They debated of ways; Galors seemed in doubt, and
vexed at doubting. One of them pointed the road
to High March.
“No, by the Crucified,” said Galors, “that
is no road for me just yet, who once showed a shaven
crown upon it. I leave High March to the Golden
Knight for the hour. He shall make my way straight,
bless him for a John Baptist. We are for Wanmeeting,
my friends. Wanmeeting, then Goltres.”
Said another—“Sir, if that road lead
to High March, we must go straight forward to fetch
at Wanmeeting.”
So they disputed at large. Isoult made out that
Galors had raised a company of outlaws (no hard job
in Morgraunt at any time, and raised for her ravishment,
if she had known it), and was bound for Goltres, where
there was a castle, and a lord of it named Spiridion.
She could find out little more. Sometimes they
spoke of Hauterive town and a castle there, sometimes
of Wanmeeting and a high bailiff; but Goltres seemed
most in Galors’ mind.
Finally they took the road to Wanmeeting. Isoult
waited till the sound of the horses died in the swishing
of trees, and then sped forward on her feet towards
her lord. She knew she was near by, and would
not risk time or discovery by catching her pony.
By four in the afternoon she had her first view of
the great castle rising stately out of the black pines
and bright green of the spring foliage, warm grey in
the full light of the sun, and solid as the rock it
was of. In another hour she was demanding of
the porter at the outer bailey Messire Prosper le
Gai, in the name of his servant Roy.
ROY
That clear and mild evening, fluted as April by a
thrush in the lilacs, Prosper and the Countess walked
together on the terrace. A guard or two, pike
in hand, lounged by the balustrade; the deer-hound,
with his muzzle between his paws, twitched his ears
or woke to snap at a fly: it seemed as if the
earth, sure of the sun at last, left her conning tower
with a happy sigh. It turned the Countess to a
tender mood, where she suffered herself to be played
upon by the season— L’ora del
tempo e la dolce stagione. The spring whimpered
in her blood. Prosper felt her sighing as she
leaned on his arm, and made stress to amuse her, for
sighs always seemed to him unhealthy. He set
himself to be humorous, sang, chattered, told anecdotes,
and succeeded in infecting himself first and the lady
afterwards. She laughed in spite of herself,
then with a good will. They both laughed together,
so that the guards nudged each other. One prophesied
a match of it.
“And no bad thing for High March if it were
so,” said the other, “and we with a man
at the top. I never knew a greater-hearted lord.
He is voiced like a peal of bells in a frolic.”
“He’s a trumpet in a charge home.”
“He’s first in.”
“Fights like a demon.”
“Snuffs blood before ’tis out of the skin.”
