaps vastly better days! Through all ran a filtering of Eastern wonder. There was, too, simple veneration for the slayers of paynims, for beings who had travelled in the especial country of God! The pride in Garin was strong. They had thought him dead, though some had insisted that, maybe, one day he would come back, a knight. These now basked in their own wisdom. But even they had not dreamed the whole fairy tale out! Sir Garin of the Golden Island—and how he got that name—and how he fought and how he sang and how lords and kings were fain of his company—and his brother-in-arms, Sir Aimar—and the three emirs’ ransoms! The people of Castel-Noir forgot Montmaure and danger, and were blissful that night beneath the round and golden moon.
Garin and Foulque bided within the hall, talked there, Garin pacing up and down while Foulque the Cripple gloated on him from his chair. They had torchlight, but the moonlight, too, streamed in. Garin charted for his brother the unknown sea of the years he had been away. Foulque followed him to Panemonde, to the port, to Syria—and then all the events and fortune there!
“Ha, ha!” laughed Foulque. “Ha ha! ha ha! Who knows anything in this world? Oh, dire misfortune that it seemed to have fought with Jaufre de Montmaure! And here he has given you knighthood and fame and ransom-wealth! Ha, ha, ha! Let me laugh! Yesterday I was weeping.”
“If you push things in that direction,” said Garin, “before it was Jaufre it was that herd-girl with the torn dress and streaming hair! There is a path from all things to all things else.”