One seems to see him in close debate with himself as to what he should do. From the little house at Vacqueiras he used to gaze on the grey towers of Les Baux on the heights and dream of it as a goal beyond which no sane hopes could wander.
Now, from the farthest point of the windy tableland above the Crau he can see, or almost see, more than one famous city where he would be welcome. Aix, the stately little home of learning with its hot springs dear to the Romans, had still to wait for two centuries for its good genius, King René, and suggested few possibilities to the troubadour.
To the south lay Arles and Marseilles. Count Barral of Marseilles would make a merry and an easy-going patron; but there was an obstacle in that direction.... Just a little this side of Arles, in the extreme corner of the Camargue, he catches sight of a faint outline which he knows to be the church of Our Lady of the Marsh, Ste. Maria de la Mar, "Les Saintes Maries," as it is now called throughout Provence, and down on his knees goes the warrior poet and says a prayer to the Blessed Three, begging that they may be favourable to him in the decisive step he is about to take, and that they will direct his choice.
And now he has to wrench himself from the present scenes and to make his many farewells, one among them hard indeed to face.
Yet perhaps it was best he should go. There had been gruesome tragedies at Les Baux——!
The day of departure could not be long delayed; the Prince was relentless.
Just one glimpse of a beautiful, haunting face as Raimbaut rides past the sombre palace where the lady of his heart lives a life which a woman of to-day would deem that of a condemned prisoner.
She stands at the open door among a lively group who have collected to see him pass, as indeed all the people of Les Baux are waiting to bid their beloved champion and singer God-speed.
He uncovers his head, and Alazais acknowledges his salute with the rest. And suddenly Raimbaut's heart gives a leap, for he knows what he did not know before! But the cavalcade goes on down the street, and he rides on to his fate.
Long, pensive shadows of the ruins are stealthily gaining upon the golden light on the grass when we begin to descend to the lower town. The main street, down which Raimbaut de Vacqueiras seems to have passed but a moment ago, is horribly silent, and the city spreads its desolation upwards to the sinister castle—where no blood-red banner is now flying.