It was early in March when that young man started, squally, dusty weather; but perfect trobador as he was, the nature of his errand warmed him; he composed a whole nosegay of scented songs in honour of Richard and the crocus-haired lady of the March who wore the broad girdle.
Riding as he did through the realm of France, by Chateaudun, Chartres, and Pontoise, he narrowly missed Eustace of Saint-Pol, who was galloping the opposite way upon an errand dead opposed to his own.

Gaston would have fought him, of course, but would have been killed to a certainty; for Saint-Pol rode as became his lordship, with a company, and the other was alone.

He was spared any such mischance, however, and arrived in the highest spirits, with an _alba_ (song of the dawn) for what he supposed to be Jehane's window.

It shows what an eye he had for a lady's chamber that he was very nearly right.

A lady did put her head out; not Jehane, but a rock-faced matron of vast proportions with grey hair plastered to her cheeks.
'Behold, behold the dawn, my tender heart!' breathed Gaston.
'Out, you cockerel,' said the old lady, and Gaston wooed her in vain.