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Updated: June 23, 2025
The king has given me this fief, far from my boyhood's home, where I see but few of my old comrades and helpers. I have not seen my brother Garin, the Lorrainer, these seven years, and my heart yearns to behold him. Now, methinks, I will go to him, and I will see his son, the child Girbert, whom I have never seen."
"No not dead" grumbled the corporal. "But there is a lump on his brow the size of an egg, and God knows how long he has been lying here in this bed of mud." They had no restoratives, and the only thing was to convey him to the nearest habitation and demand shelter. They held a short council on the matter, and in the end Garin bade four of them take him up and carry him in a cloak.
That same afternoon we three and Kadir Buksh began to pack for our month's holiday, Vixen rolling in and out of the bullock-trunk twenty times a minute, and Garm grinning all over and thumping on the floor with his tail. Vixen knew the routine of travelling as well as she knew my office-work. She went to the station, singing songs, on the front seat of the carriage, while Garin sat with me.
I had just finished breakfast with my old friend Georges Garin when the servant handed him a letter covered with seals and foreign stamps. Georges said: "Will you excuse me?" "Certainly." And so he began to read the letter, which was written in a large English handwriting, crossed and recrossed in every direction.
Some two miles back they had passed a house, and thither the corporal now bade them retrace their steps. They made an odd procession; first went two mounted troopers leading the horses of the others, then the four on foot, carrying the Deputy in a cloak, and lastly, Garin riding in the rear.
The Bonnie Lassie told me of it, pausing at my bench with a little furrow between her bright eyes. "Dominie, you know Emile Garin pretty well?" "Not at all," I replied, failing to identify the rickety Plooie by his rightful name. "Of course you do! Never a morning but he stops at your bench and asks if you have an umbrella to mend." "I never have. What of him?" "Have you any influence with him?"
He had no affectation, least of all the kind that pretends to be ignorant of one's own popularity; but surely he cared little for popularity. Here again he puts us in mind of a medieval poem. In Gilbert de Metz, one of our oldest epics, the daughter of Anséis is described seated at the window, "fresh, slim, and white as a lily" when two knights, Garin and his cousin Gilbert, happen to ride near.
Some brandy, too, she found and brought him, and the draught did much to restore him. When they had supped, Garin and the troopers withdrew to the outhouse, leaving La Boulaye in sole possession of the cottage hearth.
Garin de Biterres had not found life altogether pleasant, but he had no wish to end it with a rope around his neck. If some peasant had carried a report of his doings to Count Thibaut there was nothing to do but flee the vengeance now on the way, and that instantly. Without waiting even to close the gates the whole troop of mercenaries went galloping away.
The hair rose along his back; he sat down in front of me and delivered the most awful growl I have ever heard in the jaws of a dog. I shouted to my friend to get away at once, and as soon as the carriage was out of the garden Garin laid his head on my knee and whined. So I knew his answer, and devoted myself to getting Stanley's address in the Hills. My turn to go to the cool came late in August.
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