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diff --git a/old/62669-0.txt b/old/62669-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7e2746c..0000000 --- a/old/62669-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8938 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Castle of Twilight, by Margaret Horton Potter - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: The Castle of Twilight - -Author: Margaret Horton Potter - -Illustrator: Ch. Weber - Mabel Harlow - -Release Date: July 17, 2020 [EBook #62669] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing, Mary Glenn Krause, Charlene -Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images -generously made available by The Internet Archive/American -Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - The Castle of Twilight - - -[Illustration: Lenore] - -[Illustration] - - - - - THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT - - - _By_ MARGARET HORTON POTTER - - _With six Illustrations by Ch. Weber_ - -[Illustration] - - CHICAGO - A. C. McCLURG & CO - _1903_ - - - - - COPYRIGHT - A. C. MCCLURG & CO. - 1903 - - Published September 26, 1903 - - - DESIGNED, ARRANGED, AND PRINTED - BY THE UNIVERSITY PRESS - - - - - TO - - G. M. McB. - - WHOSE MUSIC SUGGESTED THE STORY - - _This little volume is faithfully - inscribed_ - -[Illustration: - - Nocturne—Grieg: Opus 54, No. 4. -] - - - - -[Illustration] - - TABLE · OF CONTENTS - - - PAGE - FOREWORD vii - - CHAPTER - - I. THE DESOLATION OF AGE 1 - - II. THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 29 - - III. FLAMMECŒUR 62 - - IV. THE PASSION 94 - - V. SHADOWS 121 - - VI. A LOVE-STRAIN 154 - - VII. THE LOST LENORE 177 - - VIII. TO A TRUMPET-CALL 209 - - IX. THE STORM 235 - - X. FROM RENNES 260 - - XI. THE WANDERER 286 - - XII. LAURE 316 - - XIII. LENORE 347 - - XIV. ELEANORE 378 - - XV. THE RISING TIDE 401 - - XVI. THE MIDDLE OF THE VALLEY 423 - -[Illustration] - - - - - LIST · OF ILLUSTRATIONS - - - Lenore _Frontispiece_ - - _Page_ - The whole Castle had assembled to say God-speed to their - departing lord 90 - - Only one among them seemed not of their mood 180 - - “Gerault—Gerault—my lord!” she whispered 276 - - Mother and child were happy to sit all day in the - flower-strewn meadow 336 - - Hand in hand, by the murmurous sea, they walked 416 - - * * * * * - - _The decorations for title-page, end-papers, and chapter initials are by - Miss Mabel Harlow_ - - - - - _FOREWORD_ - - -_Wistfully I deliver up to you my simple story, knowing that the first -suggestion of “historical novel” will bring before you an image of -dreary woodenness and unceasing carnage. Yet if you will have the -graciousness but to unlock my castle door you will find within only two -or three quiet folk who will distress you with no battles nor strange -oaths. Even in the days of rival Princes and never-ending wars there -dwelt still a few who took no part in the moil of life, but lived with -gentle pleasures and unvoiced sorrows, somewhat as you and I; wherefore, -I pray you, cross the moat. The drawbridge is down for you, and will not -be raised, if, after introduction to the Chatelaine, you desire speedily -to retreat._ - - _M. H. P._ - -[Illustration] - - - - - _The_ CASTLE _of_ TWILIGHT - - - - -[Illustration] - - _CHAPTER ONE_ - THE DESOLATION OF AGE - -[Illustration] - - -It was mid-April: a sunny afternoon. A flood of golden light, borne on -gusts of sweet, chilly air, poured through the open windows of the -Castle into a high-vaulted, massively furnished bedroom, hung with -tapestries, and strewn with dry rushes. A heavy silence that was less a -thing of the moment than a part of the general atmosphere hovered about -the room; and it was not lessened by the unceasing murmur of ocean waves -breaking upon the face of the cliff on which the Castle stood. This -sound held in it a note of unutterable melancholy. Indeed, despite the -sunlight, the sparkle of the waves, and the fragrance of the fresh -spring air, this whole building, the culminating point of a long slope -of landscape, seemed wrapped in an atmosphere of loneliness, of sadness, -of lifelessness, that found full expression in the attitude of the -black-robed woman who knelt alone in the high-vaulted bedroom. - -Eleanore was kneeling at her priedieu. Madame Eleanore knelt at her -priedieu, and did not pray. Nay, the great grief, the unvoiced -bitterness in her heart, killed prayer. For, henceforth, there was one -near and unbearably dear to her who must be praying for evermore. And it -was this thought and the vista of her future lonely years that denied -her, even as she knelt, the consolation of religion. - -To the still solitude of her bedchamber, and always to the foot of her -crucifix, the chatelaine of Le Crépuscule was accustomed to bring her -griefs; and there had been many griefs and some very bitter ones in the -thirty-four years that she had reigned as mistress over the Castle. But -this last was one that, trained though she was in the ways of sorrow, -defied all comfort, denied the right of consolation, and forbade even -the relief of an appeal to the All-merciful. Laure, her daughter, the -star of her solitude, the youth and the joy of her life, the object of -all the blind devotion of which her mother-soul was capable, had this -morning entered upon her novitiate at the convent of the Virgins of the -Magdalen. Although Madame Eleanore’s family was celebrated for its -piety, though many a generation of Lavals and Crépuscules had rendered a -daughter to the eternal worship of God, there were still no records left -in either family of a great mother-grief when the daughter left her -home. But madame, Laval as she was, Crépuscule as she had learned to be, -could not find it in her heart to praise God for the loss of her child. - -Once again, after many years, years that she could look back upon now as -filled with broad content, she was alone. Not since, many, many years -ago, she had come to the Castle as a girl-bride, wife of a military -lord, had such utter desolation held her in its bonds,—such desolation -as, after the coming of her two children, she had thought never to feel -again. In the days after the Seigneur’s first early departure for -Rennes, without her, she had felt as now. It came back very vividly to -her memory, how he had ridden away for the capital, the city of war, of -arms, of glittering shield and piercing lance, of tourney and laughter -and song; how she had longed in silence to ride thither at his side; how -she had wept when he was really gone; how she had watched bitterly, day -after day, for his return up the steep road that came out of the forest -on the edge of the sand-downs below. Clearly indeed did her youth return -to Eleanore as she knelt here, in the barred sunlight, alone with her -unheeding crucifix. And intertwined with this memory was the new sense -of blinding sorrow, the loss of Laure. - -The reality, as it came to her, seemed even now vague and impossible. -Laure, her girl, her strong, wild, adventurous, high-hearted, fearless -girl, to become a nun! Laure, of whom, in her own way, Eleanore had been -accustomed to think as she thought of the great white gulls that veered, -through sunlight and storm, on straight-stretched pinions, along the -rocky coast, as a creature of light, of air, above all of perfect, -indestructible freedom! This, her Laure, to become a nun! Spite of what -the Bishop of St. Nazaire had so earnestly told her, how, in all strong -natures, there are strong antitheses and quiet, governing depths that no -outer turbulence can disclose, Eleanore rebelled at the disposal that -had been made of this nature. She knew herself too well to believe that -her daughter could renounce all the joys of youth and of life without a -single after-pang. - -After this early mother-thought for the child’s state, Eleanore’s -self-grief returned again with redoubled force; and her brain conjured -up a vision of the future,—that great, shadowy future, that wrapped her -heart around in a cold and deadening despair. - -The April wind blew higher through the room, catching the tapestry -curtains of the immense bed and waving them about like blue banners. The -bars of sunlight mellowed and broadened over the shrunken rushes and the -smooth stones of the floor. The surf boomed louder as the tide advanced. -And Eleanore, still upon her knees, rocked her body in her helpless -rebellion, and found it in her heart to question the righteous wisdom of -her God. She did not, however, come quite to this; for which, -afterwards, she found it expedient to give thanks to the same deity. Her -solitude was unexpectedly broken. There came a knock upon the door, -which immediately afterwards opened, and Gerault, her son, entered the -room. - -This fourth Seigneur of Le Crépuscule, a dark-browed, lean, and rather -handsome fellow, clad in half armor and carrying on his wrist a falcon, -jessed and belled, was the first of Eleanore’s two children. She -reverenced him as his father’s successor; she held affection for him -because she had borne him; and she respected him and his wishes because -he was a man that commanded respect. But perhaps it was this very -respect, which had in it something of distance, that killed in her the -overwhelming love which she had always felt for his sister Laure, her -youngest and beloved. - -Gerault, seeing his mother’s attitude, stopped short in the doorway. -“Madame, I crave pardon! I had not known you were at prayer,” he said. - -Eleanore rose from her knees a little hastily. “Nay, Gerault, I was not -at prayer. ’Tis an old custom of mine to meditate in that place. Enter -thou and sit with me for a little.” - -Gerault bowed silently and accepted her invitation by seating himself -near one of the windows on a wooden settle. His silence seemed to demand -speech from his mother. But Eleanore, once on her feet, had begun slowly -to pace the floor of her room, at the same time losing herself again in -her own thoughts. - -Without speaking and without any discomfort at the continued silence, -Gerault watched his mother—contemplated her, rather—as she walked. Often -he had felt a pride—a pride that suggested patronage—in that walk of -madame’s. Never, in any woman, had he seen such a carriage, such -conscious poise, such dignity, such command. In his heart her son, -somewhat given to irreverent observation and analysis of those about -him, had named her the “Quiet-Browed,” and the very fact that he could -have seen somewhat below the surface and yet named her thus, was -evidence enough of her powers of self-control. It was he who finally -broke the silence between them. - -“Well, madame, the change in our house hath taken place. Laure’s new -life is safely begun; and she hath given what she could to the honor of -our race. Now that it is done, I return to Rennes, to the side of my -Lord Duke.” - -Eleanore made no pause in her walk, nor did she betray by the slightest -gesture her feeling at the announcement. Too many times before had she -experienced this same sensation. After a few seconds she asked quietly: -“When do you go?” - -In spite of her self-control, her voice had been a strain off the key, -and now Gerault looked at her keenly, asking: “There is a reason why I -should not ride to Rennes? I have not thy permission to go?” - -Eleanore paused in her walk to turn and look at him. There was just a -suggestion of scorn in her attitude. “Reason! Permission! Was ever a -reason why a Crépuscule might not fare forth to Rennes, or one that -asked permission of a woman ere he went?” - -Again Gerault looked at her, this time in that dignified disapproval -that man uses to cover an unlooked-for mortification. And the Seigneur -was decidedly lofty as he said: “I have given thee pain, madame, though -of how, or wherefore, I am wofully ignorant.” - -“Pain, Gerault? Pain?” Eleanore repressed herself again and immediately -resumed her walk. In a few seconds the calm, quiet dignity returned, her -mask was replaced, every vestige of her feeling hidden, and she had -become once more the châtelaine of unvoiced loneliness. Then she went on -speaking: “Pain, Gerault? Surely not. Know I not enough of Rennes that I -should not be well content to have thee in that lordly place, with thy -rightful companions, men of thy blood? Shall I not send thee gayly forth -again to that trysting-place of knightly arms?” - -“And yet, madame, I did but now surprise in thy face a look of sorrow, -of some unhappiness, that is new to it.” - -“Well, even so?” - -“Ah, yes! It is Laure’s departure. Yet that must not be too much -mourned. Laure’s wild ways had come to be a source of uneasiness to both -of us at times. ’Tis true that there is lost an alliance that might have -brought much honor to Le Crépuscule. By the favor of my Lord Duke, Laure -might have wed with Grantmesnil, Senlis, Angers itself, perhaps; and -there was ever Laval.—Yet—” - -He paused musingly, not seeing the look that had come back into the face -of madame. Only when she stopped again and turned to him did he utter a -soft exclamation, half surprise and half helpless apology. But Eleanore, -smiling at him sadly, began, in that voice that had long been tuned to -the stillness of the Castle: “If I could but make thee understand, -Gerault! If I could make thee look upon my hours of loneliness here—and -see—Gerault, it is not a matter of alliance, or of honor, or of -dishonor, with Laure. It is that she was my child, my daughter, my -companion—how adored!—here, in this—this great Castle of Twilight. -Neither thou nor any man can know what our lives are.—But think, -Gerault—think of me and of the Castle after thou art gone. What is there -for me here? The tasks that I invent to fill the hours are useless to -deaden thought. They are not changed from the occupations of thirty -years ago. Nor, methinks, have women known aught else than spinning, -weaving, sewing, spinning again, since the days of the earliest -kings,—the Kings of Jerusalem.—And day after day through the long years -I dwell here in this barren spot—dependent on others for what happiness -I am to get in my life. And now—now the Church, in which always my hope -of another, better life hath lain, taketh my child from me. Let then the -Church give me something in place of her! Let the Church pay back -something of its debt. And thou also, my son,—give me some help to live -through the unending days of thy absence in Rennes.” - -“I, madame!—the Church!—What art thou saying?” - -“Hast thou not heard me?” - -“I have heard. But what shall I do, my mother?” - -“Listen, Gerault. The Church hath taken a daughter from me. Thou, by the -aid of the Church, canst give me another. Gerault, thou must marry. -Marry, my son. Bring thy wife home to me!” - -Gerault sprang to his feet with an expression on his face that his -mother had never before called there. For a moment he looked at her, his -eyes saying what his lips would not. Then, gradually, the fire in his -face died down, and he reseated himself slowly on the settle, while the -bird on his wrist, a wild _hagard_, fluttered its wings, and dug its -talons painfully into the knight’s flesh. - -“Marry!” said Gerault, at length, in a voice that sounded strange to his -own ears. “Marry! Hast thou forgotten?” - -“Nay, I have not forgotten; nor has anyone in the Castle. But thou, -Gerault, must forget. It is now five years since, and thou art more than -come to man’s estate. Even then thou wast not young.—Nay, Gerault, I do -not forget that cruel thing. Yet we must all go.—And ere I die I must -see thee wed. ’Tis not only for myself, child. It is for the house, and -the line of Crépuscule. Shall it be lost in four generations?” - -Frowning, Gerault rose. “Well, madame, not as yet have I seen in -Brittany the maid that I would wed, barring always—” He shook himself to -dissipate the memory that was on him. “To-morrow I and Courtoise ride -forth to Rennes. Let me now leave thee once more to thy meditations.” - -Gerault went to the door, opened it, turned to look once at his mother, -whose face he could not see, and then, with an audible sigh, went -quietly away. Each was ignorant of the other’s feelings. As Eleanore -moved over toward the open windows that looked off upon the sea, her -eyes, tear-blinded, saw nothing of the broad plain of blue and sparkling -gold that stretched infinitely away before her. Nor did she dream of the -spirit of reawakened bitterness and desolation that her words had -conjured up in Gerault’s heart. But the Seigneur’s calm and unruffled -expression concealed a very storm of reawakened misery as he descended -the great stone staircase of the Castle, passed through the empty lower -hall, and so out into the courtyard. - -This courtyard was always the liveliest spot about the chateau. Le -Crépuscule itself was very large, and its adjacent buildings were on a -corresponding scale. Like all the feudal fortress-castles of its time, -it was almost a little city in itself. It dated from the year 1203, and -had been built by the first lord of the name, Bernard, a left-handed -scion of Coucy, who had been called Crépuscule from his colors, two -contrasting shades of gray. Since his time, each of its lords had added -to its strength or its convenience, till now, in the year 1380, it was -the strongest chateau on the South Breton coast. One side was built on -the very edge of an immense cliff against which the Atlantic surf had -beaten unceasingly through the ages. The other three sides were well -protected, first by a heavy wall that surrounded the whole courtyard -with its various buildings, beyond which came a broad strip of garden -land and pasturage, bounded on the far side by the second, or lower -wall, and a dry moat. The keep was of a size proportionate to the -Castle; and the number of men-at-arms that were kept in it taxed the -coffers of the rather meagre estate to the utmost for food and pay. - -When Gerault entered the courtyard a girl stood drawing water from the -round, stone well. Two or three henchmen lolled in the doorway of the -keep, chaffing a peasant who had come up the hill from one of the manor -farms carrying eggs in a big basket. Just outside the stables, which -occupied the whole east side of the courtyard, a boy stood rubbing down -a sleek, white palfrey. All of these people respectfully saluted their -lord, who returned them rather a curt recognition as he passed round the -west tower on his way to a little narrow building just in front of the -north gate, in which his falcons were housed through the winter. Gerault -had a great passion for hawking, and his birds were always objects of -solicitude with him. He and Courtoise, his squire, were accustomed to -spend much time together in this little building, and in the open-air -falconry on the terrace outside the north gate, where young birds or -newly captured ones were trained. - -Just now Gerault stood in the doorway of the falcon-house, looking -around him for Courtoise, whom he had thought to find within. He was -speaking to the bird on his wrist, his mind still occupied with the -recent talk with his mother, when, through the gate, came a burst of -laughter and song, and he raised his eyes to see a giddy company swaying -toward him in the measure of a “carole”[1] led by Courtoise and Laure’s -foster-sister, Alixe la Rieuse. Moving a little out of their way he -stood and watched the group go by,—the demoiselles and the squires of -the Castle household, retained by his mother as company for herself, -also to be trained in etiquette according to their several stations. And -a pretty enough company of youth and gayety they were: Berthe, Yseult, -Isabelle, Viviane, daughters all of noble houses; with Roland of St. -Bertaux, Louis of Florence, Robert Meloc, and Guy d’Armenonville, called -“le Trouvé.” But, of them all, Alixe, surnamed the Laughing One, was the -brightest of eye, the warmest of color, and the lightest of foot. - -Footnote 1: - - A “carole” was originally a dance to which the dancers sang their own - accompaniment. - -As they went by, Gerault signalled to his squire, Courtoise, and the -young fellow would have disengaged himself immediately from his -companions, but that Alixe suddenly broke her step, dropped the hand of -Robert Meloc, who was behind her, and leaving the company, ran to -Gerault’s side, dragging Courtoise with her. The dance ceased while the -young people stood still, staring at their erstwhile leaders. Alixe, -however, impatiently motioned them on. - -“Go back to the Castle with your ‘Roi qui ne ment pas.’[2] I will come -soon.” - -Footnote 2: - - An old-time game. - -Obedient to her command, the little company resumed their quaint song, -and, with steps that lagged a little, passed into the Castle, leaving -their arbitrary leader behind them, with the Seigneur and his squire. - -Gerault was silent till the young people had gone. Then he turned to -Alixe, but, before he had time to speak, she broke in hastily: - -“Let me go with you to the falcons. You must see Bec-Hardi sit upon my -wrist, and attack his _pât_ on the rope.” - -“Diable!—Bec-Hardi!—Thou hast a genius with the birds, Alixe. The -_hagard_ will not move for me.” Gerault was all attention to her now. - -Alixe did not answer his praise, but started quickly forward toward the -gate through which she had just come, beyond which was the strip of turf -where the falcons lived in summer. Gerault and Courtoise followed her at -a slower pace, and she caught some disjointed words spoken by the -Seigneur behind her:—“Rennes”—“to-morrow”—“horses.” - -As these came to her ears, Alixe’s steps grew laggard, for she had put -the thoughts together, and instantly her mood changed from golden -irresponsibility to dull and dreary melancholy. For a long time she had -concealed in her heart the deep sorrow that she felt at the prospective -loss of her life-playmate, Laure, now actually gone, and gone forever. -She had resigned herself to the thought of solitary adventures on moor -and cliff, and lonely sails on the breezy, treacherous bay, in a more -than treacherous boat,—such wild and risky amusements as she and the -daughter of Le Crépuscule had loved to indulge together. Laure was gone, -and she had kept herself from tears. But now—now, at these words of -Gerault’s, there suddenly rose before her a vivid picture of life in the -Castle without either brother or sister. Toward Gerault she had no such -feeling as that which she had held for Laure. He was a man to her, and -the fact made a vast difference. At times she entertained for him a -violent enthusiasm; at other times she treated him with infinite scorn. -But till now she had never confessed, even to herself, how much interest -he had added to the monotonous Castle life. Considering her wayward -nature, it was certainly anomalous that, in her first rush of -displeasure, there came to her the thought of Eleanore, the mother now -doubly bereft. And for madame she felt a sympathy that was entirely new. - -Gerault and his squire reached the outdoor falconry before Alixe, whom -they perceived to have fallen into one of her sudden reveries. -Accustomed to her rapid changes of mood, neither man took much heed of -her slow steps and bent head. And when she reached the falconry and saw -the birds, her interest in them brought over her again a wave of -animation. - -The outdoor falconry was a long strip of turf that lay between the -flower-terrace and the kitchen-garden. Into this turf had been driven -about twenty heavy stakes, to which were nailed wooden cross-pieces. On -nearly every one of these a falcon perched, and a strong cord, tied -about one leg, fastened each to his own stake. At sight of their master, -whom they knew perfectly well, all the birds set up a peculiar, harsh -cry, at the same time eagerly flapping their wings, appealing, as best -they could, for an hour or two of freedom. Alixe ran at once down to the -end of the second row of stakes, where sat a half-grown bird, striking -viciously at his perch with his iron beak. - -Courtoise and Gerault ceased their conversation when Alixe went up to -this bird and addressed it in a curious jargon of Latin and -Breton-French. Courtoise betrayed an admiring interest when she stooped -to lay her hand on the bird’s feathers; and Gerault called -involuntarily,— - -“Have a care, Alixe!” - -The girl, however, had her way with the creature. At sound of her voice -it became attentive. At the touch of her hand it half raised its wings, -the motion indicating expectant delight. In a moment more it had hopped -upon the girl’s wrist, and sat there, swaying and preening contentedly. - -“Sang Dieu, Alixe, thou hast done that well! Thou sayest he will also -attack the _pât_ from your hand?” - -Alixe merely nodded. To all appearances, she was wholly engrossed with -the bird, which she continued to handle. Gerault and Courtoise had come -close to her side, though the falcon betrayed its displeasure at their -approach. All three of them had been silent for some seconds, when Alixe -turned her green eyes upon the Seigneur, and, looking at him with a -glance that carried discomfort with it, said in a very precise and -cutting tone: - -“So you leave Le Crépuscule to-morrow, Gerault? And for how long?” - -“That I cannot tell,” answered Gerault, exhibiting no annoyance. “For as -long a time as Duke Jean will accept my services.” - -“Ah! then there will be fighting. I had not heard of a war. Tell me of -it.” - -Gerault became suddenly embarrassed and correspondingly displeased. “Of -what import can it be to you, a woman, whether there is war or peace?” -he inquired. - -“Oh, there is great import.” - -“Prithee, what may it be?” - -“This: that an there were indeed a war thou mightest be forgiven thy -great selfishness in going forth to pleasure, leaving thy mother here in -her loneliness and sorrow; whereas—” - -“Silence, Alixe! Thine insolence merits the whip,” cried Courtoise. - -“Peace, boy!” said Gerault, shortly, and forthwith turned again to the -demoiselle. “And is not my mother long accustomed to this life, and well -content with it? Is she not lady of a great castle, mistress of enviable -estates? Hath she not a position to be proud of? From her speech and -thine one might think—” he snapped his fingers impatiently.—“Come you -with me, Alixe. Let us walk here together on the turf, while I say to -you certain things. Thou, Courtoise, return to the Castle if thou wilt.” - -The squire, however, chose to remain in the field, and stood leaning -against the wall, watching the falcons at his feet, and whistling under -his breath for his own amusement. Alixe replaced Bec-Hardi, screaming -angrily and flapping its wings, and moved off beside Gerault, her long -red houppelande and mantle trailing upon the grass round her feet, the -veil from her filet flowing behind her nearly to the ground. Long time -these two, Lord of Le Crépuscule and his almost sister, walked together -in the sunny light of the late afternoon. And long Courtoise the squire -watched them as they went. Although Gerault had said, somewhat in ire, -that he had a matter to speak of with her, it was Alixe that talked the -most, and from his manner it could be seen that Gerault was fallen very -much under the influence of her peculiar insistence. What it was they -spoke of, Courtoise could only guess—and fear. For, though he might hold -in his heart some sympathy with madame in her loneliness, yet the squire -was a man, and young; and his young thoughts drew with delight the -picture of Rennes’ gayeties in the summer-time, when no war was toward -and the court alive with merriment. Indeed, it was not very wonderful -that he prayed to be off on the morrow; but the occasional glimpse that -he got of his lord’s face carried doubt into his heart. - -As the squire stood there by the wall, musing, Madame Eleanore herself -came out of the courtyard into the field. Her rosary hung from her -waist, and in her hand was a little volume of Latin prayers. In some -way, of which she was probably unconscious, the placid manner of her as -she came into the field for her evening walk caused Courtoise’s idle -dreams of gayety to vanish away, and the present, so tinged with the -spirit of sweet melancholy, to become the only reality. The squire at -once advanced toward his lady, while, ere he reached her, Alixe and -Gerault had halted at her side. - -“Indeed, my mother, thou art well come hither at this time. Prithee join -us in our walk. For some time past Alixe and I have been speaking of -thee. See, the air is sweet, for it comes off the fields to-night.” - -“Indeed, ’tis sweet—sweeter than summer,” said Eleanore, smiling as she -joined the twain. “But mayhap I shall break your pleasure by coming with -you, for you are gay and young, and I—” - -They moved on without having noticed him, and Courtoise lost the rest of -Eleanore’s speech. But the squire remained in the field, watching the -three move back and forth in the deepening dusk. When they came toward -him for the last time, and passed through the gate in the north wall, -returning to the Castle, all three faces were as calm as madame’s, and -Courtoise permitted himself only one sigh for the lost summer at Rennes. - -Oddly enough, the squire’s regrets proved to be premature, for -immediately after the evening meal he was summoned by Gerault to the -Seigneur’s room, to make ready for the journey. Gerault did not deign to -inform his squire of the substance of his talk in the fields, but from -the tranquillity of his manner Courtoise could not but perceive that -everything had gone well. It was a late hour when all the necessary -preparations had been made; and then the two, lord and squire, went -together to the chapel and were there confessed by Anselm, the -steward-priest; after which they bade each other a good-night, and -sought their rest. - -By sunrise, next morning, the whole Castle had assembled at the -drawbridge, to say God-speed to their departing lord. Madame Eleanore, -in bliault, houppelande, mantle, and coif all of black and white, held -Gerault’s stirrup-cup, and smiled as she spoke with him. There was a -chorus of chattering demoiselles and a boyish clattering of swords and -little armor-pieces from the young squires, as Gerault buckled on his -shield, whereon was wrought the motto and device of Crépuscule. -Courtoise had already fastened to his lord the golden spurs. And now the -two were mounted and ready, Gerault with lance in rest and white reins -gathered on his horse’s neck; Courtoise, brimming with delight, now and -then giving his steed a heel in flank that caused him to rear and curvet -with graceful spirit. For the last time Gerault bent to his mother’s -lips, and for the last time he looked vainly over the company for a -glimpse of Alixe, his recent mentor. Finally his spurs went home. The -drawbridge was down before him, the portcullis raised. Amid a chorus of -farewell cries, he and Courtoise swept away together, over the bridge -and down the long, gentle hill, and out upon the Rennes road, which, at -some twelve miles from Le Crépuscule, passed the priory-convent of Les -Vierges de la Madeleine. - -When the twain were gone, and the group prepared to disperse,—the -squires-at-arms to their sword-practice under the captain of the keep, -the sighing demoiselles to their long morning of weaving and -embroidery,—Alixe suddenly appeared from the watch-tower close at hand, -inquiring for Madame Eleanore. - -“Methinks she hath retreated to her room, to say her prayers for the -Seigneur’s safe journey,” Berthe told her. And Alixe, with a nod of -thanks, ran to the Castle, and ascended to madame’s room. - -The door was open, for madame was not at prayer. She stood at the open -window, looking out upon the sea. Alixe could not see her face, but from -the line of her shoulders she read much of her lady’s heart. - -“Madame,” she said, in a half-whisper. - -Eleanore turned quickly. “Alixe!” - -“Madame Eleanore—mother—” - -A terrible sob broke from the older woman’s throat, and suddenly she -fell upon her knees beside a wooden settle, and, burying her face in her -hands, finally gave way to her desolation. Alixe, who had opened her -heart, now comforted her as best she could, soothing her, caressing her, -whispering to her in a magnetic, gentle voice, till madame’s grief had -been nearly washed away. Then the young girl said, softly, in her ear: - -“Think, madame! ’tis now but eleven days till thou mayest ride out to -Laure at the priory. And there thou canst talk with her alone, and for -as long as thou wilt. Also, when her novitiate is at an end, she may -come here to thee, once in a fortnight, for so the Mother-prioress hath -said.” - -Eleanore held Alixe’s hand close to her breast, and while she stroked -it, a little convulsively, she said, with returning self-control: “I -thank thee—I thank thee—Alixe, for thy good comfort.” Then, in a -different tone, she added, with a little sigh: “Eleven days—eleven -ages—how many others have I still to spend—alone?” - - - - -[Illustration] - - _CHAPTER TWO_ - THE SILENCE OF YOUTH - -[Illustration] - - -The priory-convent of the Virgins of the Magdalen was as old as any -nunnery in Brittany of its repute. It had been founded in the early days -of the tenth Louis of France and his good lady of Burgundy, long before -the death of the last of the Dreux lords of the dukedom. It was -celebrated for more than its age, however; for through three centuries -it had held in ecclesiastic Brittany, for its wealth, its exclusiveness, -and, above either of these things, its unswerving chastity, a place as -unique as it was gratifying. In the year 1381 no breath of scandal had -ever disturbed its fragrant atmosphere. Moreover, though this was a fact -not much regarded by people in authority, it was a remarkably -comfortable little house, of excellent architecture and ample room for -the practice of any amount of worship. Its situation, however, was -lonely. It stood nearly at the end of the Rennes coast road, on the -outskirts of a thick forest, twenty miles from the town of St. -Nazaire-by-the-sea, and twelve from the Chateau of Le Crépuscule. And it -was here, in this pleasant if austere retreat, that many a noble lady of -Laval and Crépuscule had ended her youth and worn her life away in the -endeavor to attain undying sanctity. - -On a certain afternoon in this mid-spring of 1381, the very day, indeed, -that Lord Gerault took to the Rennes road to ease his ennui, a little -company of nuns sat out in the convent garden, embroidering away their -recreation time. The day was exquisite: sunny, a little chilly, its -breeze laden with the rare perfume of awakening summer. The garden, at -this season of the year, was a place of wondrous beauty, redolent of -rich, pregnant soil, and all shimmering with the misty green of tender -grass and countless leaf-buds, from the midst of which a few flowers, -pale primroses and crocuses and a hyacinth or two, peered forth, -starring the new-planted beds with the first fruits of this new union of -earth and sky. - -The spirit of the spring ruled supreme over all natural things. Only the -creatures of God, the self-consecrated nuns, sat in the midst of this -wonder of the young world, untouched by it. Heedless to the uttermost of -this greatest of worldly blessings, they sat plying their needles in and -out of their bright-colored, ecclesiastical fabrics, listening, in their -dull and dreamy way, to the voice of one of their number who was droning -out to them for the thousandth time the old and long-familiar laws of -their order, expressed in the “Rhymed Rule of St. Benedict.” One only -among them seemed not of their mood. This was a young girl, white-robed -like all the rest, her unveiled head proclaiming her novitiate. As -became her station she bent decorously to her task, and it had taken a -close observer to see and read all the little signs she gave of -consciousness of the world around her, the green, growing things, and -the liquid bird-songs that came trilling out of the forest near at hand. -Probably not even the most skilled of readers could have recognized all -the meaning in the long, slow looks, half wondrous and half probing, -with which, every now and again, she traversed the circle of faces about -her. Her self-restraint was very nearly flawless, and was successfully -maintained throughout the long period of recreation; so that not one of -her companions guessed the relief she felt when the first clang of the -vesper-bell roused them from their trance-like dulness. But the young -girl wondered a little at herself when she perceived that her brows were -damp with the sweat of the constraint. - -At this time Laure of Le Crépuscule was sixteen years of age, and pretty -as a flower to look upon. She was slim and white-faced, with immense, -limpid brown eyes that were wont to move rather slowly, and burnished -brown hair hanging in twists to her knees: an object for men to rave -over, had any man worth so calling ever set eyes upon her. She was young -enough and pure enough to be of unquestioning innocence; and, until now, -the fiery life in her had found sufficient outlet in unlimited bodily -exercise. She had seen nothing of real life, and never dreamed of the -talent she possessed for it. It was from her own heart that the wish to -consecrate herself to the eternal worship of God had come; for she -believed that in this way she should find a haven for those terrible and -fathomless mental storms of which she had weathered many in her young -life, and of which her own mother never so much as dreamed. Utterly -ignorant of her real self, she was yet a girl of strong intellect, of -great versatility, of over-weening passions, and withal as feminine a -creature as the Creator ever fashioned. Both her temperament and her -appearance more resembled the dwellers of the far South—Provence or even -Navarre—than the children of the rugged, chilly shores of northern -Brittany; for her skin had the dark, creamy pallor of the South, and her -eyes held none of the keen fire that glows in the North, while her hair -grew low above her smooth, white brow. - -Laure’s temperament was dramatically mobile. She adapted herself almost -unconsciously to any mode or situation of life, and this, though she did -not know it, was all that she was doing now. It was with real, if -subdued pleasure that she went through the services of the day. From -matins, which, at this period of the year, began at the cheerless hour -of four in the morning, till compline, at eight in the evening, when the -church bell tolled the end of another day of prayer, Laure’s nature was -under a kind of religious spell, which she and those about her had -joyfully interpreted as a true vocation. - -The first eleven days of Laure’s convent life passed away in comparative -calmness; and she found no weariness in them. On the twelfth, Madame -Eleanore rode in from Le Crépuscule to see her daughter. She was -admitted to the convent as speedily as if the little lay sister had -known the devouring eagerness of the mother-heart; and because she was a -lady of consequence, and because she was known to be very generous to -the Church, and especially because the Bishop of St. Nazaire was her -close friend, she was not left to wait in the reception-room, but -conducted straight to the Prioress’ cell. - -Mère Piteuse received Madame Eleanore with anxious cordiality. After -their greetings the guest seated herself, and was obliged to keep -silence for a moment before she could ask quietly,— - -“And Laure, Reverend Mother,—how fares my child? Is she content with -you?” Eleanore’s heart throbbed with unconfessed hope as she asked this -question. For if Laure was _not_ content, she might return at will to -the Castle, her home, and her mother’s heart. - -But the Prioress returned Eleanore’s look with a smile of satisfaction. -“In a moment Laure will come hither. I have sent for her. Then thou -shalt learn from her own lips how well her life goes. Never, I think, -hath our priory received a new daughter that showed herself so happy in -her vocation. We shall call her name Angelique at her consecration.” - -Eleanore felt her body grow cold, and her head swim. Her face, however, -betrayed nothing. Her little girl, then, was really gone! Laure, the -wild bird, was tamable. She—_could_ she become “Angelique”? - -Neither madame nor the Prioress spoke again till there was a sound of -gentle footsteps in the corridor, followed by a light tap on the wooden -door of the cell. - -“Enter!” cried the Prioress; and Laure came quietly in. - -First of all she bowed to Mère Piteuse. Then, as Eleanore involuntarily -held out her arms, the girl went into them, and kissed her mother with a -warmth and a sweetness that perhaps Eleanore had not known from her -before. At the same moment the Prioress rose quietly, and left the room. -The instant that she was gone, Eleanore seized the girl in a still -closer embrace, and held her tightly and more tightly to her breast. - -“Laure, my darling! Laure, my sweet child! how hath my heart yearned for -thee! How hath thy name lain ever on my lips while I slept, and been -enshrined in my heart by day!” - -The young girl’s arms wound themselves about her mother’s neck, and she -laid her head upon that shoulder where it had been wont to rest in her -babyhood. And Laure sighed a little, not unhappily, but like a child -tired of play. - -“Laure, wilt thou remain here in the convent? Art thou happy? Dost thou -wish it, or wilt thou come home again to Crépuscule?” - -A sudden image of the gray Castle, with its vast hall, and the great -fire blazing in the chimney-place within, and all the well-known figures -assembled there for a meal,—Alixe, Gerault, the demoiselles and young -squires headed by Courtoise, and the burly men-at-arms that had played -with her and carried her about as a little child,—all the long-familiar, -comfortable scenes of her old life came before the girl’s eye. And -then—then she drew a little breath and answered her mother, unfaltering: -“’Tis beautiful here, and sweet and holy withal. I am content, dear -mother. I will remain.” - -“And hast thou, then, the vocation in thy heart, whereby some souls are -claimed of God from birth to death, and find the utmost of their -happiness in His communion?” - -Laure’s great eyes fixed themselves upon the mother’s sad face as she -replied again, very softly: “Yea, my mother. That, from my heart, do I -believe.” - -Eleanore sighed deeply, and then quickly smiled again. “Think not that I -mourn, my daughter, for having yielded thee up to the Church. May this -blessed spirit remain in thee, bringing thee everlasting peace.” - -Then, while Laure still clung to her, the mother herself put the closely -clasped arms away from her neck, and drew the novice to her feet. “Now, -my Laure, I must go. But my thoughts are still left with thee.” - -“But thou wilt come, mother?—In ten days’ time thou wilt come to me -again?” - -“Yea, sith it is permitted by the rules that I see thee once more, I -will surely come,” she answered quietly. - -“Laure will greatly rejoice at thy coming,” said the Prioress, gently, -from the doorway. - -So Eleanore renewed her promise, and shortly after rode away from the -priory gate, into the thick wood through which ran the road to -Crépuscule. - -Her mother’s visit brought Laure two days of extremest homesickness and -yearning. Then she regained her independence, and began to find a new -delight in her surroundings. The perfect peace of it, the infinite, -delightful detail of worship, with its multifarious candle-points, and -its continual clouds of fragrant incense, all wrought together into a -life of undeviating regularity, brought to the novice a sense of -peculiar safety and freedom from vexation or care that was quite new to -her, for all her youth. The day began with matins, repeated by each nun -alone in her cell. Laure had been given a room in a corner of the -priory, at the very end of the corridor of novices, and she gained -therefrom an added sense of exclusiveness and seclusion. She had not -once been late in her answer to the matins bell, and the mistress of -novices, passing Laure’s cell on her first round of the day, had never -failed to find her praying. Laure came of a pious house, and had known -her prayers, all the forms of them, long before she entered the priory. -They required no thought in the repetition, and therefore there was many -a morning when she played the parrot at her desk, either too sleepy, or -too much occupied with thoughts and dreams, to heed the familiar -addresses to God. This was not entirely a fault, perhaps. The mornings -came very early in these days, and there were wonderful things to be -seen through her cell-window. She saw the dawn, golden-girdled, garbed -in flowing rose-color, unlock the eastern portals of the sky. She saw -stars and moon glimmer faintly and more faint, and finally sink to rest -under the high, clear green of the morning heaven. Last of all, over the -feathery line of trees that made a horizon for her at her cell-window, -she could see the first dazzling ladder of the sun lifted up to lean -against the east. And then Laure would long for the murmur of devotion -to be stilled in the Abbey, for sun-mists were filling the Heavens, and -from the forest the bird-chorus rose to a full-throated _tutti_, in its -hymn of glorification to the new day. - -This morning benediction that she found, Laure kept to herself by day, -and carried with her until dark. There was no one in the priory to whom -she could have confided her pleasure, for there was none in the Abbey -that had her love, or, indeed, any love at all, for the world that God -had made for Himself and for mankind. The day-tasks also had their -pleasures for the novice. She learned, in time, that she was not obliged -to fill her recreation hours with embroidery; but that she might sleep, -or pray, or work in the garden, or do whatever a quiet fancy should -select. So she chose to befriend the soil, and played with it as if it -were a tender companion. And after her exercise here, the rest of the -day, nones, vespers, supper, confession, and compline, melted away -almost unheeded, leaving her at last to the sweet-breathed night, and to -a sleep as dreamless and as sound as that of any baby. - -In this most simple way, without any untoward happening, without her -once leaving the priory, the days flowed on, spring melted into summer, -and Laure found herself possessed of an infinite and ever-increasing -content, the great secret of which probably lay in the fact that every -waking hour had its occupation. She had entered her new life in the most -beautiful time of the year, and, heedless of this, began, in her -delusive happiness, to wonder why, long ago, the whole world had not -taken to such existence. She had plenty of time to indulge in -dreams,—vague and fragile dreams of the great world and the people -dwelling therein, that she should never come to know. But the fact that -she could never know them did not come home to her with the force of a -deprivation. She did not feel herself to be a hopeless prisoner. She was -not professed; and the fact that there still remained to her a free -choice easily kept her from any over-vivid perception of the eternal -dulness of convent life. - -Once in two weeks Madame Eleanore came to see her, and if these visits -were bitter to the mother, Laure never guessed it. Also, from time to -time, the professed nuns would leave the convent for a day or two at a -time, on what errands the novices were not told. But Laure knew that -similar privileges would be hers after her profession. - -The summer, in its fulness and beauty, passed away. Purple autumn came -and went. And one day, in the first cold weather, Laure was summoned to -the Mother-prioress’ room, where she was told a proud thing. It was -that, if she chose profession at the end of her novitiate, which would -come in the Christmas season, her consecration might take place at the -same time, by special permission from the highest power; for, by -ordinary ecclesiastic law, she was still many years too young for this -consummation of the celibate life. But if she so chose, his Grace the -Bishop of St. Nazaire would perform the ceremony of sanctification on -the twenty-sixth of December, directly after the forty-eight-hour vigil -of the birth of the Christ. - -Laure heard this news with every appearance and every expression of -delight; and when she returned to the church for tierce and morning -mass, she tried, all through the service, to bring herself face to face -with herself, to appreciate, as she was conscious that she must, sooner -or later, the intense gravity of her position. But for some reason, by -some failure of concentrative force, she could not bring her mind to the -point of understanding. Over and over again her thoughts slid around -that one fact that she knew she must try to realize,—how, after the -giving of her final pledge, there could be no turning back, there could -be no escape, while she should live, from this life of prayer. She did -not appreciate it at all. She only remembered that she had been very -contented here, and that the days were never long. - -In the weeks that followed her talk with Mère Piteuse, Laure enacted -this same scene of effort with herself many times, always futilely. As a -matter of fact, it was too grave a responsibility to put upon the -shoulders of a child in years and a less than child in experience. But -this unfairness was one of the prerogatives of monasticism, -unappreciated to this day. - -Christmas time drew near; and gradually Laure dropped her efforts toward -understanding and fell into dreams of a varied and complex, if -unimportant, nature. She was to be professed alone, on the day after -Christmas. No novice had entered the convent within three months of her, -and, moreover, her birth and position made it desirable that she should -be surrounded by a little extra pomp; for, although Laure did not know -it, she was much looked up to by the nuns of humbler birth, and -universally regarded as a future prioress of the house. During the last -days of her novitiate the young girl was treated with peculiar reverence -and consideration, and she was given a good deal of time for solitary -reflection and prayer. Every day she was summoned to the cell of the -Prioress, who herself gave the girl good counsel and instruction upon -the higher life; while so much general attention was paid her that Laure -became a little astonished at her own importance. - -In the first three weeks of December Madame Eleanore did not come at all -to see her daughter, and Laure grew lonely for her. She suspected -nothing of her mother’s heart-sickness over the approaching ceremony -that was to cut her child off from her forever; and, indeed, had Laure -been told of the mother-feeling, she could not have understood it. - -On the afternoon of the twenty-third day of December the novice was -kneeling in her cell, supposedly at prayer, in reality indulging in a -rather forlorn and melancholy reverie. It was the hour of recreation; -and the convent was very quiet, for most of the nuns were sleeping, in -preparation for the strain of the forty-eight-hour Christmas service. -The stillness brought a chill to Laure’s heart, and she was near to -tears, when her door was suddenly pushed open, and some one halted -there. Laure turned quickly enough to see the white-robed Prioress -disappear, closing the door behind a figure that remained motionless -inside the threshold. - -“My mother!” cried Laure, springing to her feet. - -“Laure,” was the quivering response, as Eleanore held out her arms. - -The dreamer, suddenly become a little child, went into the mother-clasp, -her pristine home, and was half carried over to the only seat in the -room,—a wooden tabouret, large enough for only one. Upon this Eleanore -seated herself, while Laure sank to the floor beside her, huddling close -to the human warmth of her mother, her head lying in that mother’s lap, -both hands held tightly in the larger, stronger, older ones. - -“Laure—my Laure—my little Laure!” was all that, at this time, madame -could force her lips to say. And hearing it, the girl, suddenly -overwrought and overswept with repressed yearning for home love, all at -once burst into a convulsive flood of tears. - -Some moments passed, and the sobs, instead of diminishing, began to -increase in violence, till Eleanore became alarmed. Certain unexpressed -fears took possession of her. She made no effort to bring them into -definite order in her mind. They merely joined themselves to a shadow -that had long since come upon her in the form of a question: What, in -bare reality, was this vast monster called “the Church”? Why had it a -right to step thus between mother and child? How could such a thing be -called holy? Filled with this idea, and realizing to the full how -desperately short was her chance, Eleanore set herself to work, through -every means known to her, to quiet Laure, to stop her tears, and to gain -her earnest attention. - -Under madame’s determined calm, it was not long before Laure was brought -back to self-control. And when she was quiet, the mother, sitting very -straight in her place, drew the girl to her feet, and, holding her fast -by the hand, while she looked steadily into the clear, brown eyes, she -asked, slowly, with an emphasis born of her desperation,— - -“Laure, is it indeed in thy heart to remain, of thy free will and -desire, forever in this house, forsaking all that was dear to thee of -youth and love, and freedom, in thy home, Le Crépuscule?” - -Laure, while she looked at her mother, gave a sudden sigh, and her face -became staring pale. Eleanore strove to fathom her daughter’s look, but -could know nothing of the flood of natural desire and youth that was -oversweeping the girl. Laure’s resistance against it was silence. She -sat still, cowed and bent, while the noise of the waters filled her ears -and her heart was near to bursting with suffocation and yearning. Before -this silence, however, these passionate moments gradually ebbed away. -The wave retreated, and her heart shut tight. Words and phrases from -Holy Scriptures, books of prayer, and St. Benedict’s Rule, came crowding -to her, and she considered to herself how she might show her mother the -sin of her suggestion. But, as she had kept silence one way, so now she -practised it in the other. After the long pause her voice found itself -in three words only,— - -“My mother!—madame!” - -Eleanore’s eyes fell. Her hope was gone. For the thousandth time her -religion rose to shame her, before her child, for the absorbing love of -her motherhood. Presently Laure, standing before her, more like her -judge than like the disconsolate creature she had so lately comforted, -spoke again,— - -“Madame, here in this place have I found contentment. There is no sorrow -and no desire when one lives but to pray and sleep, and wake and pray -again. God lives here continually in our hearts and He begets in us the -love that we bear for each other. Moreover, after my profession and -consecration, much freedom will be added to my life. I shall have no -more long hours of instruction, nor shall I be called on to do the -bidding of any one save perhaps that of the Reverend Mother. And whereas -thou ridest hither to me each fortnight, I, after my vow, may go instead -to thee, to see thee and mine ancient home.—Nay, mother, forgive me that -I rebuke thy words; but thou must not urge me thus, for my spirit is not -as yet very strong or very much tried, and is like to break under -temptation.” - -Dry-eyed and straight-lipped, Eleanore rose from her place and kissed -her daughter, saying,— - -“This is farewell, dear child, till thou shalt come home to me for the -first time after thy wedding with Heaven. My humble and earthly blessing -be upon thee,—and mayst thou find thy spirit strong, my Laure, when thou -shalt have need of it; as, in God’s time, thou surely wilt.” - -Once again the mother kissed her girl—kissed her in final renunciation. -Laure felt a burning upon her brow long after madame had left the room. -Eleanore’s last words also somewhat affected the novice,—brought her a -dim sense of uneasiness and foreboding. But it was in silence that she -saw the black-robed figure leave the cell, and in silence she remained -for a long time after she was left alone, thinking over what had passed. - -Laure had acted in such perfect sincerity that the wound she inflicted -on her mother, and the mortification she put upon her, were neither of -them realized. It was not wonderful that the impulses of the girl’s -heart had been stilled by the unceasing precept of the past months. Her -years were naturally powerless to fathom her mother’s heart, the heart -of her who sees herself completely separated in every interest from the -one that has always been nearest and dearest. And so the argument that -she conducted within herself after her mother’s going was not one of -justification of her own act, but—oh, ye gods!—an attempted -justification of Eleanore’s impiety. - -Laure passed the next two days in an odor of extreme sanctity, and -hailed with deep inward joy the beginning of the long vigil of the birth -of the Saviour, on Christmas Eve. She was excused from keeping steadily -in church through this protracted service, for the reason that she would -be obliged, according to the Rule, to spend the night after her -consecration alone in the church, at prayer. Throughout Christmas Day -Laure was in a state of repressed nervous excitement. Was not to-morrow -to be her wedding-day? Was she not to become what the first Magdalen had -never been,—the bride of Christ? Her prayers throughout this day were -mingled with thoughts of the highest purity, the most refined spiritual -ecstasy, the most shining, uplifted innocence. Tears of joy and of proud -humility flowed readily from her eyes, while her mouth was filled with -heavenly praises that welled up from her heart. - -In the afternoon she was sent away to rest; for the Mother-prioress was -considerate of her strength. Laure did not, however, lie down. Instead, -she stood for more than an hour at the window of her cell, looking out -over the world, and watching the fine feathery snowflakes float down -through the clear blue air. The earth was wrapped in a mantle whiter -than her consecration robe and veil. Perhaps it was a shroud. Laure -shivered at the thought, while she contemplated the unutterable -stillness of all things. Not a sound disturbed this vast scene of death. -The tree-boughs bent low under the weight of their pure burden; and when -the early evening fell, and vespers chimed out over the valley, the -tiny, frozen tears of Heaven still floated through the dark with -ever-increasing softness. - -It was seven o’clock when Sœur Celeste, the chaplain, came to summon the -bride-elect to confession and interrogation with Monseigneur the Bishop -of St. Nazaire. As the two women passed together down the long corridor -of novices, through the cold cloister and empty refectory and along the -passage leading to the chapter, Laure’s heart was struck with a chill of -fear. How terribly empty the convent was! No one in the refectory, the -corridors scarcely lighted, the whole convent utterly silent; for the -drone of prayers in the church was inaudible here. She wondered how the -terrible vigil progressed, how many nuns had fainted in their fatigue. -She thought of anything but the matter before her, and was still -unprepared when the chaplain left her alone at the door of the chapter. - -The Bishop of St. Nazaire was alone in this room, and at Laure’s -appearance he rose and went to her, taking her by the hand, and not -amazed to find her icy cold. - -“My daughter!” he said gently; and Laure, looking into his face, was -suddenly filled with an ineffable comfort. - -She had known the Bishop all her life, for he was her mother’s close -friend and a constant visitor at Le Crépuscule. But never before had she -seen him in this fulness of his office, so replete with magnetic -spirituality. If the unswervingly narrow tenets of his creed made St. -Nazaire too arbitrary where his religion was concerned, and if the -geniality of his own nature had, at times, brought upon him in his own -home reactions that afterwards rendered necessary the severest penances, -at least these two extremes of his life had brought him to a remarkable -intermediate balance. Irrespective of his state, he could be defined as -a man of the world, of large sympathies, having a broad understanding of -human frailty, because of the unconquerable weaknesses of his own -nature. His ethical code was one of high severity and strict purity; and -he strove with all the power of his spirit to follow it himself, never -failing, the while, to excuse the eternal failures of others. And now, -as Laure looked up into his large, smooth-shaven face, framed in long -fair hair, and lighted by a pair of bright blue eyes that generally -regarded the world with a surprising air of trustful innocence, the -young novice lost all her sense of desolation, and felt herself suddenly -introduced into a secure and unhoped-for haven. - -St. Nazaire himself, examining the young girl’s face, and searching her -soul therein, knew that at this moment he was nearer to the inmost being -of the daughter of Le Crépuscule than he should ever be again; and he -felt that no one ever yet had been in a position to probe the depths of -her nature as he was going to probe them now. She gave herself up to him -as completely as Eleanore had given her once long ago, when, as a -new-born infant, she had wailed in his arms at her baptism before the -altar in the chapel of the Twilight Castle. - -With this strong feeling of mutual confidence, Laure and the Bishop -seated themselves in the chapter of the convent. Confession and -stereotyped interrogation were gone through with dutifully, and then -followed what Laure had begun to wish for at the first moment of their -meeting,—a long and intimate talk upon the life that she should lead as -a professed nun. It was a life with which St. Nazaire was as fully -conversant as a man could ever be, and he pictured it to Laure as -faithfully as he was accustomed to picture Heaven—a heaven of flying men -and women carrying in their hands small golden harps—to those that -received the last sacrament at his hands. Laure had a vision of long -years filled ever fuller of transcendent joy and peace, in which she -should never know a wish that her life could not fill, nor a desire -beyond more earnest prayers, or a fast a little longer and more rigorous -than heretofore. And so skilful was the Bishop in the manipulation of -his sombre material, that he got from it remarkable beauties which, -impossible as it seems, were as convincing to him as to Laure. - -It was late in the evening when the young girl received the episcopal -blessing and retired through the still nunnery to her cell. But her mind -was at perfect rest that night; and she went to sleep to dream of -nothing but the happiness and beauty of a consecrated life. - -At ten o’clock on the morning of the twenty-sixth day of December, the -whole convent assembled in church for high mass, which was to be -celebrated by the Bishop of St. Nazaire. To-day the novices were -separated from the professed nuns, and the two companies knelt on -opposite sides of the church, leaving a broad space between them. The -choir was in its place. In the lower choir-stalls sat the -Mother-prioress, the sub-prioress, the chaplain and the deacons; while -his Grace was in the great chair of honor used by none but him. The only -member of the nunnery not present was Laure, who made her appearance -just as the bell began to ring for the opening of the mass. She came in -from the chapter-house at the far end of the church, and moved slowly up -the aisle. Her white robe and full mantle hid her figure and trailed -around her on the floor, and her head was crowned with the bridal veil, -which covered her face and fell to the ground all around her. In one -hand she carried a parchment scroll on which her vow was inscribed; and -in the other hand she bore the wedding ring. - -As she advanced toward the altar every head was turned toward her, and -it was seen that she was white as death. But she was also very calm. -Indeed she was acting quite mechanically, like one under a hypnotic -spell; and there was no expression whatever on her face as she made her -genuflection to the cross, and then turned aside and knelt among the -company of novices. She took her usual part in the mass that followed, -making no slip in the service, and joining as usual in the singing, with -her full contralto voice. - -When the benediction had been pronounced from the chancel, there was a -pause. No one in the church moved from her knees, and the Bishop -remained before the company with his right hand uplifted. Laure raised -her eyes, and her body trembled slightly, for her heart was palpitating -like running water. When the silence had lasted a seemingly unbearable -while, St. Nazaire turned his face to Laure, who rose and went up to -him, kneeling again in the chancel. And now, as she spoke, her quiet, -impressive voice was heard by every nun in the church,— - -“_Suscipe me, Domine, secundum eloquium tuum et vivam. Et non confundas -me in expectatione mea._” - -As she finished, Laure’s throat contracted, and she gasped convulsively. -Her head swam in a mist, but she knew that the Bishop was questioning -her from the catechism,—knew that she was answering him; and then, -afterwards, she heard, as from a great distance, the voice of the Bishop -praying. At the Amen, St. Nazaire signed to her again, and she rose and -stepped forward to his side. Then, turning till she faced the church, -she said quite distinctly, though in a low tone,— - -“I, Sister Angelique, promise steadfastness, virginity, continuance in -virtue, and obedience before God and all His saints, in accordance with -the Rule of St. Benedict, in this Priory of Holy Madeleine, in the -presence of the Reverend Father Charles, Lord Bishop of St. Nazaire, of -the Duchy of Brittany, Lord under the most Christian Duke, Jean de -Montfort.” - -Thereafter she went up to the altar, and there signed her scroll with -her new name and the sign of the cross. And there the ring of Heaven was -placed upon her finger, and she was declared a bride. For the last time -she knelt before the father, who lifted up his hands and consecrated -her, after the ancient formula, to the love of her Saviour, the blessing -of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost. And then Laure, a -professed nun, came down from the holy place, and was received among her -sisters and reverently saluted by them. - -The ceremony over, all the convent adjourned to the refectory, where a -little feast of rejoicing was held in honor of the newly consecrated -one. And after this, at an early hour of the afternoon, Laure was -conducted to her cell, and her ten days of retirement began. All that -afternoon, overcome with the strain of the past few days, the young girl -slept. She woke only when the Sœur Eloise, a stout and stupid little -nun, but a few weeks since made a lay sister, came up to her with bread -and milk. When she had eaten and was alone again, she sat for a long -time in her dark cell, looking out upon the starry night, and wondering -vaguely over her long future. Presently the bell for the end of -confession rang out, and, knowing that it was time, she rose and went -through the convent, and into the vast church. The last of the nuns had -left it and gone to seek her rest. Only the sub-prioress remained, -waiting for Laure. Seeing her come, the older nun saluted her silently, -and then moved away toward the dimly lighted chapter. In the doorway of -this room she turned to look back at the white figure standing in the -dimly lighted, incense-reeking aisle; and then, with a faint sigh of -memory, she extinguished all the chapter lights, bowed to the little -crucifix hanging in that room, and went her way to bed. - -Laure was left alone in the great, dusky House of God. Where she knelt, -before the shrine of St. Joseph, two candles burned. All around her was -darkness—silence—solitude. Awed and wide-eyed, she forced herself to -kneel upon the stones, and her mind vaguely sought a prayer. But -thoughts of Heaven refused to come. Her Bridegroom was very far away. -She felt a cold weight settling slowly down upon her heart, and she -trembled, and her brows grew damp with chilly dew. Many thoughts came -and went. She remembered afterwards to have had a very distinct vision -of Alixe, standing alone upon a great cliff a mile from Le Crépuscule, -with a wild sea-wind blowing her hair and her mantle, and white gulls -veering about her head. For an instant, a wild longing flamed up through -her soul. Setting her lips, she tried to force her mind back again to -God. One—two—three faltering, reverent words were uttered by her. Then -Laure du Crépuscule started wildly to her feet. - -“God! Oh, God! I am imprisoned! I am captive! I am captive forever! God! -Oh, God!” - -As these wild cries echoed through the vaulted roof, she threw herself -passionately to the floor and lay there helpless, while the wave of -merciless realization swept over her. Then her hands wandered along the -stones of the floor, and her cheek followed them, and she clutched at -the cold, damp granite, in a vain, vague search for her mother’s breast. - - - - -[Illustration] - - _CHAPTER THREE_ - FLAMMECŒUR - -[Illustration] - - -The New Year had come: a time of highest festival in Brittany, when the -land was alive with merriment and gifts and legends and grewsome tales. -It was St. Sylvester’s Eve, when, as all men knew, the waves of the -Atlantic for once defied their barriers and struggled up the towering -cliffs, eager to meet, halfway, the descending dolmens, permitted once -in the year to leave unguarded the deep earth-treasures, that they might -quench their furious thirst in the sea. And on that night half the -peasants of Brittany lay awake, speculating on the vast wealth that -might be theirs if they were but to arise and seek out some monster -dolmen and wait beside it till the immense rock rolled away from its -hole, leaving a pit of gold and gems open to the clutching hands of the -world-man. But fear of the demoniac return of these same rolling rocks -kept most of the dreamers safe within their beds during the fateful -midnight hour, though of the luck of the few daring ones, there were, -nay, still are, many veracious tales. - -Le Crépuscule, no less than the surrounding countryside, participated in -the interest of these supernatural matters; but the old Chateau had real -affairs of feast and frolic to occupy it also. The great New Year’s -dinner was the most lavish that the Castle gave in the twelve-month, and -this year, in spite of its depleted household, there was no exception -made to the general rule. The great tables were set in the central hall -and loaded with every sort of food and drink, while kitchen fires roared -about their juicy meats, and in the chimney-piece of the hall an ox was -roasted whole before the flames. Ordinarily the dinner hour at the -Castle was half-past eleven in the morning; but on feast days it was -changed to four in the afternoon, and the merriment was then kept up -till the last woman had retired, and the last man found a pillow on the -rushes that strewed the floor. - -On this New Year’s eve there were, as usual, two great tables set; for -to-night not only all the retainers of the Castle, but also half a -hundred of the tenantry from the estates, claimed the privilege of their -fealty and came to eat at the house of their lord, sitting below his -salt, breaking his bread, supping his beer, and talking and laughing and -drinking each till he could no more. - -Madame Eleanore was always present at this feast, as a matter of duty -and of graciousness. She sat to-night at the head of the board, with an -empty place beside her for Gerault. Alixe was upon her right hand, and -one of the young squires-at-arms upon her left; and in the general -hubbub of the feast none of the peasant boors noticed how persistent a -silence reigned at that end of the table, nor how wearily sad was the -expression of their lady’s face. - -This was the first feast in many years at which the Bishop of St. -Nazaire had not been present; but he had not come to Le Crépuscule since -Laure’s consecration, and madame had given up hoping for his arrival. -Darkness had fallen some time since, and the hour was growing late. This -could be told from the increased noise at the table. Puddings and -crumcakes had been finished, and the men of the company were turning -their attention exclusively to the liquor—beer and wine—which had been -brought up to the hall in great casks, from which each might help -himself. David le petit, the jester, ran up and down on the table, -waving a black wand and shouting verses at the company. There was a -universal clamor and howling of laughter and song, which madame heard -with ever-increasing weariness and displeasure, though the demoiselles -showed no such signs of fatigue. - -Suddenly, through the tumult, madame caught a sound that made her lift -her head and half rise from her chair, listening intently. There had -been a sound of horses’ hoofs on the courtyard stones. - -“’Tis St. Nazaire at last,” she whispered to Alixe. “Now we shall hear -of—Go thou thyself, Alixe, and fetch hither fresh meat and a pasty and a -flagon of the best wine. Monseigneur must be weary. He shall sit here at -my side—” - -Alixe rose obediently and hurried away on her errand; and while she was -gone there came a clamor at the door. A burly henchman sprang up and -lurched forward to open it, peering out into the darkness. Those in the -room heard a little ejaculation, and then there entered a new-comer with -some one else beside him. Neither was the Bishop of St. Nazaire. Both of -them were young,—one, indeed, no more than a boy, wearing an esquire’s -jerkin, hosen, cap, and mantle, and carrying only a short dirk in his -belt. The other, who came forward into the full light of the lamps and -torches, was a young man of six and twenty or thereabouts, lean and tall -and graceful, clad in half armor, but clean-shaved, like a woman. His -face had the look of the South in it, his eyes were piercingly dark, and -his waving hair as black as the night. In their first glance at the -new-comer, most in the room took notice that his spurs were not gilt; -but soon a maid spied out that the little squire carried on his back a -lute, strung on a ribbon, and then the stranger’s profession was plain. - -This general examination lasted but the matter of a few seconds. Then -Madame Eleanore rose, and the stranger saluted her with a grace that -became him well, and began to speak in a mellow voice,— - -“Madame la Châtelaine, give thee God’s greeting! I hight Bertrand -Flammecœur, singer of Provence, the land of the trouvère; and now find -myself a most weary traveller through this chilly land. Here—” -indicating his follower with two slim fingers—“is my squire, Yvain. We -come to-day from the Castle of Laval, in the South, where, in the high -hospitality of its lord, we have sojourned for some weeks. There, -indeed, I sang in half a score of tenzons with one Le Fleurie, an able -singer. But now, to-night, inasmuch as we are weary with long riding, -empty for food, numb with cold, and have found the drawbridge of this -Castle down, we make bold to crave shelter for the night, and a manchet -of bread to comfort our stomachs withal,” and the trouvère bent his body -in a graceful obeisance; while Eleanore, smiling her hospitality, -stepped forward a little from where she stood. - -“It is the Breton custom, Sir Trouvère, to leave the drawbridge down -during the holy weeks of Christmas and Easter; and in those days any may -obtain food and shelter among us. Thou and thy squire, however, are -doubly welcome, coming as ye do from our cousins of Laval, in which -house I, Eleanore du Crépuscule, was born. In the name of my son, the -Seigneur Gerault, I return you God’s greeting, and pray you to make this -Chateau your home. Now, sith ye are well weary and anhungered, let your -boy rest him there among my squires, while you come here and sit and -eat.” - -Thereupon little Yvain, after a bow, ran eagerly to the place indicated -to him; and Flammecœur, smiling, went forward at madame’s invitation -toward the place at her side. Ere he reached it, Alixe, who had been in -the kitchens and thus missed the stranger’s entrance, came into the -hall, bearing with her a wooden tray containing food and red wine. At -sight of the stranger she halted suddenly, and as suddenly he paused to -make her reverence; for by her dress he knew her to be no serving-wench. -In the instant that their glances met, her green and brilliant eyes -flashed a flame of fire into his dark ones; and curiously enough, a -color rose in the pale cheeks of the man ere Alixe had thought to catch -the flush of maiden modesty. Perhaps no one in the room had noted the -contretemps. At any rate, Flammecœur, taking a quick glance to see, -found none looking at him in more than ordinary curiosity; whereupon his -debonair self-possession flew back to him, and, turning again to Madame -Eleanore, he presently sat down to table and began his meal. While he -ate, and his appetite was excellent, he found space to converse with -every one about him; and had a smile for all, from madame to the shyest -of the demoiselles. Out of courtesy for their hospitality, he gave a -somewhat careless and rambling but nevertheless highly entertaining -account of some of his wanderings, and was amused to see how the young -demoiselles hung on his words. Only upon Alixe did he waste his efforts, -for she paid scant attention to him, listening just enough to escape the -charge of rudeness. And Flammecœur was man enough and vain enough to get -himself into something of a pique about her in this first hour of his -coming to Le Crépuscule. - -When the stranger had had his say, and proved himself sufficiently -“trouvère,” the general after-feast of song and story began. Both tale -and song were of that day,—broad enough for modern ears, but of their -time unusually mild, and of the character that was to be heard from -ladies’ lips. Burliest henchman and slenderest squire alike tuned his -verse for the ears of Madame Eleanore to hear; and the wanderer, -Flammecœur, noted this fact astutely, and so much approved of it that, -while dwarf David’s fairy tale went on, he took a quick resolve that he -would make a temporary home for himself in this Castle. - -In the course of time Flammecœur was asked for a song. Yvain brought his -lute to him, and he tuned the instrument while he pleaded excuse from a -long chanson. When he began, however, his voice showed small sign of -fatigue. He sang a low, swinging melody of his own composing, fitted to -words once used in a Court of Love in the south,—a delicate bit of -versification dealing with dreams. And so delicately did he perform his -task that perfect silence followed its close. - -A moment later there was a sharp round of applause; for these Bretons -had never heard such a chansonette in all their cold-country lives. -Before anything more could be demanded, Flammecœur, satisfied with the -impression already made, sprang to his feet, and turned to Eleanore, -saying: “Lady, I crave permission for me and my squire to seek our rest. -We have ridden many leagues to-day, and at early dawn must be up and off -again.” - -Eleanore rose and gave him her hand to kiss. “Sieur Flammecœur, we -render thee thanks for our pleasure, and give ye God’s sleep. Hither, -Foulque! Light the Sieur Trouvère and his boy to thy room, and sleep -thou this night with Robert Meloc.” - -The young squire bowed and fetched a torch from the wall. Yvain came -running to his master’s side; and presently, to the deep regret of all -the demoiselles, the three disappeared into the “long room,” from which -a hallway led to the squires’ rooms. - -In spite of Bertrand’s words about his early departure on the following -morning, he and Yvain did not go that day. Neither did they depart on -the next, nor within that week. On the morning after his arrival the -minstrel confessed, readily enough, though with seeming reluctance, that -he had no particular objective point in his journeying; that he but -travelled for adventure, for love of his lady, and that it was his mind -to linger around St. Nazaire or the coast till spring should give an -opening into Normandy. Madame Eleanore would not hear of it that he -should seek lodgings in St. Nazaire. There was strong tradition of -hospitality in Le Crépuscule,—ordinarily a lonely place enough; and its -châtelaine eagerly besought the Flaming-heart to lodge with her till -spring—and longer if he would. And after that she put him, forsooth, -into the Bishop’s chamber on the ground-floor, gave Yvain an adjoining -closet, and would take no refusal that he go hawking in the early -afternoon with all the young squires of the Castle. - -Bertrand took to his life at the Twilight Castle with a grace, an ease, -and, withal, a tact that won him every heart within the first three days -of his residence there. He was a man of the broad world, such an one as -these simple Breton folk had not known before; for Seigneur Gerault did -not travel like this fellow, and had none of his manner for setting -forth tales. The young squires, the men-at-arms, the henchmen, the very -cooks and scullions, listened open-mouthed and open-eyed at the stories -he told of adventure and love, of distant countries, of kings and courts -and mighty wars. Besides this, he could manage a horse or a sword like -any warrior knight; he was deep learned in falconry; he could track a -hare or a fox through the most impossible furze; and he could read like -a monk and write like a scribe. As for his accomplishments with the -other sex, they were too many to mention. Before evening of the second -day every woman in the Castle from Madame Eleanore down, save, for some -mysterious reason, Alixe, was at his feet, confessing her utter -subjection. His soft Southern speech, the exquisite Langue d’Oc, used in -Brittany as French was used in England; his clean, dark, fine-featured -face; his glowing eyes; his love-laden manner, that ever dared and never -presumed; finally, what, in all ages, has seemed to prove most -attractive to women in men, a suggestion of past libertinism,—all these -things combined to make him utterly irresistible to the feminine heart. - -Such a life of never-ending adulation, of universal admiration, was a -paradise to the troubadour, in whom inordinate vanity was the strongest -and most carefully concealed characteristic. So long as he should be the -centre of interest, he was never bored. But when he was not the central -object, there were just two people in all the Castle that did not bore -him unendurably. One of these was Madame Eleanore, in liking whom he -betrayed exceptional taste; the other was Alixe, who had piqued him into -attention. His admiration for madame was not wholly unnatural; for -Bertrand Flammecœur, love-child as he was, and filled with unholy -passions, was, nevertheless, as his singing showed, a man of refinement -and gentle blood. His feeling for Alixe was keen, because it was -unsatisfactory. She was at no pains to conceal her dislike for him, and -it was her greatest pleasure to whip a pretty speech of his to rags with -irony. He plied her with every art he knew, tried every mood upon her, -and to Alixe’s glory be it said, she never betrayed, by look or word, -that she had anything for him more than, at best, contemptuous -indifference. And after a week of effort the minstrel was obliged to -confess to himself that never before, in all his adventures, had he met -with so complete a rebuff from any woman. - -He did not, even then, entirely relax his efforts. One morning, ten days -after his arrival, he was passing the chapel, a small octagonal room -opening off the great hall just beside the stairs, when he perceived -Alixe within. She was alone; and as he turned into the doorway she was -just rising from her knees. Unconscious of his presence, she remained -standing before the altar looking upon the crucifix, her hands fervently -clasped before her. After watching her for a moment in silence, -Flammecœur began to move noiselessly across the little room, and was at -her very shoulder before he said softly,— - -“A fair good morn to thee, my demoiselle.” - -Alixe wheeled about. “A prayerful one to thee, Sir Minstrel!” she said -sharply, and would have left him but that, smiling, he held her back. - -“Nay, ma mie, nay, be pleased to remain for a moment’s love-look.” Alixe -merely shrugged at his teasing mockery, whereupon he became serious. -“Listen, mademoiselle, and explain this matter to me. Is all this Castle -under a vow of unceasing prayer? Piety beseems a damsel well enow; yet -never have I seen a household so devout. Madame Châtelaine repeats her -prayers five times a day; and the step before the altar here is ever -weighted by some ardent maid or squire. Ohé! Love in the south; prayer -in the north. Rose of Langue d’Oc,—snows of Langue d’Oïl. Tell me, Dame -Alixe, which likes thy heart the most, customs of my land or of thine?” - -“This is all the land I know. And as for thee—well, if thou’rt a true -man of the south, methinks I would remain here,” she retorted -discourteously, giving him eye for eye. - -“I do not my country so much despite to say its men are all like me,” -returned the Flame-hearted, smoothly, in an inward rage. “Yet I could -tell thee tales of thy cold Normandy that are not all of ice. Methinks -this cheerless Breton coast is the mother of melancholy; for shine the -sun never so brightly, it cannot melt the soul that hath been frozen -under its past winter’s sky. But, Demoiselle Alixe,”—Flammecœur dropped -his anger, and took on a sudden tone of exceeding interest,—“Demoiselle -Alixe, I hold in my heart a great curiosity concerning thee. I see thee -here living as a daughter of the house; yet art thou called Rieuse. Now, -wast thou born in Crépuscule?” - -Alixe regarded him with half-closed eyes. Never had she resented -anything in him half so much as this question. Yet she replied to him in -a tone as smooth as his own: “Yea, truly I am of Le Crépuscule, by heart -and love. But I am not of the Twilight blood. I was born on the Castle -lands. I am the foster-sister of the Demoiselle Laure.” - -“Laure?” - -“Sooth, hast thou not heard of Laure, the daughter of madame?” - -“Nay. Is she dead, this maid?” - -“She is a nun.” - -“Ah! ’Tis the same.” - -“Not for us here. Thou must know she is but newly consecrated; and she -is to be permitted to come home, here, to the Castle, once in a -fortnight, to see madame her mother. On the morrow she will come for the -first time since her novitiate began, nine months agone.” - -“Sang Dieu! Now know I why the Castle breathes with prayer. Madame would -make all things holy enough to receive her. She cannot be old, this -Laure, sith she is thy foster-sister?” - -“I am older than she. Also, an I remain longer from the tapestry, I -shall be caused to make you do half my daily task as a punishment for -keeping me tardy. Give ye God-den, fair sir, and pleasant prayers!” And -with a flutter and an unholy laugh, Alixe had whirled past him and was -gone out of the chapel. - -Flammecœur looked after her, but for the first time felt no inclination -for pursuit. Perhaps this was because, for the first time, Alixe had -given him something besides herself to think about. This daughter of -Madame Eleanore and her peculiar vocation interested him extremely. It -was quite surprising to find how interested one could become in little -matters, after a few days in Le Crépuscule. So Flammecœur presently -marched off to the armory in search of Yvain, and, finding him, he -questioned the little squire minutely as to the gossip of the keep -concerning the Demoiselle Laure. Was she mis-shapen? This was the only -excuse for entering a nunnery that occurred to the Flame-hearted. Yvain -had not heard that she was deformed. Was she crossed in love? Mayhap; -but Yvain had not heard it. Flammecœur shrugged his shoulders. The -enigma was not solved. It mattered little enough, anyway. Alixe had -jilted him again. Heigho! He ordered his horse, and went to seek a -falcon. While in the falcon-house he remembered that this nun was coming -to the Castle on the morrow, and he decided that he would have a sight -of her when she arrived. - -Not unnaturally Bertrand Flammecœur had taken on the state of mind of -the whole Castle. Mademoiselle was coming home on the morrow. Every one -knew it, for a message had arrived on the previous day from Monseigneur -the Bishop of St. Nazaire, and Le Crépuscule was in a state of unwonted -excitement. The word came to madame as less of a surprise than as an -overwhelming relief, and a joy that had some bitterness in it. It had -rested with St. Nazaire whether her child should come home to see her -twice in the month! Ah, well, she was coming; she would lie in her -mother’s arms; the Castle would echo again to the music of her voice! -Thus through the whole day madame sat dreaming of the morrow, nor -noticed the tardy arrival of Alixe in the spinning-room, nor how, all -morning, Isabelle and Viviane whispered and smiled and idled over their -tasks. - -Now, if Madame Eleanore’s heart and brain were full to overflowing with -the dreams of Laure, how feverish with longing came the thought of home, -home though for one little hour, to the prisoner herself! On the night -before her going, as, indeed, on many nights of late, Laure could not -sleep. Her eyes stared wide open into the night, while her mind traced -outlines of Le Crépuscule in the soft darkness. Ah! the dearly loved -halls and their blessed company, all that she had not seen for nearly -nine months, and on the morrow should see again! Her brain burned with -impatience. She tossed and tumbled on her hard and narrow bed. Finally, -long ere the hour for matins, she rose and went to sit at the window of -her cell, looking out upon the clear and frosty winter’s night. How the -hours passed till prime she scarcely knew. But at a quarter to five, -when matins were over, she went down into the church for first service, -wearing short riding-shoes under her white robe, with her hair bound -tight beneath her coif and veil, for galloping. During the simple -prayer-service, she got twenty penitential Aves for inattention, and -read added reproof in the eyes of Mère Piteuse. At length, however, it -came to be the hour for the breaking of the fast, and Laure found -opportunity to speak to the Sœur Eloise, who was to follow her as -attendant and protectress on the road to Crépuscule. Stupid, stolid, -faithful, low of birth and therefore much in awe of Laure, was this -little nun; and had the Mother-prioress been worldly wise, it had not -been she that followed Laure into the world this bright and bitter -January morning. - -At a quarter to eight o’clock the two young women mounted their palfreys -at the convent gate, and were off into the snow-filled forest, while -behind them echoed gentle admonitions to unceasing prayer. Feeling a -saddle under her once again, and a strong white horse bearing her along -over a well-beaten road, Laure drew a breath that seemed to have no end. -And as her lungs filled with God’s free air, she pressed one hand to her -throat to ease the terrible ache of rising tears. How long it was since -she had felt free to move her limbs! How long since she had traversed -this shaded road! Eloise did not trouble her. The lay sister was too -occupied in clinging to the mane of her horse to venture speech; and she -looked at her high-born companion with mingled awe and admiration as she -saw her urge her beast into a trot. The convent animal had an easy gait, -and appeared to possess possibilities in the way of speed. Laure touched -him a little with her spur. The creature responded well. A moment later -Eloise turned pale with fright to see her lady strike the spur home in -earnest, and go flying wildly down the road till she was presently lost -among the thick snow-laden trees. - -Laure was happy now. She found herself not much encumbered with her -dress, which had been “modified” in obedience to the law for conduct -outside the convent. Her gown and mantle were of the usual cut, and she -was girdled by her rosary; but her head was covered with a close-fitting -black hood from which fell a short white veil, two edges of which were -pinned beneath her chin, giving her, though she did not know it, a -delightfully softened expression. After she had left Eloise behind, she -continued to increase the speed of her animal till she had all but lost -control of him. Fifteen minutes later she was out of the forest and -running along a heavily packed road, bordered on either side with a thin -line of trees, beyond which stretched broad fields and moorlands, among -which, somewhere, the priory estate ended and that of Le Crépuscule -began. Eloise was now a mile behind; but Laure had no thought for her. -Her breath was coming short no less with emotion than with the exercise; -for the image of her mother was before her eyes. She let her mind search -where it would, through sweet and yearning depths; and her heart was -filled with thanksgiving for this hour of freedom. She was nearing that -place where the Rennes highway joined that of St. Nazaire, both of them -uniting at the Castle road, which led to the Chateau by a long and -winding ascent. Presently the Chateau became visible; and Laure, looking -on it with all her soul in her eyes, took no heed of the slow-moving -horseman ahead of her, on whom she was rapidly gaining. Indeed, neither -was aware of the presence of the other, till Laure’s horse, scenting -company, made a short dash of a hundred yards, and then came into a -sudden walk beside the animal bestrode by Bertrand Flammecœur of -Provence. The suddenness of the horse’s stop caused Laure to jerk -heavily forward. Flammecœur leaned over and caught her bridle. At that -moment their eyes met. - -A flush of vivid pink overspread Laure’s lily face. She shrank quickly -away from the look in Flammecœur’s eyes. Then her hand went up to her -dishevelled hair; and she tried confusedly to straighten it back. - -“Take not such pains, reverend lady. By the glory of the saints, thou -couldst not make thyself as lovely as God’s world hath made -thee!—Prithee, heed me not!” - -Laure gave a little gasp at the man’s daring; yet such was Flammecœur’s -manner that she did not find herself offended. Presently she had the -impulse to give him a sideways glance; and then, all untutored as she -was, she read the lively admiration that was written in his face. After -that her hands came down from her head, and she took up her bridle -again, by the act causing him to relinquish it. “The Sœur Eloise is -behind me. I fear that I did much outdistance her,” she said, with a -demureness through which a smile was very near to breaking. - -Flammecœur looked at her with a peculiar pleasure, a pleasure that he -had not often experienced. His immediate impulse was to put a still -greater distance between them and Eloise; but prudence came happily to -his aid. “Let us stop here till thine attendant comes, while thy horse -breathes,” he said, bringing his animal to a gentle halt. - -Laure acquiesced at once, and did not analyze her little momentary qualm -as one of disappointment. Nevertheless, her face grew white again, and -she said not a word through the ten minutes they had to wait till Eloise -came riding heavily out of the wood. The other nun looked infinitely -startled at the sight of Flammecœur, and was muttering a prayer while -she stared from Laure to the trouvère. As soon, however, as she came, -the others reined their horses about, and immediately, in the most -remarkable silence that the Provençal had ever experienced, proceeded up -the hill and into the Castle courtyard. - -In this wise they reached the Chateau, and Laure came to her own again. -She found herself surrounded by every one and everything that she had so -unspeakably yearned for; and—they made little impression on her. She -walked among them like one in a dream, striving in vain to free her mind -from its encompassing mists. When she was alone with her mother, in -Eleanore’s familiar and beloved room, Laure felt in herself an -inexplicable insincerity. She clung to madame, and wept, and kissed her, -and expressed in eager, disjointed phrases the great joy she felt in -being at home again; and all the while she scarce knew what she said, or -wherefore she said it. And in the end she gave such an impression of -hysteria that her mother became seriously distressed. - -At dinner Laure’s manner changed. She was quiet and silent, and kept her -eyes fixed continually on her plate. Her cheeks were burning and she was -in a tumult of inward emotion that displayed itself in the most unwonted -stupidity. Her mother never dreamed the reason for her mood. Curiously -enough, Alixe read Laure better, though she scarcely dared admit to -herself that which she saw. No look of Flammecœur’s, nor quick flush of -the young nun’s face escaped her eyes, yet neither then nor ever after -did Alixe confess to any one what she read; for her own heart was too -much wrought upon for speech. - -Dinner ended, and with that end came the hour for Laure’s return to the -convent. The girl realized this with a chill at her heart, but accepted -the inevitable resignedly. It was with a sense of desolation that she -followed Eloise out of the Castle to the courtyard where their horses -were waiting. Her parting with her mother was filled with grief of the -sincerest kind. She wept and clung to Madame Eleanore, gasping out -convulsive promises to return as soon as the rule permitted. She said -good-bye to Alixe as tenderly as to her mother, for the two maidens were -fast friends; she kissed all the demoiselles, was kissed by the young -squires-at-arms; and it was a sudden relief to her, in this rush of -home-feeling, that Flammecœur was nowhere to be seen, he and Yvain -having disappeared immediately after dinner. - -Much to the satisfaction of Eloise, who endured a good deal of -discomfort when she was in high places, Laure finally mounted her -palfrey, and the two of them started away, waving good-byes all across -the courtyard and drawbridge, and indeed until Eleanore, leaning heavily -on Alixe’s arm, turned to re-enter the Castle. - -The nuns began their descent of the long hill at a slow, jogging trot; -and presently Eloise remarked comfortably,— - -“Reverend Mother enjoined us to repeat the hours as we ride. But so -didst thou gallop on the way hither, Sister Angelique, and so out of -breath was I with trotting after, that I said no more than the first -part of one Ave. Therefore let us return at a more seemly pace, that we -may rightly tell our beads,” and the stolid sister settled her horse -into a slower walk, and sighed comprehensively as she thought of the -dinner she had eaten and the sweetmeats that were hidden in her tunic. - -Laure did not answer her. She fingered her rosary dutifully, and her -lips mechanically repeated the prayers. But her thoughts were no more on -what she said than they were upon food. Her face was drawn and whiter -even than its wont, and she sat her horse with a weary air. She was -making no struggle against the inevitable. In her soul she knew that she -must be strong enough to endure her lot; but she could make no pretence -to herself that that lot was pleasant. - -The two were a long time in their descent of the hill, and it was -mid-afternoon when they reached the bend in the road that hid the -Chateau from sight. Laure was not looking ahead; rather, when she -looked, her eyes noticed nothing. But suddenly Eloise started from her -prayers and uttered an exclamation: “Saints of God! There is that man -again!” - -A quick, cold tremor passed over Laure, and she trembled violently. -There in the road, fifty yards away, both of them on horseback, were -Flammecœur and his page. - -Eloise began a series of weak and rapid expostulations. Laure sat like a -statue in her saddle. Nothing was done till the two young women came -abreast of the troubadour and his boy. Then, with a rapid and adroit -movement, young Yvain wheeled his horse between Laure and Eloise, and -presently fell back with Eloise’s animal beside him, while Bertrand -Flammecœur drew up beside Laure. The man was white with nervousness, and -he bent toward her and said in a low voice: “Sister of angels, grant me -pardon for this act!” - -Laure had gone all aflame. Her heart was beating tremulously and her dry -throat contracted so that she could not speak. But looking, for one -fleeting instant, into his face, she smiled. - -Flammecœur could have laughed for joy, for he saw that his cause was -won. And the ease of this conquest did not make him contemptuous of it; -for however little he understood it, there was that in this childlike -nun that made him hold his breath with reverence before her. The hour -that followed their second meeting was almost as new to him as to her, -in the stretch of emotions. They spoke very little. From behind them -came the continual, droll chatter of Yvain and the answering giggles of -Eloise. But Laure could not have laughed, and the trouvère knew it. As -they entered the forest, however, at no great distance from the priory, -he leaned far over and laid one of his gloved hands upon the tunic that -covered her knee. - -[Illustration: - - _The whole Castle had assembled to say - God-speed to their departing lord.—Page 25_ -] - -“Let me have some gage,—some token of thee,” he said in a hoarse and -unsteady tone. - -“I cannot! Oh, I cannot!” - -He did not urge, but resignedly drew his hand away; and as Laure’s body -made the little, involuntary movement of following him, he contained his -joy with an effort. - -Now the white priory was visible from afar, among the leafless trees; -and so Laure, reining in her horse, turned to her companion: “Thou must -leave us at once,” she whispered, trembling. - -He bent his head, and drew his horse to a standstill. At the same time -Yvain and Eloise rode up, having just pledged themselves to eternal -devotion. After a moment’s hesitation, Flammecœur leaned again toward -Laure, asking, this time fearfully,— - -“Wilt thou tell me, lady, in what part of the convent is thy cell?” - -She looked at him, wondering, but answered what he wanted, and then -waited, in silence, praying that he would ask another question. He sat, -however, with his head bent over so that she could not see his face, and -he said nothing more. Laure sighed, looked up into the wintry sky, -looked down to the snow-covered earth, felt the pall of her frozen life -closing around her once again, and then got a sudden, blind -determination that that life should not smother the little, creeping -flame that had to-day been lighted in her heart. Looking sidewise at -Flammecœur, who sat bowed upon his horse, she whispered,— - -“Shall we—see—each other yet again?” - -“By all the saints—and God—we shall! We shall!” - -“Alas, Angelique, we are late for vespers! Haste!” cried Eloise, in the -same moment. - -Laure sent the spur into her palfrey, which leaped forward like the -stone from a sling. Eloise followed after her at a terrifying pace, and -the troubadour and his page stood and watched them till they were lost -among the trees. The two reached the priory gate almost together; and -before they were admitted, Eloise, her face flushed and her eyes -shining, whispered imploringly to Laure: “Confess it not! Confess it -not! Else shall we never go again!” - -To this plea Laure had no time to make reply; but the other, seeing her -manner, had, somehow, no fear that she would betray herself, and with -her the delicious love-prattlings of Yvain. - -They found vespers just at an end, and were reproved for their tardy -return. Eloise retreated to her cell at once, to repeat her penitential -Aves of the morning, and Laure retired ostensibly for the same purpose. - -Once alone in her cell, the young girl took off her riding-garments,—the -unusual cap and veil, boots, gloves, and spur,—and put them carefully -away in her oaken chest. Afterwards she straightened her bliault and her -hair, set her image of the Virgin straight upon its shelf, and moved the -priedieu a little more accurately between the door and her bed. Then, -standing up, she looked about her. There was nothing more to do. She was -alone with her heart, and she could no longer escape from thinking. So -she sat down on the bed, folded her hands upon her knees, and in this -wise twisted out the meaning of her day, till she found in her secret -soul that the unspeakable, the unholy, the most glorious, had come to -her, to fill the great void of her empty life. - - - - -[Illustration] - - _CHAPTER FOUR_ - THE PASSION - -[Illustration] - - -In the evening of the day of that momentous visit, after compline was -over, and she was in her bed in her cell, Laure yielded herself up to -sleep only after a rebellious struggle; she wished intensely to lie -awake with her wonderful thoughts. Sleep prevailed, however, and was -sound and dreamless; for she was physically tired out. - -At two in the morning came the first boom of the church bell pulled by -the sleep-laden sexton,—the beginning of the call to matins. The night -was very black; and only after two or three minutes did Laure struggle -up from her bed, trembling with that dead, numb feeling that results -from being roused too suddenly from heavy unconsciousness. Mechanically -the young girl felt about for her lantern and opened the door into the -dimly lit corridor. There were half a dozen nuns and novices grouped -about the stone lamp which burned all night on the wall, and from which -the sisters were accustomed to light their cressets for matins. Laure -waited her turn in a dazed manner, and when she had obtained the light, -went back to her cell, left the door unclosed according to rule, and, -placing the lantern on the small table, knelt at her priedieu. - -So far her every move had been mechanical. Her brain was not yet awake. -But, with the first words of the Agnus Dei, the full memory of yesterday -suddenly flashed upon her. She had been at home, and had found there -Flammecœur!—Flammecœur! Her own heart flamed up, and the prayer died -away from it. Her lips moved on, and the murmur of her voice continued -to swell the low chorus that spread through the whole priory. But Laure -was not speaking those words. Her whole mind and heart had turned -irrevocably to another subject,—to another god, the little, rosy-winged -boy that finds his way into the sternest places, and lights them with -his magic presence till they are changed for their inhabitants beyond -recognition. Strictly speaking, Laure was not thinking of the trouvère. -Her thoughts refused to review him in the light of her knowledge of him. -She would not think of his personality,—his face, eyes, form, or manner. -Her heart shrank from anything so bold. She refused to question herself. -Yet her mind was full of him, and the other subject in her thoughts was -this: that in eleven days more, were God pitying to her, she should, -perhaps—ever perhaps—see him again. - -When matins and lauds were over, the sisters returned to bed till the -hour for dressing, a quarter to five. Laure was accustomed to sleep -soundly through this period. But to-day she refused to close her eyes. -Nay, it was ecstasy to her to lie dreaming of many old, vague things -that had scarce any connection with her new heart, and yet would have -had no place at all with her had they not carried as an undercurrent the -image of that same new god. - -All day Laure went about with a song in her soul. Why she should have -been glad, who can say? What possible hope for happiness there was for -her, what idea of any finale save one of grief, resignation, or despair, -she never thought to ask herself. She let her new happiness take -possession of her without stopping to analyze it. And it was as well -that she did no analyzing. For a logical process would inevitably have -brought her to the beginning of these things, to the moment, the -ineffable moment, when the hand of Flammecœur had first rested on her -own. - -This first morning passed away. Dinner was eaten, and recreation time -came. Now Eloise persistently sought Laure’s company; and Laure, with -equal persistence and quite remarkable adroitness, avoided her. The -young nun knew, from the face of Eloise, that there were a thousand -silly thoughts ready to come out of her; and Laure could not bear to -have her own delicate, rainbow dreams so crudely disturbed. And there -was something more about the presence of Eloise that disturbed the -daughter of Le Crépuscule; this was the understanding between them that -they should not confess the real reason for their tardy arrival on the -previous day. Laure had made up her mind, tacitly, to confess -nothing—yet. But she did not like to be reminded of the fact. - -That night Laure successfully resisted the dictates of sleep, with the -result that, all next day, she felt dull and weak. When dinner and sext -were over, and recreation came, she obtained ready permission to retire -to her cell instead of going to the garden or the court or the library -with the other nuns. Once alone and safe from the attacks of Eloise, who -was becoming importunate, she lay down on her bed and sank, almost at -once, to rest. While she slept, the sun came out upon the outer world, -and poured its beams over the chill valley beyond the priory. The gray, -lowering clouds were broken up. The heavens shone blue, and the -ice-crust shimmered with myriad, sparkling diamonds. No sunlight could -enter the cell of sleep; for it was afternoon, and the single little -window looked toward the east. But after nearly an hour of shining -stillness, there came a sound from the frozen vale that was more -beautiful than sunlight. It reached Laure’s ears, and woke her. She rose -up, hearkening incredulously for a moment, and then, with a smothered -cry of delight, threw herself forward again on the bed, and laughed and -moaned together into the cold sheets. - -From below, just outside her window, rose a voice, a tenor voice, high -and clear and mellow, singing a chanson of the south to the -accompaniment of a six-stringed lute. After a few seconds Laure ventured -to raise her head and listen. With a thrill of ecstasy she caught the -words,— - - “_Ele ot plain le visage, si fu encolorez; - Les iex vairs et riants, lonc et traités le nez; - La bouche vermeillête, le menton forcelé; - Le col plain et blanc plus que n’est flor de pré._” - -At this point in the familiar song, sung with a fervor she had never -dreamed of, Laure rose involuntarily from the bed, and, redder than any -flower, stole to the window. Timidly, her heart beating so that she was -like to choke, she looked out into the snowy clearing. Just beneath her, -in the shadow of the wall, so close that a whisper from him might easily -have been heard, stood Flammecœur. - -He was scanning closely the row of cell windows above him, hoping -against hope for a sight of Laure’s face. Ignorant as he was of convent -hours, he knew that he had but the barest chance of making her hear; and -that there was less than this chance of seeing her. Thus when Laure’s -face, framed in its soft white veil, looked out to him, Flammecœur -experienced a rush of emotion that was overpowering. She inspired him -with a reverence that he had not known he could feel for any woman. Her -face was so glorified in his eyes that she looked like an image of the -Holy Virgin. Breaking off in the middle of the song, he fell upon his -knees there in the snow, uttering incoherent and indistinguishable -phrases of adoration. - -Flammecœur was theatrical enough; also he was hard, utterly -unscrupulous, and a scoffer at holy things. His only idol was his love -for beauty. This was his religion, and he had worshipped it consistently -from boyhood. Now he had found its almost perfect embodiment in this -girl, in whom innocence, purity, youth, and beauty were inextricably -mingled. And Flammecœur strove to adjust his rather callous spirit to -hers, feeling that he would sooner breathe his last than shock her -delicacy—till he had attained his end. - -Now, in the dying sunlight, the two talked together; and in the light of -his new reverence the young nun lost a little of her timidity and made -open confession in her looks, though never in her words, of her delight -in his presence. - -“Tell me, O Maiden of Angels,” he said, addressing her in a term that at -once brought them both a sense of familiarity and of pleasure, “tell me, -is this thy regular hour of solitude? Could I—might I hope—to see thee -often here—hold speech with thee—without endangering thy devotions?” - -“Nay, verily!” whispered Laure, hastily. “Oh, thou must not come! Nay, I -am supposed to be with the other sisters at this hour of recreation. -Only to-day was I permitted—” - -“And didst thou think of me? Hopest thou I would come? Didst think—” - -“Monsieur!” Laure’s tone was reproachful and embarrassed. - -“Forgive me! Though verily I know not how I have offended thee!” - -Laure was about to utter her reproach when suddenly, around the corner -of the wall, appeared the head of Flammecœur’s horse. All at once, at -this apparition, the old spirit of freedom and the old love of liberty -rushed over her. “Ah, would that I might leap down there into the snow, -and mount with thee thy steed, and ride, and ride, and ride back to my -home in Le Crépuscule!” she cried out, utterly forgetful of herself and -of her position. - -Instantly Flammecœur seized her mood. “By all the saints, come on!” he -cried. “I will catch thee in mine arms; and we will ride! We will ride -and ride—not back—” - -“Alas! Now Heaven forgive me! What have I said? Farewell, monsieur! -Indeed, farewell!” - -And ere Flammecœur could grasp her sudden revulsion of feeling, she was -gone; the window above him was empty. He stayed where he was for some -moments, meditating on what plea would be successful. Finally, deciding -silence the surer part, he remounted his horse and turned slowly to the -west, through the chill evening, doing battle with himself. He found -that he was unable to cope with the flame that this pretty nun had -kindled in his brain. His anger rose against her, to be once more -overtopped by passion. And had he not been so occupied in trying to -regain sufficient self-control to make some safe plan of action, he -might have known himself for the knave he surely was. - -In the priory three days went prayerfully by; and at the end of that -time Laure found herself sick with misery. Flammecœur had laid hold of -her heart, and her struggles against the thought of him began to grow -stronger; for she longed to escape from her present state of madness. -Incredible as it may seem, she never had, in connection with him, one -single tainted thought. Laure was a peculiarly innocent girl,—innocent -even of any unshaped desire or longing. The force of her nature had -always found relief in physical activity. In her home life all things -had been clean and free before her. And in the convent the teaching that -emotion was sin had been accepted by her without thought. Nevertheless, -in her, all unwaked, there lay a broad, passionate nature that needed -but a quickening touch to throw her into such depths as, were she taken -unawares, would eventually drag her to her doom. Her ignorance was -pitiable; and even now she had entered alone upon a dark stretch of -road, the end of which she did not herself know, and which none could -prophesy to her. - -Three days of unhappiness, of battle with herself, and of longing for a -sight of Flammecœur, and then—he came. Again it was the recreation hour, -and Laure was in the garden, walking in the cold with one or two of the -sisters. Her thoughts had strayed from the general chatter, and her -eyes, like her mind, looked afar off. Her companions, rather accustomed -to Angelique’s vagaries, paid little attention to her, and she pursued -her reverie uninterrupted. Suddenly, from out of the snowy stillness, a -sound reached her ears. For an instant her heart ceased to beat; and she -halted in her walk. Yes, Flammecœur was singing, somewhere near. It was -the same chanson, and it came from the other side of the priory. He must -be where he had been before. She looked at the faces of the nuns beside -her. Did they not also hear? How dull, how intensely dull they were! She -went on for a few steps undecidedly. Then she halted. - -“I had forgot,” she said quietly. “I must to my cell. I have five Aves -to repeat for inattention at the reading of St. Elizabeth this morning.” - -“Methought they were to be said in chapter,” observed one of her -companions, indifferently. - -“Nay; Reverend Mother gave permission,—in my cell,” answered Laure, -rather weakly; for she saw that she should get into difficulty if any -one mentioned this matter again. However, Flammecœur’s voice was singing -still and, flinging care to the winds, she made a hasty escape. - -Fifteen minutes later she was in the church, kneeling at the shrine of -St. Joseph. She said twenty Aves there before she rose, yet got no -comfort from them. For twenty Aves is small salve to the conscience for -the first guilty deceit of one’s life. - -That evening was not wholly a pleasant one; yet Laure underwent fierce -gusts of happiness. She had seen him again; she had held speech with -him, and had smiled when he looked at her. She felt his looks like -caresses, and was half ashamed and half enamoured of them. Her night was -filled with a tumult of dreams; and when day dawned again she was hot -with the fever of unrest. - -Days went by, and then weeks, and finally two months, and March was on -the world. Hints of spring were borne down the breeze. The deeply frozen -earth began slowly, slowly to throw off its weight of ice, and to open -its breast to the warm touches of the sun. The black, bare branches of -the forest trees waved about uncannily, like gaunt arms, beckoning to -the distant summer. And in all this time the situation of the little nun -of Crépuscule had not changed. The troubadour still lingered at the -Chateau, a welcome guest. And still he haunted the priory, unknown to -any one save her whom he continually sought. As yet he had done nothing, -said not one word that betrayed his intentions. He had waited patiently -till the time should be ripe; and now that time approached. Laure had -endured a life of secret torture, but had not succeeded in throwing off -the shackles she had voluntarily put on. Nay, she confessed now to -herself that, without his occasional coming, she could not have lived. -She chafed at their restricted intercourse. She longed to meet him where -she could put her hands into his, where she could listen to the sound of -his voice without the terror of discovery. All this Flammecœur had read -in her, but still he waited till of her own accord she should break her -bonds. - -There came a day in March when the two, Laure and Flammecœur, with -Eloise and her now very _bel ami_, Yvain, were riding from Crépuscule to -the priory. As they went, the spring sun sent its beams aslant across -the road; and birds, newly arrived from the far south, were site-hunting -among the black trees. The air was filled with the chilly sweetness that -made one dizzy with dreams of coming summer; and both Laure and the -trouvère grew slowly intoxicated as they rode side by side, so close -that his knee touched her palfrey’s flank. Behind them, Yvain and Eloise -were still discussing their love-notions. The afternoon was misty with -approaching sunset. In the radiant golden light, Laure’s heart grew big -with unshed tears of life; and before the sobs came, Flammecœur, leaning -far toward her, whispered thickly,— - -“Thou must come to me alone! I must have thee alone. I must know thy -lips. ’Fore God, refuse me not, thou greatly beloved!” - -Laure drew a long, shivering breath and looked slowly into his face. Her -eyes rested full upon his, and she did not speak, but he read her reply. - -“Where shall I come to-night?” he asked. - -“To-night!” - -“Assuredly. To-night. Dieu! Thinkest thou that I can stand aloof from -thee forever? Thinkest thou my blood is water in my veins? To-night!” - -Laure mused a little, her eyes looking afar off, as if she dreamed. She -brought them back to him with a start. “To-night—by starlight—in the -convent garden. Canst thou climb the wall?” - -“Ah! thou shalt see!” - -Laure’s heart palpitated with the look he gave her, and she sat silent -under it, while, bit by bit, all her training, all her year of precepts, -all herself, her womanhood, her truth, her steadfastness to -righteousness, slipped away from her under the spell of this most -powerful of all emotions. And presently she turned to him again with -such an expression of exaltation in her poor face, that his heart warmed -to her with a tenderer feeling. - -“At what hour?” he whispered. - -“One hour after the last tolling of the bell at compline after -confession.” - -“Confession!” the word slipped from him before he thought. He saw Laure -turn first scarlet and then very white; and her lips trembled. - -“Ah, Laure, most beloved, heed it not! If there be any sin in loving as -we love, lay it all on me. For on my soul, I would leave heaven itself -gladly behind for thee! And since God created thee as lovely as thou -art, wert thou not made to be beloved? Look, Laure! see the gray bird -there among the trees! Behold, it is the bird of the Saint Esprit! It is -an omen. It is our heavenly sign; therefore be not afraid.” - -And as Laure promised him, so she did. She understood so well how the -Flaming-heart wanted to be alone with her: did she not also long for -solitude with him? And if they were alone for one hour, God was above. -He saw and He knew all things. Why, then, should she be afraid? - -Therefore Laure went to her cell that night with her soul unshriven, and -a heavy weight upon it of mingled joy and pain. Lying fully dressed upon -her bed, she heard the great bell boom out the close of another day of -praise to God. And when the last vibration had died down the wind, and -the sexton had wended her pious way to bed, Laure rose, and prepared -herself to go out into the garden. All that she had to do was to wrap -herself in her mantle and to cover her head with a hood and veil. But -first, following an instinct of dormant conscience, she unwound the -rosary from her waist and hung it on the rail of the priedieu, before -which she had not prayed to-night. Then she sat down upon her bed and -waited,—waited through centuries, through ages, till it seemed to her -that dawn must be about to break. But she felt that should she reach the -garden before the coming of Flammecœur, her heart would fail indeed. -During this time she refused to allow herself to think, though she was -very cold and continued to tremble. Finally, when her nerves would stay -her no longer, she rose and left her cell. The convent was open before -her. The nuns were all asleep. Her sandalled feet made no noise upon the -stones, and she passed in safety through corridors and rooms till she -reached the library, from which there was an open exit to the garden. - -In the doorway she paused and looked out upon the pale moonlit scene. -Her heart was beating quite steadily now, and she was able to consider -almost with calmness the possibility that she was early. The light from -the half-moon fell upon her where she stood, and suddenly she beheld a -dark-cloaked figure run out of the shrubbery by the northwestern wall -and come hurrying toward her. At the same moment she herself started -forward, half fearfully. A moment later she was caught in Flammecœur’s -arms, and a rain of kisses beat down upon her face. - -Gasping, crimson, horrified, she tore herself away from the embrace with -the strength of one outraged. - -“Stop! In God’s name, stop! Wouldst do me dishonor?” she cried out, in -an anger that bordered upon tears. - -“Dishonor! Mon Dieu! wherefore, prithee, camest thou into this garden, -then? Was it to stand here in this doorway and permit me to scream my -devotion at thee from yonder wall?” - -In her nervousness Laure suddenly laughed. But she was forced back to -gravity, as he went on with a sudden rush of passion,— - -“Laure, Laure, is it thy intent to drive me mad? Faith, what man would -forbear as I have forborne with thee? Thinkest thou any one would wait -for weeks, nay, months, as I have waited, and feel thee at last free and -in his arms, to be instantly thrust away again? Nay, by my soul! Thou -art here, and thou art mine, and I have much to ask of thee. Christ! -Thine eyes! Thy hair! Laure, I shall bear thee away from this -prison-house. I will have thee for all mine own. Thou must leave thy -cell by night, and come to me here. Outside the wall Yvain will wait -with horses; and we will ride away—ride like hounds—out of this land of -tears, southward, into the country of freedom and roses and love! There -we shall dwell together, thou and I—thou and I—Laure, Laure, my sweet! -And who in all God’s earth before hath known such joy as we shall know! -Answer me, Laure, answer me! Say thou’lt come!” - -Once again he took her in his arms, but more calmly now, the force of -his passion having spent itself in words but half articulate. And now he -perceived how she was all trembling and afraid; and so he soothed her -with gentle phrases and tender caresses, for indeed Flammecœur loved -this maid as truly as it was in him to love at all. And it seemed to him -a joy to have the protecting of her. - -“Speak to me, answer me, greatly beloved,” he insisted, drawing her face -up to his. - -Laure clung to him and wept, and did not speak. All that followed was -but a confusion of kisses, of pleadings, of tears and restraints, to -both of them; and presently Laure was struggling from his arms and -crying to him that it was near matins, and she must go. Once again, and -finally, Flammecœur demanded a reply to his plea. There was hesitation, -doubting, evident desire, and very evident fear. Then, staking -everything, he urged her thus,— - -“Listen, Laure. I would not have thee decide all things now in thy mind. -In one week I will be here, as to-night, at the same hour, in this -place; and all things will be prepared for our flight. If thou come to -me before the matins bell rings out, all will be well, and we shall go -forth together into heaven. If thou come not,—why, I have tarried far -too long in this Bretagne, and Yvain and I will go on together into the -world, and thou shalt see me no more forever. Fair choice and honorable -I give thee, for that I love thee better than myself. Now fare thee -well, lady of my heart’s delight. God in His sweet mercy give thee into -my keeping!” - -With a final kiss he put her from him and saw her go; and then he threw -himself over the wall, and set out on his return ride to the Castle by -the sea. - -Laure descended to prime next morning, trembling for fear of unknown -possibilities. But no one in the church saw her muddy sandals; and her -skirts and mantle were not more soiled round the bottom than was -customary with those nuns that took their recreation in the garden. By -the time the breaking of the fast occurred, she was reassured, and felt -herself safe from the consequences of her night. Then, and only then, -did she turn her mind to the choice that she must make during the -ensuing sennight. - -That week was one of terror by night and woe by day. Hourly she resolved -to renounce forever all thoughts of the flesh, confess her sin, and -remain true to the convent for life. For the first three days these -renewals of faith made her strong and stronger. She wept and she prayed -and she hoped for strength; and finally she began to believe that the -Devil was beaten. And yet—and yet—she did not even now confess the story -of her acquaintance with Flammecœur. She said to herself that she would -win this last fight alone; but she did not seek to find if there was -self-deception in that excuse. No one but the girl Eloise had any idea -that there existed such a person as the trouvère; and Eloise was unaware -that Sœur Angelique had ever seen that gallant gentleman save when she -and Yvain were present. Moreover, the stupid one was becoming alarmed -lest the sudden devotional fervor of Demoiselle Angelique should lead to -the cessation of those meetings for which her vague soul so impiously -thirsted. The rest of the sisters perceived Laure’s extra prayers and -rigorous fasting with admiration and approval, and put them down to one -of those sudden rushes of fervor to which young nuns were peculiarly -subject. - -After three days of this devotional effort, the Devil widened his little -wedge of temptation, and roused in her an overpowering desire to see her -lover again. By now she had lost her shame at the first hot kiss ever -laid upon her lips, and—alas, poor humanity!—was longing secretly for -more. So long, however, as Flammecœur was still in Le Crépuscule, she -believed that she could endure everything. But she knew that after four -days he would be there no more; and if she let her chance go, it was the -last she should ever have. Then her mind strayed to the after-picture of -her life here in the nunnery; and at the thought her heart grew numb and -cold. Yet still she fought and prayed, trusting to no one her weight of -temptation, keeping steadfastly to that self-deceptive determination to -finish the battle alone. - -The torturing week came slowly to an end. On the final night, after -compline, she went to her cell feeling like a spirit condemned to -eternal night. Once alone, face to face with her soul, she sat down upon -a chair, bent her head upon her breast, and thought. She did not -extinguish her light, neither did she make preparations for bed. -Unconsciously she set herself to wait through the hour following -compline, as if its finish would bring the end of her trial. The minutes -were passing smoothly by, and there was a great, unuttered cry of terror -in her heart. What should she do? Nay, at the last minute, what _would_ -she do? Here her mind broke. She could think no more. Her brain was a -vacuum. Presently her muscles began to twitch. Her flesh became cold and -damp, and the hot saliva poured into her mouth. Would that hour never -end? - -It ended. By now Flammecœur was in the garden, three hundred feet away. -Flammecœur was waiting for her. Horses were there, and garments for -her,—other garments than these of sickening white wool. How long would -the trouvère wait? Till matins, he had said. But if that were not true? -If he should go before—if he were going _now_! - -Laure started to her feet, halted, hesitated, then sank slowly to her -knees. The first words of a prayer came from her lips; but in the middle -of the phrase she was silent. Prayer was suddenly nothing to her. She -had prayed so much; she had prayed so long! The beauty of appeals to the -Most High was lost just now. She felt all the weight of her -never-satisfied religion upon her, and she revolted at it. For the -moment love itself seemed desirable only in so much as it would get her -away from this place of her hypocrisy. A sudden thought of her mother -came to her. For one moment—two—five—she kept her mind fixed. Then she -sobbed. Flammecœur was below, calling to her with every fibre of his -being. She knew that. She could see him waiting there, her cloak over -his arm. With a low wail she stretched out her arms to the mental image. -Afterwards, scarcely knowing what she did, she knelt down before the -bright-painted picture of the Madonna on the wall of her cell, and -kissed the stones of the floor below it. - -Then she stood up, pressing her hands tightly to her throat to ease the -pain there. She looked around her, and in that look saw everything in -the little stone room that had for so long been her home. Then, removing -from her head the coif, wimple, and veil, the symbols of her virginity, -she extinguished her lantern, and walked, blindly and wearily, out of -her cell. So she passed, without making any noise, through the convent, -into the library, and out—out—out into the garden beyond. - -Instantly Flammecœur was at her side. “Laure!” cried he, half laughing -in his triumph. “Laure! Now we shall go!” - -Over his arm he carried a voluminous black mantle and a close, dark -hood. These he put upon her, getting small assistance in the matter, for -Laure’s movements were wooden, her hands like ice. - -“Now—canst climb the wall with me?” he asked, gazing at her in her -transformation, and noting how pure and white her skin showed in its -dark frame. - -She gasped and bent her head. Thereupon he seized her in his arms and -carried her to the wall. There she surpassed his hopes; for her old, -tomboyish skill suddenly came back to her, and she scrambled up the -rough stones more agilely than he. Once in the road outside the garden, -Flammecœur gave a low whistle. Then, out of the shadow of the wood, on -the north side of the road, came Yvain, riding one steed, and leading -that of Flammecœur, on which were both saddle and pillion. Flammecœur -leaped to his place, and, bending over, held out his hand to Laure. - -“Thou comest freely,” he whispered. - -Laure looked up into his eyes. “Freely,” she answered, surrendering her -soul. - -He laughed again, softly, as she climbed up behind him, by the help of -his feet and his hands. And then, in another moment, they were off, into -the moonlit night. And what that night concealed from Laure, what future -of fierce joy, of terror, of misery, and of unutterable heartbreak, how -should she know, poor girl, whose only guide was God Inscrutable, -working His mysterious way alone, in heaven on high? - - - - -[Illustration] - - _CHAPTER FIVE_ - SHADOWS - -[Illustration] - - -On the day after Laure’s flight, Madame Eleanore left the great -dinner-table and went to her bedroom early in the afternoon. Once again, -as a year ago, she was alone there, hovering over her priedieu. Only -this day was not sunny, but cold and damp, and very gray. Eleanore was -in her usual mood of lonely melancholy, but when Alixe tapped at the -door she was admitted, and madame ceased her devotions and bade the girl -come in and sit down to her embroidery frame beside the window. Latterly -it had become a habit of Alixe’s to break in upon her foster-mother’s -elected solitude, and to draw her, willy-nilly, out of her sadness. If -madame perceived the kindly intention in these interruptions, she did -not comment upon it, but accepted the maid’s devotion with growing -affection. - -When Alixe entered, madame also seated herself near the window, yet did -not take up any work, leaving the tambour frame and spinning-wheel both -idle in their places. She regarded Alixe for a few moments in silence, -wondering why the young girl did not speak, finally putting her dulness -down to the fact that it was but yesterday morning they had bidden -Flammecœur and his squire God-speed on their journey to Normandy. Their -long sojourn at Crépuscule had brought a gayety to the Castle that made -it doubly dull now that they were gone. Madame pondered for some time on -the subject, and presently spoke of it. - -“Sieur Bertrand hath a dreary sky for his journey.” - -“But a promise of beauty in the land to which he goeth,” responded -Alixe, with something of an effort. - -“Mayhap. I have not been in Normandy.” - -And here the conversation ended. They sat together, these two women, -listening to the incessant beating of the heavy waves on the cliff far -below, and to the tap, tap, of the rain upon the windows; but neither -found it in her heart to speak again. Alixe was shading her bird from -blue into green, and Eleanore sat with folded hands, her eyes looking -far away, musing upon the nothingness of her life. Suddenly there came a -clamor at the door. Somewhat startled, Eleanore called admittance, and -immediately David the dwarf walked into the room, stepped to the right -of the doorway, and ushered in his companion, announcing her gravely,— - -“Sœur Celeste from the Couvent des Madeleines.” - -The sub-prioress, her white cloak and veil damp and stringing with rain, -came slowly into the room and courtesied, first to Eleanore, then to -Alixe. - -Madame rose hastily, in some surprise, and went forward. - -“Give you God’s greeting, good sister,” she said. - -The nun returned the salutation, and then, with some hesitation, -indicated the little dwarf in a gesture that showed her desire that he -should leave the room. Madame accordingly motioned him away, and when he -was gone, turned to the nun with a hint of anxiety on her face. The -new-comer did not hesitate in her mission. Leaning over, she asked -eagerly,— - -“Madame, is Angelique here, with you?” - -Eleanore looked at her blankly. “Laure?—Laure is with you. Laure is—What -sayest thou, woman?” - -Sœur Celeste resignedly bent her head. For some seconds nothing was -said. Alixe, her face grown ashen, her body changed to ice, rose, and -moved to the side of madame. Then she asked softly, “What hath happened, -good sister?” - -“Angelique—Laure—the demoiselle—is not in the convent. We have searched -for her everywhere. Her veil and wimple were found in her cell upon the -bed. Beyond this there is no trace of her. This morning she came not to -the church for prime, and we thought she had overslept. She hath so much -fasted and prayed of late that Reverend Mother granted indulgence, and -bade us let her rest. At breaking of the fast Sœur Eloise was despatched -to her cell, and returned with word that she was not there. Since that -hour even the daily services have been suspended, while we sought for -her. In the garden we found footprints,—those of a woman, and of a man. -Perchance they were hers—yet—” - -“It is a lie! That is a lie!” burst from Eleanore’s white lips. “Woman, -woman, unsay thy words! No man hath ever seen her,—my Laure!” - -“I said it not, Madame Eleanore; I but said mayhap,” ventured the gentle -sister, timidly. But Eleanore did not hear her. White, rigid, her every -muscle drawn tense, she stood there staring before her into space; while -Alixe, feeling this scene to be too intimate even for her presence, -glided slowly from the room. - -Immediately outside the closed door stood David the dwarf, moving -restlessly from one spot to another, biting his thick lips, and working -his heavy black brows with great nervousness. Seeing Alixe, he seized -upon her at once. - -“I know what it is: Laure hath gone away, hath she not?” - -Alixe simply nodded. - -“Yea, I know it,—with that scoundrelly trouvère!” - -Alixe quivered as if she had been touched upon the raw; but David paid -no attention to her movement of pain. - -“Come,” he jerked out nervously; “come away from this room. Come below. -I will tell thee what I saw in the fellow.” - -The two of them walked silently across the broad upper hall and down the -great staircase into the lower room, which was always deserted at this -hour. Here Alixe and the dwarf seated themselves on tabourets at one of -the long tables, and David began to talk. It seemed that he had watched -Flammecœur closely, and had seen a good deal of his attentions to Laure; -knew how he rode with her to and from the priory, guessed Laure’s all -too apparent feeling for him, and was aware that most of the hours in -which the troubadour had supposedly hunted, hawked, or gone to St. -Nazaire, had really been spent in the neighborhood of the priory, though -how much he had seen of the nun, David could not know. - -Alixe listened to him without much comment, and agreed in her heart with -all that he said. But she was at a loss to comprehend her own bitterness -of spirit at thought of what Flammecœur had done. She loved Laure truly; -yet these sensations of hers were not for Laure, but for herself alone; -and this girl, so acute at reading the minds of others, failed entirely -to read her own; for had she not soundly hated Flammecœur? _Had_ she -hated him? - -It was a heavy hour that these two, dwarf and peasant born, spent -waiting for their lady to give some sign. At length, however, there were -footsteps on the stairs, and both of them rose, as Eleanore, followed, -not accompanied, by the white-robed nun, descended. - -Madame was very erect, very brilliant-eyed, very white and stiff, but -she had perfect control over herself. As she swept toward the great -door, David could plainly see her state, and Alixe read well her heart; -yet neither of them could but admire her splendid self-possession. Out -of the Castle and into the courtyard she went, the three others -following her, on her way to the keep. In the open doorway of the rough -stone tower, she halted; and the dozen lolling henchmen within instantly -started to their feet. - -“My men,” she said, in a voice as steady and as commanding as that of a -lord of Crépuscule, “my men, a great blow has fallen upon me, and a -disgrace to all that dwell in this Castle. Laure, my daughter, your -demoiselle, the lady of all our hearts, hath been stolen from the place -of her consecration. She hath been abducted from the priory of the Holy -Madeleine, by one that hath broken our bread, and received our -hospitality. Bertrand Flammecœur, the troubadour, hath brought dishonor -upon Le Crépuscule, and I ask you all to avenge your lord and me!” - -Here she was interrupted by a chorus begun in low murmurs of -astonishment, and now risen to a roar of wrath. After a moment she -raised her hand, and, in the silence that quickly ensued, began again,— - -“In the name of your lord, I bid you avenge us! Ride forth, every man of -you, into the countryside, in pursuit of the flying hound. Go every man -by a different road, nor halt by day or night till you bring me tidings -of my child. And to him that shall find and bring her back to me, will I -give honor and riches and great love, such as I would give to none that -was not of noble blood. Go, nor stay to talk of it.—Go forth in the name -of God—and bring me back my child!” - -The men needed no further urging to action. As she ceased to speak they -sprang from their places, and began preparations for departure with a -spirit that showed their devotion to madame and to Laure. Madame stayed -in the courtyard till Sœur Celeste and the last henchman had ridden -away; and then, when there was no more to see, she turned to Alixe, and, -leaning heavily upon the young girl’s shoulder, slowly mounted to her -darkening chamber and lay down upon her tapestried bed. Alixe moved -gently about the room, bringing her lady such physical comforts as she -could, though these were not many. Neither of them spoke, and neither -wept. Eleanore lay motionless, staring out into the dusk. Alixe’s eyes -closed every now and then, with a kind of deadly weariness that was not -physical. But she did not leave madame. - -After a long time, when it had grown quite dark, Alixe asked suddenly,— - -“Wouldst have a message sent to Rennes, madame?” - -“To Gerault? No, it is too late. What could he do? Nay, I will not have -the shame of his house published abroad in the Duke’s capital. Speak of -it no more.” And, obediently, Alixe was silent. - -It was now long past the early supper hour, but neither of the women -went downstairs. The thought of food did not occur to Eleanore. Alixe -sat by the closed window, brooding deeply. Darkness had come over the -sea, and with it clouds dispersed so that a few stars glimmered forth, -and at times a moon showed through the ragged mists. Downstairs the -young men and maidens had resorted to their usual evening amusements of -games, but they played without spirit, and finally, one by one, heavy -with unvoiced foreboding, crept off to rest. David the dwarf had not -been among them at all to-night. Ever since the ending of supper he had -sat outside the door of madame’s room, waiting, patiently, for some -sound to come from within. Everything, however, was silent. From her bed -the mother, tearless, bright-eyed, watched the broken moonlight creep -along the floor, past the figure of Alixe. Her mind was filled with -terrible things,—pictures of Laure, and of what the young girl was -doubtless enduring. For a long time she contained herself under these -thoughts, but finally, racked with unbearable misery, she started up, -crying aloud,— - -“Alixe! Alixe! Methinks I shall go mad!” - -As she spoke, madame rose from the bed, stumbled across the floor, flung -open one of the windows, and looked out upon the splendor of the -tumbling, moonlit sea. After a moment or two she felt upon her arm a -gentle touch, and she knew that Alixe was beside her. - -“Mad with thy thoughts, madame? Indeed, meseemeth Laure will not die. -Doubtless the Sieur Trouvère loveth her—” - -She was interrupted by a long groan. - -“Madame?” she whispered, in soft deprecation. - -“Not die, Alixe? Not _die_? Dieu! It were now my one prayer for her that -she might quickly die!” - -“Nay, what is there so terrible for her, save that she hath brought upon -herself damnation an she die unrepentant? Wouldst thou not have her live -to repent and be shriven?” - -Eleanore groaned again. “Thou art too young to understand, Alixe. Ah! -her purity! her innocence! How she will suffer! There is no suffering -like unto it.” Madame slipped to her knees, there by the window, and -putting her arms upon the sill, buried her head in them, and drew two or -three terrible breaths. Alixe, helpless, fighting to keep down her own -secret woe in the face of this more bitter grief, felt herself useless. -She remained perfectly still, looking out at the sea, but noting nothing -of its beauty, till, all at once, madame began to speak again, in a -muffled voice,— - -“I remember well my wedding with the Sieur du Crépuscule. I was of the -age and of the innocence of Laure. Never was mortal so happy as I, upon -the day of the ceremony at Laval. I loved my lord, and he had given all -his honor into my keeping. But had the bitterness of guilt been on me -when I was brought home to Le Crépuscule, alone and a stranger in his -house, I know not if I could have lived through the shame and bitterness -of my first days. Thou canst not know, Alixe; but the humiliation of -that time is as fresh in my memory as ’twere but yesterday. Ah! leave me -now, maiden. Leave me alone. Thou’st been good and faithful to me, but a -mother’s grief she must bear alone. Go thou to bed, child, and, in the -name of pity, pray for thy sister!” - -So she sent Alixe from the room, and made the door fast after her. After -this she did not return to her place at the window, but began slowly to -make ready for the night. When at length she was prepared, she wrapped -herself closely in a warm woollen mantle, and went to her priedieu. -Laure, from the priory, had ceased to accost Heaven. Therefore madame -took her daughter’s place, and thence through the night ascended an -unceasing, bitter, commanding prayer that Laure should be restored to -her mother’s house, or else be mercifully received into the more -accessible hereafter. - -When morning dawned, her great bed had not been slept in, but throughout -that day Eleanore sought no rest. She spent the hours passing from the -hall to the keep and thence to the tower at the drawbridge, waiting, -hoping, praying for tidings. During the afternoon three or four henchmen -rode in, exhausted. But none of them had found any trace of Laure. One, -however, who had taken the St. Nazaire road and had reached that town -during the night, had learned that Flammecœur and his page had been -there on the afternoon of the day they left Crépuscule. And, upon -further search, this man found a shop where the trouvère had bought a -lady’s mantle and hood, both black. This was all the news that could be -got; but it was enough to prove, without the least doubt, Flammecœur’s -guilt. - -Late in the afternoon Alixe went to work among the falcons, changing -some of them from their winter-house to the open falconry in the field. -Madame, seeing her at work, went out and watched her for a time. Alixe -answered her few remarks with respect, but would not talk herself. The -girl was dark-browed to-day, and very silent, and madame, perceiving -that something troubled her, shortly left her to herself, and began to -pace the damp turf. Hither, presently, came David, with the news that -Monseigneur de St. Nazaire had come. - -With a cry of sudden relief madame hurried back to the Castle, where the -Bishop awaited her. He was gowned as usual in his violet, with round -black cap, and gauntlet cut to show his ring. And as she came into the -great hall, he advanced to her with both hands outstretched and a look -of trouble in his clear eyes. - -“Eleanore, for the first time in many years I come to you in sorrow, to -bring to you what comfort the Church can give,” he said gently, fixing -his eyes upon her to read how she had taken her blow, and from it decide -what his attitude toward her should be. For St. Nazaire had a great and -affectionate respect for Eleanore, and he was accustomed to treat her -with a consideration that he used toward no other woman. It was for this -that he had come to her in her grief, at the first moment that he heard -the news of Laure’s flight. - -“Come thou into this room, where we can be alone,” she said quickly, -leading him into the round armory that opened off the great hall -immediately opposite the chapel. Half closing the heavy door, she sat -down on a wooden settle, motioning the Bishop to a tabouret near at -hand. - -“Is there any news of her? What hast thou heard?” she asked eagerly, -bending toward him. - -“I come but now from the priory, where I chanced to go to-day. This -morning the girl Eloise, a lay sister, she that was accustomed to ride -hither from the priory with Laure, confessed to many rides and -love-passages between herself and Yvain the young squire, while Bertrand -Flammecœur followed Laure.” - -Madame drew a sharp breath, and the Bishop continued: “The girl is now -under heavy penance; yet is she a silly thing, and in my heart I find no -great blame for her.” - -“Then there hath been no word—no news—of Laure? Left she no token in her -cell?” - -“Nothing, Eleanore, nothing.” - -“Ah, St. Nazaire! St. Nazaire! how did we that cruel thing? How took we -away from a young girl all her freedom, all her youth, all her love of -life? Know I not enough of the woe of loneliness, that I should have -sent her forth into that living death? Alas! alas! I am all to blame.” - -“Not wholly thou, madame. Perhaps the Church also,” said the Bishop, -softly. - -Eleanore looked at him in something of amazement. It was the first time -that he had ever suggested any criticism of the Church. But after these -words had escaped him, the Bishop paused for a little and fixed upon -Eleanore a look that she read aright. It told her many things that she -had guessed before, many unuttered things that had drawn her closely to -St. Nazaire; but it told her also that these things must never be -discussed between them; that never again would the man be guilty of so -heretical an utterance as that which he had just voiced. - -After this he began to speak again, still in the same tone of sympathy, -but with a subtle difference in the general tenor of his views. He told -her, in a manner eloquent with simplicity, of his talk with Laure on the -eve of her consecration. He reminded Eleanore that Laure had entered of -her own free will upon the life of a nun. He recalled the girl’s -contentment throughout the period of her novitiate; and finally, seeing -that he had succeeded in obliterating some of the self-reproach in this -woman to whom he was so sincerely attached, he began to prepare her for -the blow that he was about to deal, to tell her what words could not -soften, to inflict a wound that time could not heal, but which, -according to the law of the Roman Catholic Church, he was bound to -administer. - -Eleanore listened to his plausibly logical phrases with close attention. -She sat there before him, elbow on knee, her head resting on her hand, -her eyes wandering over the armor-strewn walls. The Bishop talked around -his subject, circling ever a little nearer to its climax; but he was -still far from the end when madame, suddenly straightening up and -looking full into his eyes, interrupted him to ask baldly: “Monseigneur, -hast thou never, in thy heart, known the yearning for a woman’s love?” - -“Many a time and oft, madame, I have _felt_ love—a deeply reverent -love—for woman; and I have rejoiced therein, and given thanks to God,” -was the careful reply. - -But Eleanore had begun her attack, and she would not be repulsed in the -first onslaught. “And has no woman, Reverend Father, known thy love?” -she demanded. - -“Madame!” A pale flush overspread St. Nazaire’s face. “That question is -not—kind,” he said haltingly, but without rebuke. - -“Nay. I am not kind now. Make me answer.” - -St. Nazaire looked at her thoughtfully, and weighed certain things in -certain balances. Because of many years of the confessional and also of -free confidence he knew Eleanore thoroughly,—knew how she had suffered -every soul-torment; knew her unswerving virtue; sympathized with her -intense loneliness. He prized her trust in him more than she was aware, -and he feared to jeopardize that confidence now by whatever answer he -should make. Ignorant of the purport of her questions, he yet saw that -she was in terrible earnest in them. So finally he did the honest and -straightforward thing. Answering her look, eye for eye, he said slowly: -“Yea, Eleanore of Le Crépuscule, a woman hath known my love. What then?” - -“Then if thou, a good man and as strong as any the Church ever knew, -found that to human nature a loveless life is an impossibility, how -shouldst thou blame a maid, high-strung, full of youth, vitality, -emotions that she has not tried, for yielding to the same temptation -before which thou didst fall? How is it right that the Church—that -God—should demand so much?—should ask more than His creatures can give?” - -“Eleanore! Eleanore! thou shalt not question God!” - -“I do not question Him. It is—it is—” untried in this exercise, she -groped for words. “It is what ye say He saith. It is what ye declare His -will to be that I question.” - -“What, Eleanore, have I declared His will to be? Have I yet blamed or -chid the waywardness of Laure, whom indeed I loved as a dear daughter,—a -child of purity and faith?” - -“Then, then,” Eleanore bent over eagerly, and her voice shook,—“then, an -_thou_ blamest her not, St. Nazaire, thou wilt not—” she clasped her -hands in an agony of pleading, “thou wilt not put upon her the terrible -ban? Thou wilt not excommunicate her?” - -It was only then that the Bishop realized how skilfully she had led up -to her point. He had not realized that he was dealing with perception -engendered by an agony of grief and fear. As she reached her climax, he -sprang to his feet, and began to pace the room, hands clasped behind -him, brows much contracted, head far bent upon his breast. Eleanore, -meantime, had slid to her knees and watched him as he moved. - -“If thou wilt spare her, ask what thou wilt of me. I will do her -penance, whatever thou shalt decree. I will give money; I will give all -that remains to me of my dower, freely and with light heart, to the -Church. I will aid whomsoever thou wilt of thy poor, I—” - -“Cease, Eleanore! These things cannot avail against the Church. Thou -must not tempt, thou must not question; thou canst not understand _the -Law_! I am but an instrument of that Law, and am commanded by it. Laure, -the bride of Heaven, hath forsaken her chosen life. She must endure her -punishment, being guilty of—thou knowest the sin. Next Sunday the ban -must be put upon her. In doing so, I but obey a higher power. Eleanore, -Eleanore, rise from thy knees! Thou art tearing at my heart! Peace, -woman! Peace, and let me go!” - -Eleanore, in her agony of despair, had crept to him and clasped his -knees, mutely imploring the pity that he dared not show. Logic and -reason he had put from him, holding fast to the tenets of that Church -that had made him what he was. In all his career he had not been so -tried, so tempted, to slip his duty. But, through the crucial moment, he -did not speak; and after that he was safe from attack. - -After many minutes the mother loosed her clasp of him, and ceased to -moan, and let him go; for she saw that he could not help her. And as he -passed slowly out of the room, she rose to her feet and looked after him -blindly. Then she groped her way to the door, crossed the great hall, -and, with her burden, ascended the stairs and went to her own room. Next -morning, when the Bishop said mass in the chapel, madame, for the first -time in thirty years on such an occasion, was not present. Nor did -monseigneur seem astonished at the fact, but left his sympathy for her -before he rode away to St. Nazaire. - -All that afternoon and night, indeed, till after dawn of the next day, -weary henchmen of the keep came straggling in on spent horses, fruitless -returned from a fruitless quest. And when they were all back again, and -the hope of seeing Laure was gone, the shadow of loneliness settled a -little lower over the great pile of stone, and the silence within the -Castle grew more and more intense to the aching heart within. - -In the general desolation of Castle life Alixe, the unnatural child of -peasant blood, came very close to the heart of Eleanore. Through the -long, budding spring madame fought a terrible battle with herself -against an overpowering desire for an end of life, for the peace of -death. And in these times Alixe often drew her away from herself by -getting her to hunt and to hawk,—two amusements in which madame had been -wont to indulge eagerly in her youth, and which she found were still -possible for her, though she had grown to what she thought -old-womanhood. Besides this, she and Alixe took the long walks that -Laure had formerly delighted in; and the two ventured into many a deep -cave in the sea-cliffs, and explored many crevices that no native of the -coast would enter. In these places they found fair treasures of the sea, -but were never accosted by any of the supernatural beings said to -inhabit such spots. Nor, though they listened many times for it at -twilight, did either of them hear, a single time, the long, low, wailing -cries of the spirit of the lost Lenore. - -In this way some pleasures entered unawares into the life of Eleanore. -Perhaps there were other pleasures also, so simple and so familiar that -she took no cognizance of them as such. Perhaps of a morning, in the -spinning-room, when her fingers flew under some familiar, pretty task, -and her ears were filled with the chatter of the demoiselles, who still -strove after light-hearted joys amid their gray surroundings, she found -forgetfulness of Laure’s bitter disgrace. Or better still, when, at the -sunset hour, she paced the grassy falcon-field, watching the glories of -the sea and sky, there came to her heart that benison of Nature that God -has devised for all of us in our days of woe. But when she was alone, in -early afternoon, or, most of all, through the silent night-watches, she -was sometimes overcome with sheer terror of herself and of her solitude. -At such times she fought the creeping horror with what weapons time had -given her, battling so bravely that she never suffered utter rout. - -In a dim, quiet way the weeks sped on, leaving behind them no trace of -what had been, nothing for memory to hang her lightest fabric on. In all -the weeks that lay between Laure’s flight and the coming of July, -Eleanore could remember distinctly just one talk beside the bitter one -with St. Nazaire. And this other was with neither Alixe nor the Bishop, -who, however, made it a point to come once in a fortnight to Le -Crépuscule. - -On a fair morning in May, as the dawn crept up out of the east not many -hours after midnight, Eleanore rose, in the early flush, and, clothing -herself lightly, left her room with the intention of going into the -fields to walk. No one was to be seen as she entered the lower hall; -but, to her amazement, the great door stood half open, and through it -poured a draught of morning air, rich with the perfume of blossoming -trees and fertile fields. Wondering that Alixe should have risen so -early, Eleanore left the Castle and hurried out of the courtyard into -the strip of meadow lying between the wall and the dry moat. Here, near -the north edge of the cliff, sitting cross-legged in the grass, sat -David the dwarf, holding in his hand something to which he talked in a -low, solemn tone. Advancing noiselessly toward him, Eleanore perceived -that it was a dead butterfly that he had found, and to which he was -pouring out his soul. Amazed at the first phrases that caught her ears, -she halted a few steps behind him, and there learned something of the -thoughts that lay hidden in his volatile brain. - -“White Butterfly, White Butterfly, thou frail and delicate child of -summer, speak to me again! Say, hast thou found death as fair as life, -thou White and Still? Came the messenger to thee unawares, or didst thou -see his face and know it? Wast thou confessed, White Butterfly? Wentest -thou forth absolved of all thy fluttering sins? - -“Say, wanderer, didst love thy life? Wast afraid or sorrowful to leave -it, in its dawn? Or foundest thou comfort in the thought of eternal rest -for thy battling wings? - -“And I, O living Thistledown, teach me my way! Shall I follow thee into -the great world, to roam there seeking why men love to live? Or shall I -also, like thee, leave it all? Shall I go, knowing nothing of the joy of -life? Or, again, shall I practise a weary courtesy, and remain to bring -echoes of laughter into that Twilight Castle, for the sake of the love I -bear its Twilight Lady? Her life, my flutterer, hath been such a dream -of tears as even thou and I, dead thing, have never known. Yea, many a -time while I laughed and shouted at the light crew of damsels that sleep -there now, my heart hath bled for her. O Ghost of the Morning, know you -what Eleanore, our lady, thinks of me, the fool? And yet, yet I do so -deeply pity her—” - -“Thou pityest me, David?” echoed Eleanore, advancing till she stood -before him, forgetful of how her appearance must startle him. - -David looked up at her, winking slowly, like one that would bring -himself out of a dream-world into reality. “Lady of Twilight, thou’rt a -woman, lonely and mournful, forsaken of thy children. Therefore I grieve -for thee,” he said slowly, gazing at her with his big eyes, but not -rising from where he sat. - -“A woman,” said Eleanore, looking at him with a half-smile, and echoing -his tone,—“a woman doubtless is always to be pitied; and yet what man -deems it so? Master David, ye are all born of women, and ye are all -reared by them. Afterwards, in youth, ye wed, use us as your playthings -for an hour, and then leave us in your gray dwellings, while ye fare -forth to more manly sports and exploits. There in solitude we bear and -rear again, and later our maidens wed and our sons depart from us, and -for the last time, in our age, we are left alone to die. Truly, David, -thou mayest well pity!” - -David’s wide mouth curved in a bitter smile. - -“Even so, Madame Eleanore. And now, for fifteen years, I have lived as a -woman lives. Mayhap by now I know her life better than other men—if, -indeed, I am a man, being but little taller than the animals. And all -these things said I to my dead friend here in my hand.” - -“’Tis now fifteen years since thou camest with my lord to Crépuscule?” - -“Ay, fifteen. I was then a boy of about such age. Fifteen years in Le -Crépuscule by the sea! It is a lifetime.” - -Madame sighed. Then her face brightened again as she looked down at the -dwarf. “What was the life of thy youth, David? ’Tis a tale I have never -heard.” - -“’Tis but a little tale. Like my dead butterfly, I wandered. I come of a -race of dwarfs,—all straight-backed, know you, and not ill to look upon. -My father was a mountebank. My mother, who measured greater than was -customary among us, cooked and sewed and travelled with us whithersoever -we went in our wagon. When I was young,—at the age of five or -thereabouts,—I began to assist my father in his entertainments. When I -was fifteen we were in Rennes for the jousting season, and there thy -lord saw me, bought me, and brought me back to you, lady, to be your -merry jester. But indeed my laughter hath run low, of late. Long years I -have bravely jested through; but now the Twilight spell is creeping over -me, and merriment rises no more in my heart. Indeed, I question if I -should not beg leave of thee to go forth into the world again for a -little time, to learn once more the song of joy. Yet when thou art near, -and I look out upon the sea, and behold the sun lifting his glory out of -the eastern hills, I ever think I cannot go,—I cannot leave this gentle -home of melancholy.” - -“Thou art free, David, if freedom is mine to bestow upon thee. Indeed, I -could not ask that any one remain in this sad and quiet place, of any -than his own will. Go thou forth into the world! Go forth to joy and -life and laughter. Fill thy little heart again with jests. Forget the -brooding silence of Le Crépuscule, and laugh through the broad world to -thy heart’s content. Yet we shall miss thee sorely, little man.” - -Madame stopped speaking, and there was a pause. David seemed to have no -response to make to her words. Instead he bent over the earth, digging a -little hole in the sod. Into this he laid the dead form of his white -butterfly. When he had covered it from sight with the black earth, and -patted a little earthen mound over it, he rose to his feet with an -exaggerated sigh. - -“So I bury my friend—and my freedom. My desire is dead, Madame Eleanore, -with my freedom. I will remain here among you women-folk, and keep you -sad company or merry as you demand. Look! The rim of the sun is pushing -over the line of the distant trees!” - -“Yea, it is there—far away—in the land where Laure may be, deserted, -mayhap, and a wanderer, cast out from every dwelling that she enters!” - -Eleanore whispered these words, more to herself than to David. They were -an expression of her eternal thought. The dwarf heard them, and sought -some comfort for her. But her expression forbade comfort; and, in the -end, he did not speak at all. The two of them stood side by side and -watched the sun come up the heavens. Presently the Castle awoke, and -shortly Alixe came out to the field to feed the young _niais_ and the -mother-birds in the falcon-nests. So Eleanore, when she had given the -young girl greeting, returned to her solitude in the Castle, finding her -heart in some part relieved of its immediate burden. - -One by one the lengthening days passed. June came into the world, and -palpitated, and glowed with glory and fire, and then died. During this -time not a word had come from distant Rennes to tell the Lady of -Crépuscule how Gerault fared. The midsummer month came in, and the young -men and maidens of the Castle grew gay with the heat, and made riotous -expenditure of the riches of Nature. That year the whole earth seemed a -tangle of flowers and rich meadow-grass, with which young demoiselles -played havoc, while the squires and henchmen hawked and hunted and drank -deep. These days stirred Eleanore’s heart once more to love of life, and -woke the sleeping soul of Alixe to strange fits of passionate yearning -after unattainable ideals. The living earth brought fire to every soul, -and the pinched melancholy of winter was dead and forgotten. - -On the night of the seventh of July the Castle sat unusually late at -meat, for the Bishop had arrived unexpectedly, and, being in a merry -mood, deigned to entertain the whole Castle with tales and jests. Just -in the middle of a story of Church militant in the war of the three -Jeannes, there came the grating noise of the lowering drawbridge, a -faint echo of shouts from the men-at-arms in the watch-tower, and the -clatter of swift hoofs over the courtyard stones. Half a dozen henchmen -ran to open the great door, while Eleanore rose with difficulty to her -feet. Her heart had suddenly come into her throat, and she had turned -deathly white with an unexpressed hope and an inarticulate fear. There -was a little pause. The new-comer was dismounting. Then, after what had -seemed a year of waiting, Courtoise walked into the hall, advanced to -his liege lady, and bent the knee. - -“Courtoise!” gasped Eleanore, faintly. “Courtoise—thy message!” - -“Madame,” he cried, “I bring joyful tidings from my lord! He sends thee -health, greeting, and duty, and prays you to prepare the Castle for a -great feast; for in a week’s time he brings home his bride from Rennes!” - - - - -[Illustration] - - _CHAPTER SIX_ - A LOVE-STRAIN - -[Illustration] - - -Late that night, when the little throng below had been as nearly -satisfied with information concerning the great event as three poor -hours of steady talking from Courtoise could make them, Eleanore sat in -her own room alone with the messenger, there to learn those intimate -details of Gerault’s wooing, that none but her had right to know. She -questioned Courtoise eagerly, earnestly, repeatedly, with such yearning -in her eyes that the young squire’s heart smote him to see what her -loneliness had been. - -“Tell me again, Courtoise, yet once again! She is fair, this maid?” - -“As fair as a rose, madame; her skin composed of pink and white, so -cunningly mingled that none can judge which hath most play upon it. And -her eyes are blue like a midsummer sky; and she hath clouds of hair that -glisten like meshes of sun-threads, crowning her.” - -“And she is small and delicately formed?” - -“She is slender and fragile; yet is she in no way sickly of body.” - -“And her name,” went on madame, musingly, “is Lenore! Is that not a -strange thing, Courtoise? Is’t not strange that a second time this name -should have entered so deeply into the life of thy lord? Was he glad -that it so chanced, Courtoise; or did he hesitate to pronounce it -again?” - -“I know not if it troubled him at first, madame. But this I know: that -he is happy in her.” - -“Then the dear God be thanked! I ask no more. Ah! It seems that at last -I can pray again with an open heart. ’Twill be the first time -since—since—” Suddenly Eleanore began to tremble. “Courtoise,” she -whispered, pale with dread, “hath thy lord heard—of—of Laure’s flight?” - -Courtoise bent his head, answering in a strained voice: “My lord had -news of—of the flight late in the month of March. Monseigneur de St. -Nazaire sent us the word of it, and for many weeks my lord hunted the -country over for a trace of her. And when he found her not, nor any word -of her, he forbore, in his grief, to write to thee, dear lady, lest he -should cause thy tears to flow again.” - -“I thank the good God that he knows!” murmured Eleanore. “It had been -more than I could bear that Gerault should come home to find his wedding -feast blackened with a new-learned shame.” - -“Yea, Lady Eleanore.” - -“And so now, Courtoise, go thou to thy rest; for I have kept thee long, -and thou’rt very weary. And on the morrow there must be a beginning of -making the Castle bravely gay for the home-coming of its lord and its -bride. Likewise, on the morrow thou must tell me more of the young -Lenore, my daughter.” - -Courtoise smiled wearily, and then, with proper obeisance, hurried off -to his own room, a little triangular closet opening into Gerault’s old -bedroom on the first floor. When the squire was gone, his liege lady -also laid her down; and for the first time in many months sank easily to -sleep. For happiness is the best of doctors, and this that had come to -her was a greater happiness than Eleanore had thought ever to know -again. - -Through the next week the very dogs about the Castle caught the air of -bustle and eager life that had laid hold of it. Never, since the days of -the old lord and his crews of drinking barons, had Le Crépuscule shown -such symptoms of gayety. Every scullion scampered about his pots and -kettles as if an army of Brittany depended on him for nourishment. The -henchmen hurried about, polishing their armor and their steel trappings -till the keep glittered as with many mirrors, and they broke off from -this labor now and then to see that the stable-boys were at work on the -proper horses or to dissolve into thunderous roars of laughter at a -neighbor’s jest. The young demoiselles were giddy with excitement. They -pricked their fingers with spindles, they broke innumerable threads on -the wheels, they stopped the loom to dance or sing in the middle of the -morning; and while they were arranging the rooms where the train of the -young bride were to lodge, they gossiped so ardently over possible -future gayeties that their very tongues were like to drop off with -weariness. As for the squires, all five of them, headed by Courtoise, -were to ride out to Croitôt on the Rennes road, as an additional escort -for Seigneur Gerault. And the parade they made over this matter was more -than Montfort had for his coronation at Rennes when the great war ended. - -There were, however, three silent workers in the Castle who did more -than all the rest together; and they were silent only because their -hearts were too full for speech. These were madame, Alixe, and David the -dwarf. While the little man worked at the decoration of the chapel, the -women adorned the bridal chamber; and in all that week of preparation, -not a soul save these two set foot over that sacred threshold. Madame -had selected the room. It was not Gerault’s usual chamber, but one on -the second floor, on the northwest corner of the Castle, separated from -madame’s room only by the place in which Laure had slept of old, and -which madame now kept closed to all save herself. - -For the adornment of Gerault’s and Lenore’s apartment, madame brought -out the old historic tapestries, embroideries, and precious silken -hangings that had been for years stowed away in great chests in the -spinning-room. The bed was hung with curtains in which were woven -illustrations of the “Romant of the Rose,” a poem that had once been -much recited in Le Crépuscule. On the walls were great squares of -tapestry representing the battles of the family of Montfort. On the -floor were two or three strips of precious brocade, brought out of the -East a century before by some crusading lord. Finished, the room looked -very rich, but very sombre; and, this being the fashion of the times, it -was satisfactory to all that saw it. Eleanore only, with eyes new-opened -by the thought of approaching happiness, feared the room a little dark, -a little heavy for the reception of so delicate a creature as the young -Lenore. But every one else in the Castle was in such delight over its -appearance that she left it as it was. Meantime the lower hall was hung -with banners and scarred pennants and gay streamers; and then the -pillars were wreathed with greenery and flowers till the still, gray -place was all transformed, and resembled a triumphal hall awaiting the -coming of a conqueror. - -Thus the week of waiting passed merrily and rapidly away, and the day of -the departure of Courtoise and the squires for Croitôt speedily arrived. -With them also went a picked half-dozen men-at-arms, who were bursting -with pride at this honor done their brilliant steel and smooth-flanked -horses. After their going, when everything in the Castle was in -readiness for the reception, a little wave of reaction set in among -those left at home. Eleanore retired to commune with her own happy mind. -David sought solitude in which to arrange a programme of welcome. And -Alixe, seized with a sudden mood of misery, fled away to a certain cave -in the base of the Castle cliff, and here wept and raged by herself, for -some undefined reason, till her tears cleared the mists from her soul, -and she was herself again. Still, as she returned to the Castle, she -knew that there remained a bitterness in her heart. Eleanore, who had -long ago come to mean mother to her, had, in the last month or two, for -the first time given her almost a mother-love, that had fed Alixe’s -hungry heart as the body of the Lord had never fed her soul. And now -this love was to be taken away again. A real daughter was coming into -the household, a daughter by the marriage of the Seigneur; and this, -Alixe knew, must be a closer tie than any of time or custom. She must go -back to her old place, the place she had held in the days of Laure; but -she could never hope to find in the stranger the beautiful friendship -that had existed between her and her foster-sister. - -That evening was a quiet one in the Castle. Monseigneur of St. Nazaire -had arrived in the afternoon; but he seemed wearier than his wont, and, -out of consideration for him, Eleanore ordered the general retirement at -an early hour. - -The next day, the great day, dawned over Le Crépuscule, red and clear -and intensely hot. Every one was up before the sun; and when fast had -been broken and prayer said in the chapel, every one went forth to the -meadow, some even down to the moor, half a mile below the moat, to -gather flowers to be scattered in the courtyard for the coming of the -bride. The party was expected to arrive by noon at latest; and, as the -morning waned, Eleanore found herself uncontrollably nervous. Alixe and -David both stood in the watch-tower, looking for the first sign of -horses and banners on the edge of the forest at the foot of the long -hill. Noon passed, and the earliest hour of afternoon, and the Castle -was on tiptoe with excitement. At two o’clock came a cry from Alixe, in -the tower. Down the hill, round the sweep in the road, was the flutter -of a blue and white pennant, presently flanked by a longer one of gray. -There was a pause of two or three moments. Then the trumpeters dashed -out from the keep, ranged up before their captain, and blew a quick, -triumphal, if somewhat jerky, fanfare. There was an outpouring of -retainers into the courtyard, and presently, from far away, came the -faint sounds of an answering blast from Gerault’s heralds. As this died -away, a great shout of excitement and delight arose from the waiting -company, now massed about the flower-strewn drawbridge, and only at this -time Madame Eleanore came out of the Castle. - -Many eyes were turned upon her as she crossed the courtyard, bearing -herself as royally as a princess. She was garbed in flowing robes of -damask, white, and olive green, silver-studded, and her head was dressed -in those great horns so much in fashion at this time, but seldom -affected by her, and now lending an unrivalled majesty to her -appearance. - -Madame took her place at the right of the drawbridge, and, like all the -throng, strained her eyes toward the approaching cavalcade that -contained the future of Le Crépuscule. Apparently madame was very calm. -In reality her heart beat so that it was like to suffocate her, for now -Gerault’s form took on distinct shape before her eyes. The sun shot -serpents of light around his helmet and his steel-encased arms, while -over his body-pieces he wore the silken surcoat of pale gray, -embroidered with the arms of his Castle. Gerault’s lance, held in rest, -fluttered a pennant of azure and white, the colors of his lady; and -Courtoise, who rode just behind his master, carried the gray streamer of -Le Crépuscule. - -Amid a tumult of blaring trumpets, vigorous shouting, and eager choruses -of welcome and greeting, the Lord of Crépuscule, with his bride on her -white palfrey beside him, rode across the drawbridge of the Twilight -Castle. Just inside the courtyard Gerault halted, leaped from his horse, -and ran quickly to embrace his mother. When he had held her for a moment -in his arms, he turned, lifted his lady from her horse, and, amid an -embarrassing silence of curiosity, led the young girl up to madame. - -“In the name of Le Crépuscule and of its lord, I bid thee welcome to -this Castle, my daughter! Good people, give greeting to your lady!” - -Men and maidens, serving-maids and henchmen, still gazing wide-eyed at -the figure of the Seigneur’s wife, sent forth an inarticulate buzz of -welcome and of admiration; and, when it had died away, Gerault took his -bride by the hand, and, with Eleanore upon the other side, moved slowly -across the courtyard toward the Castle doorway, where now stood the -Bishop of St. Nazaire, waiting to add his welcome to the newly wed. Nor -did the Bishop refrain from a little exclamation of pleasure at sight of -the young wife, as she sank upon her knees before his mitre, to receive -a blessing. - -A few moments later the whole company crowded into the brilliantly -decorated hall and moved about, each selecting a desired place at the -great horseshoe table ready prepared for the feast. Gerault was standing -in the middle of the room, looking about him in surprise and pleasure at -the preparations made to do him honor. Presently, however, he turned to -his mother, who stood close at his elbow, and said, after a second’s -hesitation: “I do not see Alixe, madame. Is she not here in the Castle?” - -Eleanore looked about her in some surprise. “Hast not seen her? Where -hath she been? Ah, yes, there she stands, in yonder corner. Alixe! -Hither!” - -“Alixe!” echoed Gerault; and strode to where she stood, half concealed, -between the staircase and the chapel door, her head drooping, her eyes -cast down. - -“Come, Alixe, and greet Lenore. She hath heard much of thee, and I would -have you friends, for you are both young, and you must be good -companions here together.” So he took her hand and kissed her, and led -her out to where Eleanore and the young wife stood waiting. - -“Lenore, this is my foster-sister. La Rieuse have we called her, and she -is well named. Give her greeting—” Gerault came to rather a halting -pause; for the attitude of the two women nonplussed him. - -Lenore stood motionless, suddenly putting on a little dress of dignity, -and looking steadfastly into the dark face of the other girl. Alixe, -anything but laughing now, was absorbing, detail by detail, the delicate -and exquisite personality of Gerault’s bride. More fairy-like than human -she seemed, with her slender, beautifully curved child’s figure, her -face neither white nor pink, but of a transparent, pearly tint -indescribably ethereal, in which were set great eyes of violet hue, and -all around which floated her hair,—that wonderful hair that was, indeed, -a captive sun-ray. The curve of Lenore’s lips, the turn of her nostril, -the poise of her head, and the delicacy of her hands and feet, all -proclaimed her noble birth. The dress that she wore set off her beauty -as pure gold makes a gem more brilliant. She wore a loosely fitting -bliault of greenish blue, embroidered in long, silver vines, while her -undersleeves and yoke were of frosty cloth of silver. Her head was -crowned with a simple circlet of gold, far less lustrous than her hair; -and from it, at the back, fell a veil of silver tissue that touched the -hem of her robe. All this dress was disordered and dusty with long -riding; but the carelessness of it seemed to become her the better. In -the rich heat of the July sun she had seemed a little too colorless, a -little too pale and misty, for beauty; but here, in the cool shadows of -the great stone hall, she was brighter than any angel. - -Alixe examined her long and carefully, to the confusion of the girl, -whose feeling of strangeness and embarrassment continually increased. In -the face of “La Rieuse” it was easy to read the struggle between -jealousy and admiration. Alixe was, secretly, a worshipper of beauty; -and beauty such as this of Lenore’s she had never seen before. In the -end it triumphed. Alixe’s eyes grew brighter and brighter as she gazed; -and presently, when the strain of silence was not much longer to be -endured, there burst from her the involuntary exclamation,— - -“God of dreams! How art thou fair!” - -And from that moment the allegiance of Alixe was fixed. She was on her -knees to Lenore, this fair usurper of her place, this Gerault’s bride. - -Presently the moving company resolved itself into order, and each sought -his place at the table, where the Seigneur and St. Nazaire now stood -side by side, at the head, with Lenore upon Gerault’s left hand, madame -on St. Nazaire’s right, and Alixe next madame and opposite Courtoise, -who was placed beside the bride. There was a long Latin grace from the -Bishop, and then the feast began. It was like all the feasts of the day, -a matter of stuffing till one could hold no more, and then of drinking -till one knew no more; for, to the commoner folk, and those below the -salt, this was the greatest pleasure in life. To those for whom the -feast was given, and to the rest of the little group at the head of the -table, the whole business was sufficiently tedious: not to say, however, -that monseigneur and even Gerault showed no symptoms of fondness for a -morsel of peacock’s breast, or a calf’s head stuffed with the brains, -pounded suet, and raisins, over which was poured a good brown gravy. -Courtoise and Alixe also displayed healthy appetites. But madame and -Lenore, whether from excitement or other causes, sat for the most part -playing with what was put before them, and eating nothing. - -After half an hour at the table Madame Eleanore found herself watching, -with rather unexpected interest, the attitude of Gerault toward his -wife. And she perceived, with a kind of dull surprise, that his -attentions savored of perfunctoriness. The Seigneur failed in no way to -do his lady courtesy; but that air of tender delight that the -personality of the young girl would be expected to draw from a young -husband, was not there. Whatever impression of indifference madame -received, however, she admitted no such thing to herself. Her heart was -too full of joy for Gerault, and for Le Crépuscule. For, great as had -been her hopes of her son’s choice, her dreams had never pictured a -being so rare and so lovely as this who was come to dwell at her side in -the gray and ancient Castle. - -As for Lenore herself, she seemed to see nothing but devotion in -Gerault’s attitude toward her. She sat with a smile upon her face, -playing daintily with what she had to eat, answering any question or -remark put to her with a straightforwardness that had in it no taint of -self-consciousness, even addressing a sentence or two of her own to -Courtoise on her right; but at the same time holding all heart and soul -for Gerault. The Seigneur did not speak much with his wife, but answered -her modest glances with an air of mild indulgence, taking small notice -of anything that went on round him save the keen looks now and then shot -from the scintillating green eyes of Alixe. Of all the tableful, Alixe -was the only one that found any food for thought in the situation before -her; and, surprisingly enough, the key to her reflections lay in the -curious behavior of Courtoise, who, as time went on, became so uneasy, -so fidgety, so restless, that Gerault finally leaned over the table and -asked him rather sharply if he were ill. - -In the course of time, however, the last jack was emptied, the last song -sung, the last questionable story told. Monseigneur de St. Nazaire rose -and repeated the ending grace, and then the whole drowsy, witless -company followed him into the glowing chapel, where a short mass was -performed. Lenore and Gerault knelt side by side to the right of the -altar, with Eleanore a little behind them, where she could watch the -bright candle-rays vie with the radiance of Lenore’s golden hair, and -see where the silvery bridal robe overlapped a little the edge of the -gray surcoat of Le Crépuscule, that swept the floor beside it. The -mother-eyes were all for the girlish form of the new daughter; and her -heart went out again to Gerault, who had brought this fairy creature to -Le Crépuscule, in place of her who had been so terribly mourned. - -Lenore listened to the repetition of the mass with a reverent air, but -without much thinking of the familiar form. Her mind was busy with -thoughts of these new surroundings and the faces of the new vassals and -companions. Gerault, her beloved, was at her side; the great silver -crucifix that hung over the altar gave her a sense of comfort and -protection, and she found a restful pleasure in the tones of the -Bishop’s voice. The bright candle-light that shone into her eyes -produced in her a semi-hypnotic state, and she seemed to have knelt -there at the altar but three or four minutes when the words of the -benediction fell upon her ears, and presently the whole company was -trooping out into the great hall, whence all signs of the feast had been -removed. - -In the same dreamlike way, Lenore went with her husband and madame -upstairs, to the room that had been prepared for her and Gerault. Here -her two demoiselles were already unpacking the coffer which had come -from Rennes with them. And here she removed her travel-stained garments, -bathed the dust from her face and arms, was combed and perfumed like the -great lady she had become, and lay down to rest for a little time in the -twilight, with new ministers to her comfort all about her. Later, as it -grew dark, she dressed again and descended to the great hall, where -further merriment was in progress. - -The demoiselles and squires of the Castle were now holding high revel, -and their games caused the old stone walls to echo with laughter and -shrieks of delight. In one corner of the room madame and the Bishop sat -together over a game of chess. Gerault was near them, where he could -watch the battle; but his eyes were often to be seen following the light -figure of Lenore through the mazes of the dances and games in which she -so eagerly joined. The sports in which these maidens and young men grown -indulged, were commonly played by older folk throughout France, and have -descended almost intact to the children of a more advanced and less -light-hearted age. Lenore entered into the play with a pleasure too -unconscious not to be genuine. She laughed and sang and chattered, and -put herself at home with every one. She was soon the leading spirit of -the company, as she had been wont to be in her own home. The games were -innumerable: _Pantouffle_, _Pince-Mérille_, _Bric_, _Qui Féry_, _Le Roi -qui ne Ment pas_, and a dozen others. And were there a forfeit to be -paid in the shape of a kiss, she instantly deserted Courtoise and David, -who, enraptured with her youth and gayety, kept close on either side of -her, and delivered it with shy delight to Gerault, who scarcely appeared -to appreciate the gifts he got. - -In the course of time a “Ribbon Dance” was ordered, and madame and -monseigneur actually left their game to lead it, drawing Gerault with -them into the sport. Obediently he gave one hand to Lenore, the other to -Alixe, and went through the dance with apathetic grace, bringing by his -half unconscious manner the first chill upon Lenore’s happy evening. -This was, however, the end of the amusement; and when the flushed and -panting company finally halted, Gerault at once drew his wife to -madame’s side, himself saluted his mother, and then followed Lenore up -the torchlit stairs. In ten minutes the whole company had dispersed, and -Eleanore remained alone in the great hall. - -When she had extinguished all the lights below, madame passed up the -stairs, putting out the smoking torches as she went, and, reaching the -upper hall, went immediately to her own bedroom. Here she slipped off -the heavy mantle and the modified “cote-hardi.” Then, clad only in a -long, light, damask tunic, she went over to one of the wide-open west -windows, and, leaning across its sill, looked out upon the vasty, -murmurous, summer sea. Low on the horizon, among a group of faint -clustering stars, swung the crescent moon, which was reflected in the -smooth surface of a distant wave. A great, fresh, salt breath came up -like a tonic through the wilted air. The voice of the sea was infinitely -soothing. Eleanore listened to it eagerly, her lips parted, her eyes -wandering along that distant wave-line; her thoughts almost as far away. -Presently the door of her room opened, softly; and some one paused upon -the threshold. Instinctively she knew who it was that entered. Half -turning, she said gently,— - -“Thou’rt come here, Gerault?” - -Her son came forward slowly, halted a few steps away, and held out one -hand to her. She went to him and took it, wondering a little at his -manner, but not questioning him. Quietly she drew the young man to the -window where she had been; and both stood there and looked out upon the -scene. They were silent for a long time. It was intensely difficult for -Gerault to speak; and madame knew not how to help him. At length, in a -voice that sounded slightly strained, he asked: “Thou’rt pleased with -her? Thou’rt satisfied, my mother?” - -“Oh, Gerault! Gerault! She is so fair, so delicate, so like some faery -child! I almost fear to see her beauty fade in the shadow of these gray -walls.” - -“And will she—Lenore—help thee, in a way, to forget thy grief in Laure?” - -Eleanore gave a sudden, involuntary sob; for none had pronounced that -name to her since the early spring. The sob was answer enough to -Gerault’s question. But in a moment she said, in a voice that was -perfectly controlled: “Methinks I love her, thy lady, already. Ah, my -son, she is very sweet! Very, very sweet and fair!” - - - - -[Illustration] - - _CHAPTER SEVEN_ - THE LOST LENORE - -[Illustration] - - -When Gerault left her to go to his mother’s room, on that first evening -in the Castle that was to be her home, Lenore was still fully dressed. -As soon as she was alone, however, she made herself ready for the night; -and then, wrapping herself about in her long day-mantle, went to a -window overlooking the sea, and sat there waiting for her lord’s return. -Now that the excitement of the day, of the arrival, of meeting so many -new people, all eager to make her welcome, was over, Lenore began to -feel herself very weary, a little homesick, a little wistful, and -tremulously eager for Gerault’s speedy return. She clung to the thought -of him and her newly risen love, with pathetic anxiety. Was it not -lawful and right that she should love him? Was it not equally lawful and -therefore equally certain that he must love her? She knew little enough -of love and of men, young Lenore; yet this idea came to her -instinctively, and it seemed impossible that it could be otherwise. It -was so recently that she had been a little girl in all her thoughts and -pleasures and habits, that this sudden transition to the dignified -estate of wifehood had left her singularly helpless, singularly -dependent on the man whom she had married out of duty and fallen in love -with afterwards, on the way from Rennes. Gerault helped her, in his way. -He was kind, he was gentle, was solicitous for her comfort, and required -of her nothing but a quiet demeanor. But that he failed in some way to -give her what was her due, the young girl rather felt than knew. - -While she waited here alone, looking out upon the lonely sea, that was -so new and so wonderful a sight to her, the Lady Lenore bitterly -regretted and took herself to task for her gayety of the evening. The -silly games that she had once so loved to play—alas! he had not joined -in them, doubtless thought them trivial and unbecoming in a woman grown -and married! She had made herself a fool before him! He was older than -she, and wiser, and a gallant knight. Lenore’s cheeks flushed with pride -as she remembered how he could joust and tilt at the ring. She -remembered when she had first seen him, from the gallery of the list at -Rennes, when he unseated the Seigneur Geoffrey Cartel. This lordly sport -was as simple to him as her games to her. Little wonder that she had -exhausted his patience! And yet—if he would but come to her now! She was -so sadly weary; and it grew so late. Her little body ached, her temples -throbbed, her eyes burned with the past glare of the sun on the white -dust, and the recent flickering light of the torches. If he would but -come back, and forgive her her childishness, and kiss her before she -slept, she would be very happy. - -In point of fact Gerault did come soon. Knowing that Lenore must be -weary, he remained but a short time with his mother, and returned -immediately to his wife. The moment that he entered the room, Lenore -rose from her place, and ran to him with a faint cry of delight. - -“At last thou art come! Thou art come!” she said indistinctly, not -wanting him to hear the words, yet unable to keep from saying them. - -“And didst thou sit up for me, child, and thou so weary? I went but to -give my mother good-night, for thou knowest ’tis long since I saw her -last. She sent thee her blessing and sweet rest; and my wish is fellow -to hers. Come now, child.” - -Gerault lifted her up in his arms, and, carrying her to the bed, laid -her down in it, mantle and all. In the carrying, Lenore had leaned her -head upon his shoulder, and her two tired arms folded themselves around -his neck. How it was that Gerault felt no thrill at this touch; that it -was almost a relief to him when the hold loosened; and how, though he -slept at her side that night, his dreams, freer replica of his -day-thoughts, were filled with vague trouble, he himself could scarce -have told; and yet it was so. - -[Illustration: - - _Only one among them seemed - not of their mood.—Page 31_ -] - -Next morning, however, Gerault watched her waken, looking as rosy and -fresh as a child, and smiling a child’s delighted welcome at the new -day. Unquestionably she was a pleasure to him at such times. Before her -marriage he had liked, in thinking of her, to accentuate her fairy-like -ways, because through them he had brought himself to marry her. And now -his treatment of her resembled most, perhaps, the treatment of something -very fine and fair, something very rare and delicate and generally to be -prized, but not really belonging to him, not essentially valued by him, -or near at all to his human heart. - -When they were ready for the day, the two of them, Lenore and Gerault, -did not linger together in their room, but descended immediately to the -chapel, where morning prayers were just beginning. Every eye was turned -upon them as they entered the holy room; and it was as sunshine greeting -sunshine when Lenore faced the open window, through which poured the -golden light of July. Madame’s heart swelled and beat fast, and that of -Alixe all but stopped, as each beheld the morning’s bride; and they -perceived, with a kind of dull surprise, that Gerault’s face was as -dark-browed, as reserved, as melancholy as ever. It seemed impossible -that he should not be moved to new life by the presence and possession -of so fair a thing as this Lenore. Yet when the devotions were at an -end, and the Castle household rose and moved out to where the tables -were spread for the breaking of the fast, no one noted how the young -girl’s blue eyes glanced once or twice a little wistfully, a little -forlornly, up into the unmoved face of her husband, and that she got -therefrom no answering smile. - -In celebration of the Seigneur’s wedding, a week’s holiday had been -declared for every one in the Castle; and so, when the first meal of the -day was at an end, the demoiselles, in high glee at escaping from the -morning’s toil in the hot spinning-room, gayly proposed to their -attendant squires that they repair at once to the open meadows, where -there was glorious opportunity for games and caroles. Lenore’s eyes -lighted with pleasure at this proposal; but she looked instinctively at -Gerault, to see if his face approved the plan. She found his eyes upon -her; and, as he caught her glance, he motioned her to his side, and drew -her with him a little apart from the general group. Then he said to her -kindly,— - -“Beloved, I shall see thee at noon meat. Courtoise and I go forth this -morning together to try two of the new falcons that Alixe hath trained. -Thou’lt fare gently here with all the demoiselles and the young squires; -and see that thou weary not thyself at play in the heat. Till noon, my -little one!” - -He bent and touched his lips to her hair,—that sunlit hair,—and then, as -he strode away, followed, but half willingly, by Courtoise, Lenore’s -head bent forward, and her eyes, that for one instant had brimmed full, -were shut tight till the unbidden drops went back again. When she looked -up once more, Alixe was at her side, and the expression on the face of -La Rieuse was full of unlooked-for tenderness. Lenore, however, was too -proud for pity, and in a moment she smiled, and said bravely: - -“My lord is going a-hawking with his squire. Shall we to the fields? -Said they not that we should go to weave garlands in the fields?” - -“Yes! To the fields! To the fields! Hola, David! We are commanded to the -fields by our Queen of Delight!” called Alixe, loudly, waving her hands -above her head, and striving in every way to gain the attention of the -company. But in spite of her efforts, Gerault’s departure was seen, and -there was a general outcry of protest, which did not, however, reach the -ears of the Seigneur. Then Lenore was forced to bear the comments of the -company: their loudly expressed disappointment, and the unspoken but -infinitely more painful astonishment plainly indicated in every glance. -Nevertheless the young girl had in her the instincts of a fine race, and -she bore everything with a heroic unconcern that won Alixe’s admiration, -and so far deceived the thoughtless throng as to bring her a new -accusation of indifference to Gerault’s absence. - -To the girl-bride that morning passed—somehow. It was perhaps the -bitterest three hours she had ever endured; yet she would not confess -her disappointment even to herself. Besides, was not Gerault coming home -again? Had he not said that he would be back at noon? Had he not called -her “beloved”? Her heart thrilled at the thought; and she forgot the -fact that Gerault knew that she could ride with hawk on wrist and tell a -fair quarry when she saw it. She forgot that at such times as this even -hawking will generally give way to love; and that he is a sorry -bridegroom that loves his horse better than his bride. Yet she forgave -him for the time, and regained her smiles until the shadow of a new -dread fell upon her. She could endure the morning; but the afternoon? -Would he remain with her through the afternoon? Alas, here was the -terrible pity of it! She could not tell. - -However, this last dread proved to be groundless. Gerault made no move -to leave the Castle again that day. Perhaps he even felt a little guilty -of neglect; or perhaps her greeting on his return betrayed to him how -she had suffered through the morning. However it was, as soon as the -long dinner was at an end, the Seigneur and his lady were observed to -wander away into the armory, and they sat there together, on the same -settle, until the shadows grew long in the courtyard and the afternoon -was nearly worn away. What they said to one another, or how Gerault -entertained his maid, no one knew; for, oddly enough, Courtoise had put -himself on guard at the armory door, and would permit none to venture so -much as a peep into the room on which his own back was religiously -turned. So for that afternoon demoiselles and squires chose King and -Queen of their revels from among their own number, and perhaps enjoyed -their games the better for that fact. - -When the sun was leaning far toward the broad breast of the sea, all the -Castle, mindful of their souls, repaired to the chapel for vespers, a -service held only when the Bishop was at Le Crépuscule. Gerault and -Lenore were the last to appear, and while the Seigneur’s expression was -rather thoughtful than happy, it had in it, nevertheless, a suggestion -of Lenore’s repressed joy, so that madame, seeing him, was satisfied for -the first time since his home-coming. - -But alas for the thoughts and hopes that this afternoon had raised in -the observing ones of Le Crépuscule, Lenore and her husband were not -seen again to spend a single hour alone together. Gerault remained for -the most part with the general company of the Castle, not seeking to -escape to solitude with Courtoise, but holding his lady from him at -arm’s length. His attitude toward her was uneasy. He did not avoid her, -but, were they by chance left alone together for ten minutes, his manner -changed till it was like that of a man guilty of some dishonorable -thing. Oftentimes, when they were with a number of others, Gerault would -be seen to watch Lenore closely, and his eyes would light with momentary -pleasure at some one of her unconscious graces. But the light never -stayed. Quickly his black brows would darken, the shadows re-cover his -face, and he would be more unapproachable than before. - -In the course of a few days, Lenore began to grow morbidly sensitive -over her husband’s attitude; and, out of sheer misery, she began to -avoid him persistently. This brought a still more bitter blow to her, -for she discovered that he was glad to be avoided. Lenore was desperate; -but still she was brave, still she held to herself; and if at times she -sought refuge with madame and Alixe, those two kindly and pitying souls -met her with outstretched arms of silent sympathy, and never betrayed to -her by so much as a glance how much they had observed of Gerault’s -incomprehensible neglect. - -The holiday week passed, and with its end came a spirit of relief that -it was over. Next morning the usual occupations were begun, and Lenore -went up to the spinning-room with the rest of the women. This work-room -was on the second floor, and ran almost the whole length of the south -side of the Castle: a long, narrow room, with many windows looking out -upon the courtyard, and only a sideways view of the hazy, turquoise sea. -Here was every known mechanical contrivance for the making of cloth and -tapestry, and their development out of the raw wool. The loom, just now -half filled with a warp of pale green, stood at the east end of the -room; the fixed combs, the half-dozen spinning-wheels, the -tambour-frames for embroidery, and the great tapestry-border frame, were -ranged in an orderly line down the remaining length, and each of the -maidens had her particular task of the summer in some stage of -completion. Since Lenore’s arrival a spinning-wheel had been set up here -for her, and she sat down to it at once, while her demoiselles were -directed by madame to begin work on the tapestry border, at which four -could apply the needle at the same time. As the roomful settled quickly -to work, under the general guidance of madame, Lenore began to tread her -wheel and draw out thread with a hand practised enough to win the -approval even of Eleanore. And as the morning wore along, Lenore found -herself unaccountably soothed and comforted by her task and the kindly -atmosphere of perseverance and attention to duty surrounding her. - -Nevertheless, it was not a comfortable day for such work. The heat was -intense. Fingers grew constantly damp with sweat. Thread knotted and -broke, silk drew, and little exclamations of anger and disgust were -frequently to be heard. However, the labor was continued as usual for -three hours, till eleven o’clock, the dinner hour, came, and the little -company willingly left the spinning-room to another afternoon of -silence, and went downstairs to meat. At the foot of the stairs stood -Gerault, waiting for Lenore; and when she reached him he kissed her upon -the brow before leading her to table. In that moment the girl’s heart -sang, and she felt that her day had been fittingly crowned. - -In the early afternoon Lenore found that there were new occupations for -all the Castle. The demoiselles were despatched to the long room on the -first floor, which, though not dignified by the name of library, yet -took that place, for instruction in certain things, mental and moral, by -the friar-steward, Father Anselm. The young men were at sword practice -in the keep. And Lenore, who could write her name and read a little from -parchment manuscripts in both Latin and French, and whose education was -therefore finished, was summoned by madame and taken over the whole -Castle, receiving, at various stages, instruction in domestic duties and -the management of the great building. She saw everything, from the -linen-presses upstairs to the wine-cellars underground; and everywhere -the hand of madame was visible in the scrupulous exactness and neatness -with which the Castle was kept. Then in her heart Lenore determined that -in time she would learn madame’s habits, and, if it could be done in no -other way, win Gerault’s respect by her abilities as a housekeeper. - -The hours of late afternoon and early evening were devoted to -recreation, which was entered into with new zest by every one. To be -sure, Gerault sat all evening with his mother, playing draughts. But his -eyes occasionally strayed to the figure of his wife; and later, when the -Castle was still, and Lenore, in the great curtained bed, was wandering -on the borderland of sleep, she felt that this day was the happiest she -had yet spent in Le Crépuscule; and she knew in her heart that work and -work only could now bring her peace. And thereafter, poor little -dreamer, a smile hovered upon her face as she slept! - -On the tenth day of the new regime in Le Crépuscule, squire Courtoise -sat in the armory, polishing the design engraved on his lord’s -breastplate. Courtoise was moody. Ordinarily his cheerfulness in the -face of insuperable dulness was something to be proud of. But latterly -his faith, the one great faith in his heart,—not religion, but utter -devotion to his lord—had been receiving a series of shocks that had -shaken it to its foundation. Courtoise was by nature as gentle, genial, -and kindly a fellow as ever held a lance; and in his heart he had for -years blindly worshipped Gerault. His creed of devotion, indeed, had -embraced the whole family of Le Crépuscule, because Gerault was its -head. Till the time of their last going to Rennes, there had been for -him no woman like madame, no such maid as Laure, and no man anywhere -comparable to his master. Poor Laure had dealt him a grievous blow when -she followed Flammecœur from the priory. But from the day of Gerault’s -betrothal to little Lenore, the daughter of the Iron Chateau had held -his heart in her hand, and might have done with it as she would. Loving -the two of them as he did, and seeing each day fresh proof of Lenore’s -affection for her lord and his, Courtoise naturally looked for a fitting -return of this from the Seigneur. And here, all in a night, Courtoise’s -first great doubt had entered in. They had been married three days, they -were barely at Le Crépuscule, before Courtoise saw what made him sick -with uneasiness. If the Seigneur had wedded this exquisite maiden with -the sunlit hair, must he not love her? And yet—and yet—and yet—Courtoise -sat in the armory and polished freely at the steel, and swore to himself -under his breath, recklessly incurring whatever penance Anselm should -see fit to give. For here it was mid-afternoon, and his little lady just -freed from her hours of toil; and there was Gerault gone off by himself, -without even his squire, forsooth, to hawk with the Iron-Beak over the -moor! - -Courtoise had been indulging himself in ire for some time, when a shadow -stole past the doorway of the armory. He looked up. The shadow had gone; -but presently it returned and halted: “Courtoise!” - -The young fellow leaped to his feet, and the breastplate clattered to -the floor. Lenore, looking very transparently pale, very humbly wistful, -and having just a suspicion of red around her eyes, was regarding him -tentatively from the doorway. - -“Ma dame, what service dost thou ask?” - -“None, Courtoise,” the voice sounded rather faint and tired. “None, save -to tell me if thou hast lately seen my lord.” - -The expression on her face was so pathetic that Courtoise was suddenly -struck to the heart, and he bit his tongue before he could reply quietly -enough: “Ma Dame Lenore, Seigneur Gerault rode out long time since -a-hawking; and methinks he will shortly now return. The hour for evening -meat approaches. I—I—” he broke off, stammering; and Lenore without -speaking bowed her head, and patiently turned away. - -Courtoise sat down again when she left him, and remained motionless, the -steel on his knees, his hands idle, staring into space. Suddenly he -leaped to his feet and hurled the breastplate to the floor with a -smothered oath. “Gray of St. Gray!” he cried, “what devil hath seized -the man I loved? Gerault, my lord, rides out and leaves this angel to -weep after him! Gray of St. Gray! what desires he more fair than this -his Lenore? What—what—what—” the muttered words died into thoughts as -Courtoise clapped a cap on his head and strode away from the armory and -out of the Castle. - -In the courtyard the first object that met his eyes was Gerault’s horse, -standing in front of the keep, with a stable-boy holding him by the -bridle. Gerault himself was in the doorway of the empty falcon-house, -holding a _hagard_ on his wrist, while two dead pigeons swung from his -girdle. - -“Courtoise! Behold our spoils! Hath not Talon-Fer done Alixe’s training -honor?” cried Gerault, the note of pleasure keener than usual in his -voice. - -Courtoise, flushed with rising anger, went over to him. “My lord, the -Lady Lenore asks for thee!” he said a little hoarsely, paying no -attention to the dead pigeons or the young falcon. - -Gerault very slightly raised his brows, more at Courtoise’s tone, -perhaps, than at the words he spoke. “The Lady Lenore,” he said. - -“Even so—the Lady Lenore—thy wife!” - -“I understand thee, good Courtoise.” - -The veins in the younger man’s neck and temples stood out under the -strain of repression. “Comes my lord?” he asked slowly. - -“In good time, Courtoise. The _hagard_ must be fed.” Gerault would have -turned away, but Courtoise, with a burst of irritation, exclaimed,— - -“I will feed the creature!” - -Now Gerault turned to him again: “Hast thou some strange malady or -frenzy, that thou shouldst use such tones to me, boy?” - -“Tones—tones, and yet again tones! Gerault—thou churl! Ay, I that have -been faithful squire to thee these many years, I say it. Thou churl and -worse, to have wedded with the sweetest lady ever sun shone upon, to -bring her, a stranger, home to thy Castle, and then leave her there, day -following day, while thou ridest over the moors to dally with some bird! -All the Castle stares at the cruelty of thy neglect. Daily the -demoiselles whisper together, wondering what distemper thy lady hath -that thou seest her not by day—” - -“Hush, boy—hush! Thou’rt surely mad!” cried out Gerault, with a note in -his voice that gave Courtoise pause. - -Then there fell between them a silence, heavy, and so binding that -Courtoise could not move. He stood staring into his master’s face, -watching the color grow from white to red and back again, and the -expression change from angry amazement to something softer, something -strange, something that Courtoise did not know in his lord’s face. And -Gerault gnawed his lip, and bent low his head, and presently spoke, in a -voice that was not his own, but was rather curiously muffled and -unnatural. - -“Thou sayest well, Courtoise. ’Tis true I have neglected her, poor, -frail, pretty child! Ah! I had never thought how I have neglected her”; -and Gerault sat suddenly down upon the step of the falcon-house and laid -his head in his hands, in an attitude of such dejection that Courtoise -experienced a swift rush of repentance. - -For some time there was again silence between them. Courtoise, -thoroughly mystified by the whole situation, had nothing whatever to -say. Finally the Seigneur stood up, this time with his head high, and -his self-control returned. He put the falcon, screaming, into his -squire’s hands, and took the bodies of the pigeons from his belt. - -“So, Courtoise, I leave them all with you. Where is the Lady Lenore?” - -“Sooth, I know not; yet methinks when she left the armory where she had -spoken to me, she passed into the chapel.” - -“I go to her. And I thank thee, Courtoise, for thy rebuke.” - -“My lord, my lord, forgive me!” Courtoise choked with a sudden new rush -of devotion for his master. He would have fallen on his knees there on -the courtyard stones, but that the Seigneur, with a faint smile at him, -was gone, carrying alone the burden of his inexplicable sorrow. - -The Lady Lenore was in the chapel, half kneeling, half lying upon the -altar-step. In the dim light of the shadowy place her golden hair and -amber-colored garments glimmered faintly. She was not praying, yet -neither was she weeping, now. The long, hot loneliness of the afternoon -had thrown her into a state of apathy, in which she wished for nothing, -and in which she refused to think. She had no desire for company; but -had any one come—David, or Alixe, or Madame—she should not have cared. -It was only Gerault that she would not have see her in this place and -attitude. The thought of Gerault was continually with her, as something -omnipresent; but at this especial hour she felt no wish to see the man -himself. Yet now he came. She heard a tread on the stones that sent a -tremor through her whole body. Then some one was kneeling beside her, -and a quiet voice said gently in her ear,— - -“Lenore!—My child!—Why art thou lying here?” - -Lenore tried hard to speak; but her throat contracted convulsively, and -she made no answer. - -“Child, art thou sick for thy home? Thou hast found sorrow here, and -loneliness, in this new abode. Perhaps thou wouldst have had me oftener -at thy side. Is it so, Lenore?” - -The girl’s golden head burrowed down into her arms, and she seemed to -shake it, but she did not speak. - -Gerault looked about him a little helplessly. Then, taking new -resolution, he put one arm about her, and, drawing her slight form close -to him, he said in a halting and broken way: “Come, my wife—come with me -for a little time. Let us walk out together to the cliff by the sea. The -sun draws near the water—the afternoon grows rich with gold.—And thou -and I will talk together.—Lenore, much might I tell thee of myself, -whereby thou couldst understand many things that trouble thee now. -Knowing them, and with them, me, thou shalt more justly judge me. Come, -little one,—rise up!” He drew her to her feet beside him, and then, with -his arms still around her, he stood and put his lips to her half-averted -cheek. Under that kiss she grew cold and tremulous, but still preserved -her silence. Then the two moved, side by side, out of the Castle, -through the courtyard, and on to the outer terrace that ran along the -very edge of the precipitous cliff against which, far below, the summer -sea gently broke and plashed. - -Here, hand in hand, the Seigneur and his lady walked, looking off -together at the glory of the mighty waters. The crimson sky was veiled -in light clouds that caught a more and more splendid reflection of the -fiery ball behind them; while the moving waves below were stained with -pink and mellow gold. Lenore kept her eyes fixed fast upon this sight, -while she listened to what Gerault was saying to her. He talked, in a -fitful, chaotic way, of many things: of his boyhood here, of Laure his -sister, and Alixe, and of “one other that was not as any of us,—our -cousin, a daughter of Laval, whose dead mother had put her in the -keeping of mine.” - -So much mention of this girl Gerault made, and then went on to other -things, jumbling together many incidents and scenes of his boyhood and -his youth, never guessing that Lenore, who continued so quietly to look -off upon the sea, had seized upon this one little thing that he had -said, and realized, with a woman’s intuition, that the story of his -heart lay here. As Gerault rambled on, he came gradually to feel that he -had lost her attention, and so, little by little, as the sunset light -died away, he ceased to speak, and there crept in upon them, over them, -through them, that terrible silence that both of them knew: the -all-pervading, ghostly silence that haunted this spot; the silence that -had brought the name upon the Castle,—the Chateau du Crépuscule. Lenore -grew slowly cold with miserable foreboding, while Gerault, rebelling -against himself, was struggling to break the bonds of his own nature. - -“Well named is this home of ours, Lenore,” he said sadly. - -“Yea, it is well named,” was the reply. - -“Wilt thou—be—lonely forever here? Art thou lonely now? Hast thou a -sickness for thy home and for thy people?” - -For an instant Lenore hesitated. At Gerault’s words her heart had leaped -up with a great cry of “Yes”; and yet now there was something in her -that withheld her from saying it. When at last she answered him, her -words were unaccountable to herself, yet she spoke them feelingly: “Nay, -Gerault. Thou hast taken me to be one with thee. Thou hast brought me -here to thy home, and it is also mine.” - -A light of pleasure came into Gerault’s face, and he took her into his -arms with a freer and more open warmth than he had ever shown her -before. “Indeed, thou art my wife—one with me—my sweet one—my sweet -child Lenore! And this my home is also thine,—Chateau du Crépuscule!” - -Suddenly Lenore shivered in his clasp. That word “Crépuscule” sounded -like a knell in her ears, and as she looked upon the gray walls looming -out of the twilight mists, the very blood in her veins stood still. -Whether Gerault felt her dread she did not know, but he did not loose -his hold upon her for a long time. They stood, close-clasped, on the -edge of the cliff, looking off upon the darkening sea, till, over the -eastern horizon line, the great pink moon slipped up, giving promise of -glory to the night. The cool evening breeze came off the waters. They -heard the creaking and grating of the drawbridge, as it was raised. Then -a flock of sea gulls floated up from the water below, and veered -southward, along the shore, toward their home. Finally, in the deepening -west, the evening star came out, hanging there like a diamond on an -invisible thread. Then Gerault whispered in the ear of Lenore,— - -“Sweet child, it is late. The hour of evening meat is now long past. Let -us go into the Castle.” - -Lenore yielded at once to the pressure of Gerault’s arm, and let herself -be drawn away. But she carried forever after the memory of that quiet -half-hour, in which the mighty hand of nature had been lifted over her -to give her blessing. - -Courtoise the faithful had kept the two from a summons at the hour of -supper; and on their return they found food left upon the table for -them; but, what was unusual at this time, the great room was empty. Only -Courtoise, who was again at work in the armory, knew how long they sat -and ate and talked together, and only he saw them when they rose from -table, passed immediately to the stairs, and ascended, side by side. -Then the young squire knew that they would come down no more that night; -and he guessed what was really true: that on that evening Lenore’s cup -of happiness seemed full; for, as never before, Gerault claimed and took -to himself the unselfish devotion that she was so ready to give. When -she slept, a smile yet lingered round her lips; nor, in that sleep, did -she feel the change that came upon her lord. - -Not many hours after she had sunk to rest, Lenore woke slowly, to find -herself alone in the canopied bed. Gerault was not there. She put out -her hand to him, and found his place empty. Opening her eyes with a -little effort, she pushed the curtains back from the edge of the bed, -and looked about her. It could not be more than twelve o’clock. The room -was flooded with moonlight, till it looked like a fairy place. The three -windows were wide open to the breath of the sea; and beside one of them -knelt Gerault. He was wrapped in a full mantle that hid the lines of his -figure; and Lenore could see only that his brow rested on the -window-sill, that his shoulders were bent, and his hands clasped tight -on the ledge beyond his head. Unutterable pain was expressed in the -attitude. - -What was he doing there? Of what were his thoughts? Why had he left her -side? Above all, what was his secret trouble? These questions passed -quickly through Lenore’s brain, and her first impulse was to rise and go -to him. Had she not the right to know his heart? Had he not given it to -her this very night? She looked at him again, asking herself if he were -really in pain; if he were not rather simply looking out upon the -moonlit sea, and was now, perhaps, engaged in prayer, to which the -beauty of the scene had lifted him. She would go to him and learn. - -She sat up in bed, pushed her golden hair out of her neck and back from -her face. Then she drew the curtains still farther aside, preparatory to -stepping out, when suddenly she saw Gerault lift his head as if he -listened for something far away; and then she caught the whispered word, -“Lenore!” - -For some reason, she could not have told why, Lenore did not move, but -sat quite still, staring at him. She heard him say again, more loudly, -“Lenore!” but he did not turn toward her bed. Rather, he was looking -out, out of the window, and down the line of rocky shore that stretched -away to the north. - -“Lenore! I hear thee! I hear thy voice!” he whispered, to himself, -fearfully. “I hear thee speaking to me.—Oh, my God! My God! When wilt -Thou remove this torture from my brain?” He rose to his feet and lifted -his arms as if in supplication. “It is a curse upon me! It is a madness, -that I cannot love this other maiden. Thou spirit of my lost -Lenore!—Lenore!—Lenore!—Thou callest to me from the sea by day and -night!—Only and forever beloved, come thou back to me, out of the -sea!—Come back to me!—Come back!” His hands were clenched under such a -stress of emotion as his girl-wife had never dreamed him capable of. Now -he stood there without speaking, his breath coming in sobbing gasps that -shook his whole frame. The beating of his heart seemed as if it would -suffocate him, and his body swayed back and forward, under the force of -his mental anguish. For the first time in all his years of silent grief, -he gave way unreservedly to himself; let all the pent-up agony come -forth as it would from him, as he stood there, looking off upon that -wonderful, inscrutable, shimmering ocean, that had played such havoc -with his changeless heart. - -From the bed where she sat, Lenore watched him, silent, motionless, -afraid almost to breathe lest he should discover that she was awake. But -Gerault wist nothing of her presence. He had known no joy in her, in the -hallowed hours of the early night; else he could not now stand there at -the window, calling, in tones of unutterable agony and tenderness, upon -his dead,— - -“Lenore! Lenore! Come back!—O sea—thou mighty, cruel sea, deliver her up -for one moment to my arms! Let me have but one look, a touch, a -kiss.—Oh, my God!—Come back to me at last, or else I die!” - -He fell to his knees again, faint with the power of his emotion; and -Lenore, the other, the unloved Lenore, sat behind him, in the great bed, -watching. - -The moonlight crept slowly from that room, and passed, like a wraith, -off the sea, and beyond, into the east. The stars shone brighter for the -passing of the moon. There was no sound in the great stillness, save the -rustling murmur of the outflowing tide. In the chilly darkness before -the break of dawn, Gerault of the Twilight Castle crept back to the bed -he had left, looking fixedly, through the gloom, at the white, passive -face of his wife, who lay back, with closed eyes, on her pillow. And -when at last he slept again, she did not move; yet she was not asleep. -In that hour her youth was passing from her, and she, a woman at last, -entered alone into that dim and quiet vale where those that lived about -her had wandered so long, so patiently, and, at last, so wearily, alone. - - - - -[Illustration] - - _CHAPTER EIGHT_ - TO A TRUMPET-CALL - -[Illustration] - - -After the night of Gerault’s passion, twelve days ebbed and flowed away -without any incident of moment in the Castle. How much bitter heart-life -was enacted in that time, it had indeed been difficult to tell. Lenore -wondered, constantly, as she looked into the faces about her and -questioned them as she refused to question her own heart. If, beneath -that cloak of lordly courtesy and calmness, Gerault could hide such a -grief as she knew was buried in his soul; if she herself found it so -easy to conceal her own knowledge of that bitterest of all facts, that -she was a wife unloved,—what stories of mental anguish, of long-hidden -torture, might not lie behind the impassive masks around her. There was -Madame Eleanore, madame of the commanding presence and infinitely gentle -manners. What was it that had generated the expression of her eyes? -Lenore had scarcely heard the name of Laure, thought only that there had -been a daughter in Crépuscule who had died long since; and so she wove a -little history of her own to account for that haunted look so often to -be found in madame’s dark orbs. Gerault she knew. Alixe puzzled her, but -there also she found food for her morbidness. Courtoise and the -demoiselles she did not consider; but David the dwarf held -possibilities. The young woman’s new-sharpened glance quickly discovered -that the jester suffered also from the devouring malady, and she -wondered over and pitied him also. - -Indeed, at this time, Lenore was in an abnormal and unhealthy frame of -mind. It seemed to her that all the world lived only to hide its -sorrows. But her melancholy speculations concerning the nature of the -griefs of others saved her from the disastrous effects of too much -self-analysis. Her love for Gerault, to which she always clung, led her -to pity him as he would not have believed she could have pitied any one; -and, unnatural as it seemed, she brooded as much over his sorrow as over -her own. Melancholy she was, indeed, and older by many years than when -she had first come to Le Crépuscule. Sometimes the fact that Gerault did -not know how much she knew brought her a measure of comfort, but it made -her uneasy, also, for she was not sure that she was not wrongfully -deceiving him. She could not bring herself to confess to Father Anselm -what she felt no one should know; and neither did she find it in her -heart to tell Gerault himself of her inadvertent discovery, though had -she but done this last, all might have come right in the end. But from -day to day she put away from her the thought of speaking, and from day -to day she drew closer into herself, till she was shut to all thought of -confiding in him who had the right to know the reason of her -unhappiness. - -Gerault, however, was not unobserving, and he noticed the change in her -very early in its existence. It was an intangible thing, elusive, -changeable, varying in degree. All this he realized; but, man-like, -never guessed the reason for it, never knew that Lenore herself was -unconscious of it. Did she desire to coquet with him, render him -uneasily jealous of every one on whom she turned her eyes? If so, it was -useless, for the knight believed himself incapable of jealousy in regard -to her. He had married her for the sake of his mother, and for Le -Crépuscule,—much as the fact did him dishonor. In the very hour of their -highest love, his thoughts had been all for another; and when she slept -he had left her side to cry into the night and the silence, unto that -other, of whom this young Lenore had never heard. Despite these -confessed things, the Seigneur Gerault felt in some way hurt when the -timid shadow of his wife no longer haunted him by day, nor stretched to -his protecting arm by night. She had withdrawn from him into herself, -and even his occasional half-hours of devotion failed to bring any light -into her eyes, though she treated him always with half-tender courtesy. -Her lord was not a little puzzled by her new manner, but he took it in -his own way; and there was presently a stiffness of demeanor between the -two that would have been almost laughable had it not been so -pathetically cruel to Lenore. - -The month of July passed away, and August came into the land. Brittany, -long blazing with sunlight, lay parching for want of rain. The moors -grew brown and dusty, and the meadow flowers bloomed no more. But the -blue sea shimmered radiantly day by day, and the sunsets were ever more -glorious and more red. - -On a day in the first week of the last summer month, when Anselm had -found the temperature too great for the casting of choice paragraphs of -Cicero before the unheeding demoiselles, when the Castle reeked with the -smell of cooking, and the air outside was heavy with the odor of -hard-baked earth, Gerault sat in the long room alone, reading Seneca -from an illuminated text. A heretical document this, and not to be found -in a monastery or holy place; yet there were in it such scraps of homely -wisdom and comfort as the Seigneur—something of a scholar in his idle -hours—had failed to find in Holy Scripture. - -In its dimly lighted silence the long room was, at this hour, a soothing -place. The row of small casement windows were open to the sea, and two -or three swallows, coming up from the water below, flitted through the -room, and once even a sleek and well-fed gull came to sit upon a sill -and flap his wings over the flavor of his last fish. - -Gerault’s back was turned to the light; yet he knew these little -incidents of the birds, and took pleasure in them. A portion of his mind -rejoiced lazily in the quiet and solitude; the rest was fixed upon the -Latin words that he translated still with some lordly difficulty. He -found himself in the mood to consider the thoughts of men long dead, and -was indulging in the unsurpassed delight of the philosopher when, to his -vast annoyance, Courtoise pushed aside the curtains of the door, and -came into the room followed by another man. Gerault looked up testily; -but as he uttered his first word of reproach, his eye caught the dress -of his squire’s companion, and he broke off with an exclamation: “Dame! -Thou, Favriole?” - -“May it please thee, Seigneur du Crépuscule,” was the reply, as the -new-comer advanced, bowing. He was elaborately and significantly dressed -in a parti-colored surcoat of blue and white silk, emblazoned behind and -before with the coronet and arms of Duke Jean of Brittany. His hosen -were also parti-colored, yellow and blue, and the round cap that he held -in his hand was of blue felt with a white feather. At his side hung the -instrument of his calling, a silver trumpet on a tasselled cord; for he -was a ducal herald, and, before he spoke, Gerault knew his errand. - -“Welcome, welcome, Favriole!” he said kindly. “What is thy message now? -Surely not war?” - -“Nay, Seigneur Gerault! A merrier message than that!” Lifting his -trumpet to his lips, he blew upon it a clear, silvery blast, and, after -the rather absurd formality, began: “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Be it known to -all princes, barons, knights, and gentlemen of the Duchy of Brittany and -the dependency of Normandy, and to the knights of Christian countries, -if they be not enemies to the Duke our Sire,—to whom God give long -life,—that in the ducal lists of Rennes in Brittany, upon the fifteenth -day of this month of August in this year of grace 1381, and thereafter -till the twentieth day of that month, there will be a great pardon of -arms and very noble tourney fought after the ancient customs, at which -tourney the chiefs will be the most illustrious Duke of Brittany, -appellant, and the very valiant Hugo de Laci, Lord in vassalage to his -Grace of England, of the Castle Andelin in Normandy, defendant. And -hereby are invited all knights of Christian countries not at variance -with our Lord Duke, to take part in the said tourney for the glory of -Knighthood and the fame of their Ladies.” - -Favriole finished, smiling and important, and from behind him rose a -little buzz of interest. For, at sound of the trumpet, almost all the -Castle company had hurried from their various retreats to learn the -meaning of the untoward sound. In this group, not foremost, standing -rather a little back from the rest, was Lenore, gravely regarding -Gerault, where he sat with the parchment before him. She had recognized -Favriole, the herald, for a familiar figure in the lists at that -long-past tournament where she had first thought of being lady of her -lord; and she grew a little white under the memories that the herald -brought her. Gerault had seen her at the first moment of her coming, -and, as soon as Favriole finished his announcement, beckoned her to his -side. She came forward to him quietly, and took her place, acknowledging -the pleased salute of the visitor with the slightest inclination of her -golden head. When she was seated at the table, Gerault, who had risen at -her coming, spoke: - -“Our thanks to you, Sir Herald, for your message, which you have come a -long and weary way to bear to the one spurred knight in this house. And -devotion to our Lord, Duke Jean, who—” Gerault paused. His mother had -just come to the room and halted on the threshold, a little in front of -the general group, her eyes travelling swiftly from Favriole’s face to -that of Lenore. Gerault, his thought broken, hesitated for an instant, -and turned also to look at his wife. Instantly Lenore rose, and advanced -a step or two to his side. Then she said in a curiously pleading tone,— - -“I do humbly entreat my lord that he will not refuse to enter this -tournament; but that he will at once set out for Rennes, there to fight -for—for ‘the glory of his Knighthood, and the—the fame of his—Ladies’!” - -When Lenore had spoken she found the whole room staring at her in open -amazement. Gerault gave his wife a glance that brought her a moment’s -bitter satisfaction,—a look filled with astonishment and discomfort. -Long he gazed at her, but could find no softening curve in her white, -set face. Every line in her figure bade him go. At length, then, he -turned back to Favriole, with something that resembled a sigh, and -continued his speech. - -“Sir Herald, carry my name for the lists; and my word that on the -fifteenth day of this month I shall be in Rennes, armed and horsed for -the tourney. My challenge shall be sent anon.—Courtoise! Take thine -ancient comrade to the keep, and find him refreshment ere he proceeds -upon his way.” - -Courtoise bowed, wearing an expression of mingled pleasure and -disapproval, and presently he and the herald left the room together, -followed by all the young esquires. After their disappearance the -demoiselles also wandered off to their pursuits, and presently Gerault, -Eleanore, and Lenore were left alone in the long room. Eleanore stood -still, just where she was, and looked once, searchingly, from the face -of her son to that of his wife. Then she addressed Gerault: “See that -thou come to me to-night, when I am alone in my chamber. I would talk -with thee, Gerault.” And with another look that had in it a suggestion -of disdain, madame turned and went out of the room. - -When she was gone the knight drew a long sigh, and then, with an air of -apprehensive inquiry, faced Lenore. At once she rose and, with a very -humble courtesy, started also to depart. But Gerault, whose bewilderment -at the situation was changing to anxiety, said sharply: “Stay, Lenore! -Thou shalt not go till we have spoken together.” - -Immediately she returned to her place and sat down. She gave him one -swift glance from under her lashes, and then remained in silence, her -eyes fixed upon the floor. - -At the same time the Seigneur got to his feet and began to pace unevenly -up and down the room. His step was sufficient evidence of his agitation; -but it was many minutes before he suddenly halted, turning to his wife -and saying in a tone of command: “Tell me, Lenore, why thou biddest me -go forth into this tournament.” - -“Ah, my lord—do not—I—” she paused, and, from flushing vividly, her face -grew white again: “Thou wilt be happier in Rennes, my lord.” - -“How say you that? Were I not happier at home here with my bride?” - -“Asks my lord wherefore?” answered Lenore, in a tone containing -something that Gerault could not understand. - -“Nay, then, I ask thee naught but this: wouldst thou, all for thyself, -of thine own will, have me go? Dost thou in thy heart desire it?” - -Lenore drew her head a little high, and looked him full in the face: -“For myself, for mine own selfish desires, of mine own will, I entreat -thee by that which through thy life thou hast held most dear, to go!” - -Gerault stared at her, some vague distrust that was entering his mind -continually foiled by the open-eyed clearness of her look. Finally, -then, he shrugged his shoulders, and, as he turned away from her, he -said: “Be satisfied, madame. I do your bidding. I give you what pleasure -I can. In ten days’ time I shall set off; and thou wilt be unfettered in -this Crépuscule!” - -And with this last ungenerous and angry taunt, the Seigneur, his brain -seething with some emotion that he could not define, strode from the -room. Lenore rose as he left her, and followed him, unsteadily, halfway -to the door. He went out of the Castle without once looking back, and -when he was quite gone, the young girl felt her way blindly to the chair -where she had sat, and crouching down in it, burst into a flood of -repressed and desperate tears. - -When Gerault left Lenore’s side, he was no whit happier than she. After -the herald had made his announcement of the tourney, and Gerault had -begun his reply, it was his intent to refuse to go, though in his secret -heart he longed eagerly to be off to that city of gay forgetfulness. But -when his wife, Lenore, the clinging child, besought him, with every -appearance of sincerity, to leave her, he heard her with less of -satisfaction than with surprised disappointment. Now he fought with -himself; now he questioned her motive; again he longed for Rennes and -the tourney. Finally, there rushed over him the detestable deceit in his -own attitude; and he began to curse himself for what, sometimes, he -was,—the most intolerant and the most selfish of tyrants. In these -varying moods Gerault rode, for the rest of the afternoon, over the dry -moors, hawk on wrist, but finding his own thoughts, unhappy as they -were, more engrossing than possible quarries. He returned late—when the -evening meal was nearly at an end; and he perceived, with dull -disappointment, that Lenore was not at table. Madame presently informed -him that she lay in bed, sick of a headache; and this was all the -conversation in which he indulged while he ate his hurried meal. But as -soon as grace was said and the company had risen, Gerault started to the -stairs. Instantly his mother caught his sleeve and held him back, -saying,— - -“Go not to thy room. She has perchance fallen asleep by now; and she -should not be wakened, for she hath been very ill. Seek thou rather my -bedchamber, and there presently I will come to thee; for I have somewhat -that I would say to thee, Gerault.” - -Feeling as he had sometimes felt when, in his early boyhood, he had -waited punishment for some boyish misdeed, the Seigneur obeyed his -mother, and went up to her room, which was now wrapped in -close-gathering shadows. Here, a few moments later, Eleanore found him, -pacing up and down, his arms folded, his head bent upon his breast, a -dark frown upon his brows. The windows were open to the evening, and, -like some witchcraft spell, its sweetness entered into Gerault, -penetrating to his brain, and once again turning his thoughts to the -spirit that haunted all Le Crépuscule for him. - -Madame came into the room, drawing the iron-bound door shut behind her, -and pushing the tapestry curtain over it. Then, without speaking, she -crossed the room, seated herself on her settle beside the window, and -fixed her eyes on the moving form of her son. Under her look Gerault -grew more restless still; and he was about to break the silence when -presently she said, in a low, rather grating tone: “Know, Gerault, that -I am grieved with thee.” - -He turned to her at once with a little gesture of deprecation; but she -went on speaking: - -“Thou hast brought home from Rennes a wife: a fair maid and a gentle as -any that hath ever lived; and moreover one that loves thee but too well. -In her little time of dwelling here she hath, by her quiet, lovely ways, -crept close into my heart, that was erstwhile so bitterly empty. And -having her here, and seeing her growing devotion to thee, her continual -striving to please thee in thine every desire, methought that thou, a -knight sworn to chivalry, must needs treat her with more than -tenderness. Yet that hast thou not, Gerault. Dieu! Thou’rt all but cruel -with her! God knows thy father came to be not over-thoughtful in his -love of me. Yet had he neglected and spurned me in our early marriage as -thou hast this bride of thine, I had surely made end of myself or ever -thou camest into the world. Shame it is to thee and to all mankind how—” - -“Madame! Madame!—Forbear!” - -At his tone, Eleanore held her peace, while Gerault, after a deep pause, -in which he regained his self-control, began,— - -“Canst thou remember, my mother, a talk that we—thou and I together in -this room—held one afternoon more than a year agone? ’Twas in this room, -the day before I went last to Rennes. Thou didst entreat me to bring -thee back a wife to be thy daughter in the place of Laure. - -“At that hour the idea was impossible to me. Thou knowest—’fore God thou -knowest—the suffering that time has never eased for me. A thousand times -I had vowed then, a hundred times I swore thereafter, that the image of -mine own Lenore should never be replaced within my heart; and it holds -there to-day as fair and clear as if it were but yesterday she went. - -“Many months passed away, madame, and I saw this golden-haired maiden -about Rennes,—in the Ladies’ Gallery in the lists, and at feasts in the -Castle; yet I had never a thought in my heart of wedding with her. -Then—late in the spring—St. Nazaire sent me message of Laure’s disgrace, -her excommunication; and my heart bled for thee. I sent out many men to -search my sister, but not one ever gathered trace of her. Then, when -there was no further hope of restoring her to thee, the idea of marriage -came to me for the first time as a duty—toward thee. My whole soul cried -out against it. Lenore de Laval reproached me from the heaven where she -dwells. And yet—in the end—for _thy_ sake, madame, I brought home with -me the gentle child men call my wife. - -“I confess it to thee only: I do not love her. Yet indeed none can say -that I have used her ill, save as I could not bring myself falsely to -act the ardent lover. If she hath been unhappy, then am I greatly -grieved. Yet what hath she not that women do desire in life? What lacks -there of honor or of pleasure in her estate? Moreover, if she has lost -her own mother, hath she not gained thee, dear lady of mine? Mon Dieu, -madame,—think not so ill of me. I swear that for me she yearns not at -all. Even this afternoon, when all of you had departed from the long -room, she did implore me, with sincerest speech, that I depart at early -date for Rennes. How likes you that? And moreover, to all my -questioning, she did stoutly deny that my going would be for aught but -her own pleasure, and would in no way grieve her heart.” And Gerault -stared upon his mother with the assured and exasperated look of a doubly -injured man. - -Madame Eleanore drew herself together and set her lips in the firm -resolve still to treat her son with consideration. When she began to -speak, her manner was calm and her voice low and quiet; yet in her eyes -there gleamed a fire that was not born of patience. “So, Gerault! -Doubtless all thou sayest is sooth to thee; yet I would tell thee this: -when thou left’st her alone, I came upon her still sitting in the long -room, leaning her head upon the table where thou hadst sat, weeping as -if her heart was like to break. And when her sobs were still I brought -her up to her room and caused her to remove her garments and to seek her -bed, though all the while she shook with inward grief, till Alixe -brought her a posset, and bathed her head in elder-flower water, and -then, at last, she slept.” - -“And gave she no name to thee as cause for her malady?” - -“Art thou indeed so ignorant of us? Or is it heartlessness? Wilt thou go -to Rennes?” - -“Hath she not required me to go? Good Heavens, madame! what wouldst have -me do?” he answered with weary impatience. - -“Gerault, Gerault, if I could by prayer or anger make thee to understand -for one instant only! Ah, ’tis the same tale that every woman has to -tell. It was so with me. In my early youth I was brought from bright -Laval, where I was a queen of gayety and life, to rule alone over this -great Twilight Castle. Thy grandam was dead; and there was no other -woman of my station here. In a few months after my home-coming as a -bride, thy father rode away to join the army of Montfort in the East. -From that time I saw my lord but a few weeks in every year; for the war -lasted till I had reached the age of four-and-thirty. Thou camest to -cheer my loneliness; and then, long after, Laure. And at last, when -Laure was in her first babyhood, seventeen years agone, the long -struggle ended at Auray; and then my lord, sore wounded in his last -fight, came home. Alas! I was no happier for his coming. He had suffered -much, and he was no longer young. We two, so long separated, were almost -as strangers one to the other. Thou wast his great pride; dost remember -how he loved to have thee near him? And many a time it cut me to the -heart to hear the bloody, valorous tales he poured into thine ears; for -I knew by them that he meant thee to do what he had done. It was not -till he lay in his mortal sickness that we came back one to the other; -but he died in my arms, whispering to me such words as I had never had -from him before. That last is a sweet memory, Gerault; but the tale is -none the less grievous of my young life here. And there is the more pity -of it that mine is not the only story of such things. Many and many is -the weary life led by some high-born lady in her castle, while her lord -fights or jousts or drinks his life out in his own selfishness. Through -those long years of the war of the Three Jeannes, I suffered not alone -of women; and how I suffered, thou canst never know. Do thou not -likewise with thy frail Lenore. Stay with her here a little while, and -make her life what it might be made with love.” - -Gerault listened in non-committal silence. When she finished he turned -and faced her squarely: “Hast made this prate of my father and thee to -Lenore?” he asked severely. - -“Gerault!” The exclamation escaped involuntarily; when it was out -Eleanore bit her lip and drew herself up haughtily. “Thou’rt insolent,” -she said in a tone that she would have used to an inferior. - -In that moment her son found something in her to admire, but the man and -master in him was all alive. “Madame, we will waste no further words. I -crave the honor to wish you a good-night.” And with a profound and -ironical bow, he turned from the room, leaving Eleanore alone to the -darkness, and to what was a defeat as bitter as any she had ever known. - -Through the watches of the night this woman did not pray, but sat and -meditated on the immense question that she had herself raised, and to -which she had not the courage to give the true answer. Through her -nearest and dearest she had learned the natures of men, knew full well -their only aims and interest: prowess in arms, hunting, hawking, -drinking, and, when they were weary, dalliance with their women. But was -this _all_? Was this all there was for any woman in the mind of the man -that loved her? The idea of rebellion against the scorn of men was not -at all in her mind. She only wondered sadly how she and others of her -sex came to be born so keenly sentient, so open to heart-wounds as they -were. And she divined that her question burned no less in the brain of -the young Lenore than in her own, though neither of them ever spoke of -it together. Nor did either make any roundabout inquiries as to -Gerault’s intentions with regard to Rennes. Not so, however, the -demoiselles of the Castle. Courtoise was under a hot fire of inquisition -throughout most of the following two days; but for once he himself was -uncertain of his lord’s move, and presently there was a little air of -joy creeping over the place in the shape of a hope that the Seigneur was -going to remain in Crépuscule. This, indeed, was the secret idea of -Courtoise; and only David the dwarf refused to entertain a suspicion -that Gerault would not ride to Rennes for the tourney. - -David judged well; for Gerault went to Rennes. Lenore knew on the tenth -of the month that he would go. Madame remained in doubt till the day -before the departure. - -On the morning of the twelfth the whole Castle was astir by dawn. -Gerault and his squire, bravely arrayed, came into the great hall at -five o’clock, and sat down to their early meal. On the right hand of the -Seigneur was Lenore, not eating, only looking about her on the fresh -morning light, and again into Gerault’s face. She was not under any -stress of emotion. She was, rather, very dull and heavy-eyed. Yet down -in her heart lay a smothered pain that she felt must come forth before -long, in what form she could not tell. She and Gerault did not talk much -together. There was a little strain between them that was none the less -certain because it was indefinable, and it was a relief to the young -wife when madame finally appeared. Lenore saw Eleanore’s face with -something of surprise. Never had it been so cold, so expressionless, so -like a piece of chiselled marble; and looking upon her son, it grew yet -harder, yet colder. But when madame, after some little parley with -Courtoise, turned finally to Lenore, the child-wife found something in -that face that came dangerously near to melting her apathy, and freeing -the flood of grief that lay deep in her heart. - -Half an hour later the knight and his squire were in the courtyard, -where their horses stood ready for the mount. The little company of the -Castle gathered close about their master, watching him as they might -have watched some mythical god. Indeed, he was a brave sight, as he -stood there in the early sunshine, flashing with armor, a gray plume -floating from his helmet, and one of Lenore’s small gloves fastened over -his visor as a gage. Lenore beheld this with infinite, gentle pride, as -she stood fixing his great lance in its socket. Presently two of the -squires helped him to mount to the saddle; and when he was seated, he -lifted Lenore up to him to give her good-bye. A few tears ran from her -eyes, and rolled silently down his breastplate, on which they gleamed -like clustered diamonds. But Lenore wiped them away with her hair, that -they might not tarnish the metal of his trappings; and by that act, -perhaps, Gerault lost a blessing. - -The last kiss that he gave her was a long one, and his last words almost -tender. Then, putting her to the ground again, he saluted his mother, -though her coldness struck him to the heart; and, after a final farewell -to the assembled company, he turned and gave the sign of departure to -Courtoise. - -Spur struck flank. At the same instant, the two horses darted forward to -the drawbridge, across which they had presently clattered. Alixe, who -had been a silent spectator of the scene of departure, was standing near -Lenore; and now she leaned over and would have whispered in the young -wife’s ear; but Lenore could not have heard her had she spoken. The -child stood like a statue, blind to everything save to the blaze of -passing armor, deaf to all but the echo of flying hoofs. Here she stood, -in the centre of the courtyard, alone with her strange little life, -watching the swift-running steed carry from her all her power of joy. -With straining eyes she saw the two figures disappear down the long, -winding hill; and when they had gone, and only a lazily rising -dust-cloud remained to mark their path, she stayed there still. But -presently Eleanore came to her side and took her cold hand in a hot -pressure. And then, as the two bereft women looked into each other’s -eyes, the frozen grief melted at last, and the flood burst upon them in -all its overwhelming fury. - - - - -[Illustration] - - _CHAPTER NINE_ - THE STORM - -[Illustration] - - -For ten days after Gerault’s departure, Lenore led a disastrous mental -existence, which she expressed neither by words nor by deeds. In that -time no one in the Castle knew how she was rent and torn with anguish, -with yearning that had never been satisfied, and with useless regret for -a bygone happiness that had not been happy. The silent progress of her -grief led her into dark valleys of despair; yet none dreamed in what -depths she wandered. She, the woman chaste and pure, dared not try to -comprehend all that went on within her. She dared not picture to herself -what it was she really longed for so bitterly. The cataclysms that rent -her mind in twain were unholy things, and, had she been normal, she -might have refused to acknowledge them. The changes in her life had come -upon her with such overwhelming swiftness that she had hitherto had no -time for analysis; and now that she found herself with a long leisure in -which to think, the chaos of her mind seemed hopeless; she despaired of -coming again into understanding with herself. - -During all these days Madame Eleanore watched her closely, but to little -purpose. The calm outward demeanor of the young woman baffled every -suspicion of her inward state. Day after day Lenore sat at work in the -whirring, noisy spinning-room, toiling upon her tapestry with a -diligence and a persistent silence that defied encroachment. Hour after -hour her eyes would rest upon the dim, blue sea; for that sea was the -only thing that seemed to possess the power of stilling her inward -rebellion. Forgetting how the winds could sometimes drive its sparkling -surface into a furious stretch of tumbling waters, she dreamed of making -her own spirit as placid and as quiet as the ocean. The thought was -inarticulate; but it grew, even in the midst of her inward tumult, till -in the end it brought her something of the quiet she so sorely needed. - -By day and by night, through every hour, in every place, the figure of -her husband was always before her. How unspeakably she wanted him, she -herself could not have put into words. She knew well that he had -promised to come back—“soon.” But when every hour is replete with hidden -anguish, can a day be short? Can ten days be less than an eternity? a -possible month of delay less than unutterable? - -One little oasis Lenore found for herself in this waste of time. Every -day she had been accustomed to pray upon her rosary, which was composed -of sixty-two white beads. Now, when she had said her morning prayer, she -tied a little red string above the first bead. On the second morning it -was moved up over the second bead; and so the sacred chain became a -still more sacred calendar. How many times did she halt in her prayers -to find the thirtieth bead! and how her heart sank when she saw it still -so very far from the little line of red! - -At the end of the first week of the Seigneur’s absence, it came to -Madame Eleanore with a start that Lenore was growing paler and more wan. -Then a suspicion of what the young wife was suffering came to the older -woman, and she racked her brains to think of possible diversions for the -forlorn girl. A hawking party was arranged, which Madame Eleanore -herself led, on her good gray horse. And in this every one discovered -with some surprise that Lenore could sit a horse as easily as the young -squires, and that she managed her bird as well as any man. Alixe, who -had always been the one woman in the Castle to make a practice of riding -after the dogs, or with hawk on wrist, was filled with delight to find -this unexpected companion for her sports; and she decided that -henceforth Lenore should take the place of her old companion, Laure, in -her life. - -The hawking party accomplished part of its purpose, at least; for Lenore -returned from the ride with some color in her face and a sparkle in her -eyes. She was obliged, however, to take to her bed shortly after -reaching the Castle, prostrated by a fatigue that was not natural. -Madame hovered over her anxiously all through the night, though she -slept more than in any night of late, and rose next morning at the usual -hour, much refreshed. That afternoon, when the work was through, madame -saw no harm in her riding out with Alixe for an hour, to give a lesson -to two young _mués_ that were jessed and belled for the first time. And -during this ride the young women made great strides in companionship. - -What with new interest in an old pastime thus awakened, and a subject of -common delight between her and Alixe, Lenore found the next nine days -pass more quickly than the first. On the morning of the thirty-first of -the month, however, Lenore had a serious fainting-spell in the -spinning-room. She had been at work at her frame for an hour or more, -when suddenly it seemed to her that a steel had pierced her heart, and -she fell backward in her chair with a cry. The women hurried to her, and -after some moments of chafing her hands and temples, and forcing -cordials down her throat, she was brought back to consciousness. Her -first words were: “Gerault! Gerault!” and then in a still fainter voice: -“Save him, Courtoise! He falls!” - -Thinking her out of her mind, madame carried her to her bedroom, and, -admitting only Alixe with her, quickly undressed the slender body, and -laid Lenore in the great bed. Presently she opened her blue eyes, and, -looking up into madame’s face, said, in a voice shaking with weakness,— - -“It was a dream—a vision—a terrible vision! I saw Gerault—_killed_! My -God!” she put her hands to the sides of her head, in the attitude that a -terrified woman will take. “I saw him— Ah! But it is gone, now. It is -gone. Tell me ’twas a dream!” - -Madame and Alixe soothed her, smoothing the hair back from her brow, -patting her hands, and giving her all the comfort that they knew. -Presently Lenore was calm again, and asked to rise. Madame, however, -forbade this, insisting that she should keep to her bed all day; and -through the afternoon either she or Alixe remained in the room, sewing, -and talking fitfully with Lenore. The young wife, however, seemed -inclined to silence. A shadow of melancholy had stolen upon her, and -there was a cold clutch at her heart that she did not understand. -Eleanore had her own theory in regard to the illness, and Alixe, -whatever she might have noticed, had nothing to say about it. - -Next morning, the morning of the first of September, Lenore rose to go -about her usual tasks, seeming no worse for the attack of the day -before, except that her melancholy continued. Work in the spinning-room -that day, however, was cut short on account of the heat, which was more -oppressive than it had been at any time during the summer. Though the -sky was clear and the sun red and luminous, the air was heavy with -moisture; the birds flew close to the ground; spiders were busy spinning -heavy webs; worms and insects sought the underside of leaves; and all -things pointed to a coming storm. At noon two mendicant monks came to -the Castle, asking dinner as alms; and when the meal was over, they did -not proceed upon their way. The bright blue of the sky was beginning to -be obscured by fragments of gathering cloud, and in the infinite -distance could be heard low and portentous murmurs. The sense of -oppression and of apprehension that comes with the approach of any -disturbance of nature was strong in the Castle. At four in the -afternoon, madame had prayers said in the chapel, and there was a short -mass for safety during the coming storm. After this service, Lenore, -with Alixe and Roland de Bertaux, went out to walk upon the terrace that -overlooked the water. The sight before them was impressive. The whole -sea, from shore to far horizon, lay gray and glassy, flattened by the -weight of air that overhung it, heavy and hot with moisture. The sun was -gone, and the heart of the sky palpitated with purple. Flocks of gulls -wheeled round the Castle towers, screaming, now and then, with some -uneasy dread for their safety. The air grew more and more heavy, till -one was obliged to breathe in gasps, and the sweat ran down the body -like rain. The moments grew longer and quieter. The whole world seemed -to stop moving; and the birds, veering along the cliffs, moved not a -feather of their wings. - -After that it came. The sky, from zenith to water-line, was cut with a -lightning sword, that hissed through the water-logged gray like molten -gold. Then followed the cry of pain from the wound,—such a roar as might -have come from the throats of all the hell-hounds at once. There was a -quick second crash, while at the same instant a fire-ball dropped from -heaven into the ocean, curdling the waters where it fell. Then, fury on -fury, came the storm,—wind and rain and fiercer flashes, the line of the -shower on the sea chased eastward by a toppling mass of rushing foam. -With a scream the flock of gulls dashed out into the mist to meet it, -and were seen no more; for now the world was black, and everything out -of shelter was in a whirling chaos of spray and rain. - -Inside the Castle holy candles had been lighted in every room, and -beside them were placed manchets of blessed bread, considered to be of -great efficacy in warding off lightning-strokes. The two monks, -sincerely grateful for their shelter from this outburst, knelt together -in the chapel, and called down upon themselves the frightened blessings -of the company by praying incessantly, though their voices were -inaudible in the tumult of the storm. The wind shrieked around the -Castle towers. Flashes of white light, instantly followed by long rolls -of thunder, succeeded each other with startling rapidity. And, as a -fierce, indeterminate undertone to all other sounds, came the roaring of -the sea, which an incoming tide was bringing every minute higher and -closer around the base of the cliff below. - -An hour went by, and yet another, and instead of diminishing in fury, -the wind seemed only to increase. None in the Castle, not madame -herself, could remember a summer storm of such duration. Every momentary -lull brought after it a still more violent attack, and the longer it -lasted, the greater grew the nervousness of the Castle inmates; for to -them this meant the anger of God for the sins of His children. The -evening meal was eaten amid repeated prayers for mercy and protection; -and shortly thereafter, the little company dispersed and crept away to -bed,—not because of any hope of sleep, but because there would be a -certain comfort in crouching down in a warm shelter and drawing the -blankets close overhead. The demoiselles, for the most part, and -possibly the squires too, huddled two or three in a room. The monks were -lodged together in the servants’ quarters; and of all that castleful, -only the women for whom it was kept were unafraid to be alone. Eleanore, -Lenore, and Alixe sought each her bed; but of them madame only closed -her eyes in sleep. - -Lenore found herself terribly restless; and the foreboding in her mind -seemed not all the effect of the storm. Her thoughts moved through -terrifying shadows. It seemed to her that some great, unknown evil hung -over her; but her apprehension was as elusive as it was unreasonable. -For some hours she forced herself to keep in bed, tossing and twisting -about, but letting no sound escape her. It seemed at last as if the fury -of the wind had diminished, though the lightning-flashes continued -incessantly, and the whole sky was still alive with muttering thunder. A -little after midnight, urged by a restlessness that she was powerless to -control, Lenore rose, threw a loose bliault around her, took down the -iron lantern that hung, dimly burning, on a hook in a corner of the -room, and, lighting her way with this, went out into the silent upper -hall of the Castle. - -Gray and ghostly enough everything looked, in the dim, flickering -lantern-light. There was in the air a smell of pitchy smoke from -burnt-out torches, and it seemed to Lenore as if spirits were passing -through this mist. Yet she felt no fear of anything in the spirit world. -Her heart was full of something else,—a vague, indefinable, more -terrible dread, an oppression that she could not reason away. Clad in -her voluminous purple mantle, with her hair unbound and flowing over her -shoulders, where it sparkled faintly in the lantern-light, she went down -the stairs, across the shadowy, pillared spaces of the great lower hall, -and so into the long room where Gerault had sat on the day when the -herald had come to call him to Rennes. She had a vision of him sitting -there at the table, bent upon his manuscript philosophy, never looking -up, as again and again she passed the door. It was a ghostly hour for -her to be abroad and occupied in such a way; yet she had no thought of -present danger. A useless sob choked her as she turned away from this -place of sorrowful memories and went to the chapel. Here half a dozen -candles on the altar were still burning to the god of the storm; and -Lenore, finding comfort in the sight of the cross, knelt before it and -offered up a prayer for peace of mind. Then, rising, she moved back -again into the hall; and, dreading to return to her lonely room, where -the roar of waves and the soughing of the wind round the towers made a -din too great for sleep, she sat down on a bench that stood beside a -pillar directly opposite the great, locked door. Sitting here, her -lantern at her feet, elbow on knee, chin on hand, she fell into a -strange reverie. The bitterest of all memories came back to her without -bitterness; and she tried to picture to herself that woman of Gerault’s -secret heart. What had she been? How had she died? Or was she dead? In -what relation had she really stood to Gerault? Was she that cousin of -Laval—or some other? These thoughts, which, always before, Lenore had -refused to work into definite shape, came to her now and were not -repelled. Her musing was deepest when, suddenly, she was startled by the -sound of light footsteps in the hall above. Some one came to the -staircase; some one came gliding sinuously down. Lenore half rose, and -looked up, cold with fear. Then she saw that it was Alixe, and, -strangely enough, her fear did not lessen; for never had she seen Alixe -like this. - -Lenore looked at her long before she was noticed; and the strangeness of -the peasant-born’s appearance did not lessen on close examination. She -was dressed in garments of pale green. And in these, and in her floating -hair, her greenish eyes, her arms, her neck, Lenore fancied that she saw -twists and coils and lissome curves and the green and golden fire of -innumerable snakes. In the shadowy light everything was indistinct; but -there seemed to be a phosphorescent glow about Alixe’s garments that -illumined her, till she stood out, the brightest thing in the -surrounding darkness. Striving bravely to ward off her sense of creeping -fear, Lenore raised her lantern high, and looked at the other, who had -now reached the foot of the stairs. Yes—no—_was_ this Alixe? Lenore took -two or three frightened steps backward, and instantly Alixe turned -toward her. - -“Lenore! Thou!” she cried. - -“Alixe!” Lenore stared, wondering at herself. Surely she had suffered a -hallucination. Alixe was as ever, save that her eyes were a little -wider, her skin a little paler, than usual. - -“What dost thou here, at this hour, alone, Lenore? Did aught frighten -thee?” - -“I could not sleep, and so, long since, I rose, to wander about till the -noise of the storm should fall. I have sat here for but a -moment—thinking. But thou, Alixe,—whither goest thou?” - -“I? I also could not sleep. The storm is in my blood. I turned and -tossed and strove to lose my thoughts. But they burn forever. Alas! I am -seared by them. My eyes refuse to close.” - -“What are those thoughts of thine, Alixe? Perchance they were of the -same woof as mine.” - -“Nay, nay, Lenore! Thou hast no ancient memories of this place.” - -“That may be; yet my thoughts were of this place, and of a woman. Tell -me, Alixe, hast thou known in thy life one of the same name as mine own: -a maid whom—whom my lord knew well, and who hath gone far away?” - -“Lenore! Mon Dieu! Who told thee of her?” - -“It matters not. I know. Prithee, Alixe, talk to me of her, an thou -wouldst still the torture of my soul!” - -“What shall I tell thee, madame?” Alixe stared at the young woman with -slow, questioning surprise. “Knowest thou of her life here among us?—or -wouldst hear of her death?” - -“Of all—of her life and death—tell me all!” Lenore drew her mantle close -around her, for she was shivering with something that was not cold. She -kept her head slightly bent, so that Alixe could not see the working of -her face, as the two of them went together to the settle by the pillar. - -Lenore sat very still, listening absently to the muffled sound of wind -and rain and beating waves, while her mind drank in the narrative that -Alixe poured into her ears; and so did the one thing interweave itself -with the other in her consciousness, that, in after time, the spirit of -the lost Lenore walked forever in her mind amid the terrible grandeur of -a mighty storm, lightning crowning her head, her hair and garments -dripping with rain and blown about by the increasing wind. An eerie -thing it was for these two young and tender women, lightly clad, to sit -at this midnight hour in the gray fastnesses of the Twilight Castle, -and, while the whirlwind howled without, to turn over in their thoughts -the story of a young life so tragically cut off in the midst of its -happiness and beauty. Alixe’s changeable eyes shone in the semi-darkness -with a phosphorescent gleam, and her voice rose and fell and trembled -with emotion as she poured into Lenore’s burning heart the tale of -Gerault’s sorrow. - -“Five years agone, when I was but a maid of twelve, Seigneur Gerault was -of the age of twenty-three. At that time this Castle, I mind me, was a -merry place enow. Madame Eleanore had a great train of squires and -demoiselles in those days, and thy lord kept a young following of his -own—though he held Courtoise ever the favorite. At that time Gerault -rode not to tournaments in Rennes, but bided at home with madame, his -mother, and Laure, and the young demoiselle Lenore de Laval, niece to -madame, a maid as young as thou art now. This maiden had come to -Crépuscule when she was but a little girl, her own mother being dead, -and madame loving her as a daughter. Gerault’s love for her was not that -of a brother; yet because of their blood-relationship, there was little -talk of their wedding. For all that, they two were ever together in -company, and alone as much as madame permitted. They hawked, they -hunted, and, above all, they sailed out on the sea. The Seigneur had a -sailing-boat, and Madame Eleanore never knew, methinks, how many hours -they spent on the waters of the bay. Child as I was, I envied them their -happiness; and, though I went with them but seldom, I knew always how -long they were together each day; and methinks I understood how precious -each moment seemed. - -“On this day I am to tell thee of—oh, Mother of God, that it would leave -my memory!—I sat alone by the little gate in the wall behind the -falconry, weeping because Laure had deserted our game and run to her -mother in the Castle. So, while I sat there, wailing like the little -fool I was, came the Seigneur and the demoiselle Lenore out by the gate -on their way over the moat and to the beach by the steps that still lead -thither down the cliff. The demoiselle paused in her going to comfort -me, and presently, more, methinks, to tease the Seigneur than for mine -own sake, insisted that I go sailing with them in their boat. I can -remember how I screamed out with delight at the thought; for I loved to -sail better than I loved to eat; and though Gerault somewhat protested, -Lenore had her way, and presently we had come down the cliff and were on -the beach by the inlet where the boat was kept. - -“’Twas the early afternoon of an April day: warm, the sun covered over -with a gray mist that was like smoke, and but little wind for our -pleasure. Howbeit, as we put off into the full tide, a breath caught our -sail and we started out toward an island near the coast, round the north -point of the bay, which from here thou canst not see. I lay down in the -bottom of the boat, near to the mast, and listened to the gurgling sound -of the water as it passed underneath the planks, and later grew drowsy -with the rocking. I ween I slept; for I remember naught of that sail -till we were suddenly in the midst of a fog so thick that where I lay I -could scarce see the figure of my lord sitting in the stern. There was -no wind at all, for the sail flapped against the mast; and I was a -little frightened with the silence of everything; so I rose and went to -the demoiselle Lenore, who laid her hand on my shoulder, and patted me. -She and Sieur Gerault were not talking together, for I think both were a -little nervous of the fog. All at once, in the midst of the calm, a -streak of wind caught us, and the little boat heeled over under it. -Gerault caught at the tiller, swearing an oath that was born more from -uneasiness than from anger. Reading his mind, Lenore moved a little out -of his way, and began to sing. Ah, that voice and its sweetness! I mind -it very well—and also her chansonette. Since that day I have not heard -it sung, yet the words are fresh in my mind. Dost know it, madame? It -beginneth,— - - “‘Assez i a reson porqoi - L’eu doit fame chière tenir—’ - -“Ah, I remember it all so terribly! While Lenore sang, there came yet -another gust of wind, and in it one of the ropes of the sail went loose, -and the Seigneur must go to fix it. I sat between him and his lady, and -as he jumped up, he put the tiller against my shoulder, and bade me not -move till he came back. Lenore sat no more than four feet from me, on -that side of the boat that was low in the wind. While she sang she had -been playing with a ring that she had drawn from her finger. Just as -monsieur sprang forward to the rope, Lenore dropped this ring, which -methinks rolled into the water. I know that she gave a cry and threw -herself far over the side and stretched out her hand for something. As -she leaned, I followed her movement, and the tiller slipped its place. -Ah, madame—madame—I remember not all the horror of the next moment! The -boat went far over before a wave. Lenore lost her hold, and was in the -water without a sound. The Seigneur, in a rage at me for letting the -rudder slip, leaped back, and in an instant righted the boat, I -screaming and crying, the while, in my woe. I know not how it was, but -it seemed that, till we were started on our way again, Gerault never -knew that—that his lady was gone. - -“Then what a scene! We turned the boat into the wind, the Seigneur -saying not one word, but sitting stiff and still and white as death in -the stern. The path of the wind had made a long rift in the fog, and -through this we sailed, I calling till my voice was gone, the Seigneur -leaning over, straining his eyes into that fathomless mist that walled -us in on both sides. After that he drew off his doublet and boots, and -would have leaped into the waves, but that I—_I_, madame—held him from -it. I caught him round the arms till we were both forced to the tiller -again, and I cried and commanded and shrieked at him till I made him see -that his madness would bring no help. I could not guide the boat alone -in the storm, nor could he have saved Lenore from the power of the -water. - -“For hours and hours we sailed the bay. The wind drove the fog before it -until the air was clear, and I think that the sight of that waste of -tumbling seas was more cruel than the veiling mist from which we ever -looked for Lenore to come back to us. Ah, I cannot picture that time to -thee—or to myself. At last, madame, we went back to the Castle. We left -her there, the glory of our Seigneur’s life, alone with the pitiless -sea. It was I that had done it; that I knew in my heart. That I have -always known, and shall never forget. Yet Gerault never spoke a word of -blame to me. Mayhap he never knew how it came about. For many months -thereafter he was as a man crazed; and since that time he hath not been -the same. All that long summer he stayed alone in his room, shut away -from us all, seeing only Courtoise, who served him, and his mother, who -gave him what comfort she could. Twice, too, he asked for me, and -treated me with such kindness that it went near to breaking my heart. -Ah, then it was that the Castle began to bear out its name! It seems as -if none had ever really lived here since that time. - -“But Lenore, thou wouldst say. We never saw her again; though ’tis said -that many weeks afterwards a woman’s body was cast up on the shore near -St. Nazaire, and was burned there by the fisher-folk, as is their custom -with those dead at sea. And they say that now, by night, her voice is -heard to cry out along the shore near the inlet where Gerault’s boat -once lay. - -“Many years are passed since these things happened; yet they have not -faded from my memory, nor have they from that of my lord. Up to the time -of thy coming, madame, he mourned for her always; nor did he abstain -from asking forgiveness of Heaven for her end.” - -“Ah, Alixe, he hath not yet ceased to mourn for her. Alas! I cannot fill -her place for him. He is uncomforted. How sad, how terrible her end, -within the very sight of him she loved! Tell me, Alixe, was she very -fair?” - -“Not, methinks, so fair as thou, madame. Yet she was beautiful to look -on, with her dark hair and her pale, clear skin, and her mouth redder -than a rose in June. Her eyes were dark—like shadowy stars. And her ways -were gentle—gay—tender—anything to fit her mood. Ah! I am wounding -thee!” - -Poor Lenore’s head was bent a little farther down, and by her shoulders -her companion knew that she wept. Alixe would have given much to bring -some comfort for the pain she had unintentionally roused. But in the -presence of the unhappy wife, she sat uneasy and abashed, powerless to -bring solace to that tortured heart. - -While the two sat there, in this silence, the storm, which had lulled a -little, broke out afresh with such a flash and roar as caused even Alixe -to cower back where she was. There was a fierce tumult of new rain and -howling wind, and in the midst of it a sudden great clamoring at the -Castle door, and the faint sound of a horse neighing outside. Alixe -sprang up, and, thinking only of giving shelter to some storm-driven -stranger, unbarred the door. As it flew open before the storm, a man was -hurled into the room, in a furious gush of water; and when the -lantern-light fell upon his haggard face, Lenore gave a cry that was -half a sob, and rushed upon him, clasping his arms,— - -“Courtoise! Courtoise! How fares my lord?” - -Courtoise gazed down upon her, and did not speak. In his face was such a -look of suffering as none had ever seen before upon it. - -“Courtoise!” she cried again, this time with a new note in her voice. -“Courtoise!—my lord!—speak to me! speak—how fares my lord?” - -But still, though she clung to him, Courtoise made no reply. - - - - -[Illustration] - - _CHAPTER TEN_ - FROM RENNES - -[Illustration] - - -Lenore’s two hands went up in an agony of entreaty. Courtoise maintained -his silence. There was in the great hall a stillness that the rushing of -the storm could not affect. Alixe moved back to the door, and barred it -once more against the attacks of the wind. At the same time another -figure appeared on the stairs. Madame Eleanore, fully dressed, her hair -bound round with a metal filet, came rapidly down and joined the little -group. Lenore was as one groping through a mist. She knew, vaguely, when -madame came; but it meant nothing to her. Now she repeated, in the -pleading tone of a child that begs for some sweet withheld from it by -its elder,— - -“Thou bringest a packet from my lord, Courtoise? Sweet Courtoise, -deliver it to my hand. My lord sendeth me a letter, is it not so?” - -A low cry, inarticulate, heart-broken, came from the lips of the -esquire; and therewith he fell upon his knees before the young Lenore -and held up his two hands as if to ward off from her the blow that he -should deal. “Madame!” he said; and, for some reason, Lenore cowered -before him. - -Then Eleanore came up to them, her face milk-white, her eyes burning; -and, laying her hand upon the young man’s shoulder, she said softly: -“Speak, Courtoise! Tell us what is come to thy lord. In pity for us, -delay no more.” - -Courtoise looked up to her, and saw how deeply haggard her face seemed. -Then the world grew great and black; and out of the surrounding darkness -came his voice, “The Seigneur is dead. Lord Gerault is killed of a -spear-thrust that he got in the lists at Rennes. They bear him homeward -now.” - -A deep groan, born of this, her final world-wound, came from Eleanore’s -gray lips. Alixe gave a long scream, and then fell forward upon her -knees and began to mutter senseless words of prayer. Courtoise huddled -himself up on the floor, and let fatigue and grief strive for the -mastery over him. Only Lenore uttered no sound. She, the youngest of -them there, and the most bereaved, stood perfectly still. One of her -hands was pressed hard against her forehead; and she looked as if she -were trying to recall some forgotten thing. Presently she whispered to -herself a few indistinguishable words, and a faint smile hovered round -her lips. Finally, seeing the piteous plight of Courtoise, she laid one -hand upon his lowered head and said gently,— - -“Courtoise, thou art weary, and wet, and spent with riding. Rise, dear -squire, and seek thy bed, and rest. ’Tis very late—and thou’rt so weary. -Go to thy rest.” - -Eleanore looked at her, the frail girl, in amazement. Then she came -round and took Lenore’s hand, and said: “Thou sayest well; ’tis very -late, Lenore, and thou art also lightly clad. Come thou to thy bed, and -let Alixe to hers. Come, my girl.” - -Lenore made no resistance, and went with madame toward the stairs; Alixe -stared after them as if they had both been mad, for she had never known -a blow that stuns the brain. Lenore suffered herself to be led quietly -up the stairs, and, reaching her own room, which was dark save for the -light that came through from madame’s open door, she dropped off her -wide bliault, and lay down, shivering slightly, in the cold bed. She was -numb and drowsy. Madame, bending over her, watched and saw the eyelids -slowly close over her great blue eyes, till they were fast shut; and the -young Lenore slept—slept as sweetly as a babe. - -Of the night, however, that madame spent, who dares to speak in -unexpressive words? What the slow-passing, dark-robed hours brought her, -who shall say? Her last loss broke her spirit; and she felt that -underneath the heavy, all-powerful hand of the Creator-Destroyer, none -might stand upright and hope to live. Gerault had suffered, as now he -gave, great sorrow. Eleanore had never felt herself close to his heart, -as she had once been close to the heart of that daughter whom she had -sacrificed to an unwilling God. But now, in the knowledge of his death, -the memory of Gerault’s coldness and of his elected solitude went from -her, and she recalled only the justice, the strength, the self-reliance -of him. Gradually her memory drew her back through his manhood, through -his youth and his boyhood, to the time of his infancy, when the little, -helpless, dark-eyed babe had come to bless the loneliness of her own -young life. And with this memory, at last, came tears,—those divine -tears that can wash the direst grief free of its bitterness. - -As the dawn showed in the east, and rose triumphant over the dying -storm, madame crept to her bed, and laid her weary body on the kindly -resting-place, and slept. - -At half-past six the sun lifted above the eastern hills, and looked -forth from a clear, green sky, over a land freshly washed, glittering -with dew, and new-colored with brighter green and gold and red for the -glorification of the September day. The sea, bringing great breakers in -from the pathless west, was spread with a carpet of high-rolling gold, -designed to cover all the new-stolen treasures gathered by night and -stored within its treacherous, malignant depths. But the world poured -fragrant incense to the sun, and the sun showered gold on the sea, and -in this sacrificial worship Nature expiated her dire passion of the -night. - -It was fair daylight when Lenore opened her eyes and sat up in her bed -to greet the morning. She was glad indeed to escape from the fetters of -sleep, for her dreams had been feverish things. In them she had wandered -abroad over the gray battlements, and through the grim chambers of dimly -lighted Crépuscule, and had seen and heard terrible things. Lenore -smiled to herself at the thought that all were past. And then, creeping -over her, came the black shadow of reality, of memory. There was the -storm—her sleeplessness—Alixe—the story of the lost Lenore—were these -dreams? And then—finally—God!—the coming of Courtoise—and— - -With a sharp cry Lenore sprang from the bed, flung her purple mantle -upon her, and ran wildly through the adjoining room into that of madame. -Eleanore, roused from her light sleep by that cry, had risen and met her -daughter near the door. Lenore needed but one glance into madame’s -colorless face. Then she knew that she had not dreamed in the past -night. Her horrible visions were true. - -Physical refreshment brought her a terrible power: the power of -suffering. There could not now be any numb acceptance of facts. Eleanore -herself was shocked at the change that a few seconds wrought in the -young face. Yet still Lenore shed no tears, made no exhibition of her -grief. Quietly, with the stillness of death about her movements, she -returned to her room and began to dress herself. Before she had finished -her toilet, Alixe crept in, white-faced and red-eyed, to ask if there -were any service she might do. Lenore tremulously bade her wait till her -hair was bound; and then she said: “Let Courtoise be brought in to me, -here.” - -“Wilt thou not first eat—but a morsel of bread—nay, a sup of wine?” -pleaded Alixe. - -Lenore looked at her. “How should I eat or drink? Let Courtoise be -brought to me.” - -Obediently Alixe went and found Courtoise loitering about the foot of -the stairs in the hall below. He ascended eagerly when Alixe gave him -her message, and entered alone into the room where sat Lenore. - -Through two long hours Alixe and the demoiselles and young esquires, a -stricken, silent company, huddled together at the table in the long -room, sat and waited the coming of Courtoise. There was nothing to be -done in the Castle save to wait; and it seemed to them all that they -would rather work like slaves than sit thus, inert and silent, and with -naught to do but think of what had come upon Le Crépuscule. They knew -that the body of Gerault was on its way home. A henchman had long since -started off for St. Nazaire to acquaint the Bishop with the news and -bring him back to the Castle. Also, Anselm and the captain of the keep -had lifted the great stone in the floor of the chapel, that led into the -vault below. This was all there was to be done now, until the last -home-coming of their lord. - -At ten o’clock Courtoise appeared on the threshold of the long room, and -his face bore a light as of transfiguration. As he went in and halted -near the doorway, the little company rose reverently, and waited for him -to speak. He turned to Alixe, but it was a moment or two before he could -get his voice and control it to speak. - -“Alixe—Alixe—Madame Lenore hath asked for you—asks that you come to -her.” - -Alixe rose at once, and the two went out together into the hall. There, -however, Courtoise halted, saying, in a low, almost reverent tone: “She -is in her chamber. I am to remain here below.” - -Alixe turned her white face and her bright green eyes upon him -questioningly. “How doth she bear herself? Doth she yet weep?” she asked -in a half-whisper. - -“She doth not weep. Ah, God! the Seigneur married an angel out of -heaven, Alixe, and never knew it; and now can never know!” - -“He was our lord, Courtoise. Reproach not the dead.” - -Courtoise bent his head without speaking, and Alixe went on, up to -Lenore’s chamber, the door of which stood half open. Alixe went softly -in, and found Lenore sitting alone by the window, where madame had just -left her. Silently the widowed girl put out both hands to Alixe, and, as -Alixe went over to her, the tears began to run from her eyes. It was -this sight of tears that first broke through Lenore’s wonderful -self-control. Springing to her feet, with a choking, hysterical cry she -flung both arms around Alixe’s neck, and wailed out, in that breathless -monotone that children sometimes use: “Alixe! Alixe! Why is it that I -cannot die? O Alixe! Alixe! Pray God to let me die!” - - * * * * * - -At four o’clock in the afternoon Monseigneur de St. Nazaire arrived at -the Castle. The body of the fallen knight had not yet come. Watchers had -been placed in every tower to catch the first sight of the funeral -train; but all day long they had strained their eyes in vain. At last, -when the sun was near the horizon, and the golden shadows were long over -the land, and the sky was haloed with a saintly glow, up, out of the -cool depths of the forest, on the winding, barren road that rose toward -the Castle on the cliff, came a wearily moving company of men and -horses. There were six riders, who, with lances reversed, rode three on -a side of a broad, heavy cart, of which the burden was covered with a -great, black cloth, embroidered in one corner with the ducal arms of -Brittany. - -The drawbridge was already lowered. In the courtyard an orderly company -of henchmen and servants stood waiting to see the funeral car drive in. -The Castle doors were open, and in their space stood the Bishop, with a -priest at his right hand and, on his left, Courtoise, black-clothed, and -white and calm. In front of the doorway the cart halted, and immediately -the six gentlemen of Rennes, who had drawn Gerault from the fatal lists -and had of their own desire brought him home, dismounted, and, after -reverently saluting the Bishop, went to the cart and lifted out the -stretcher. This, its burden still covered with the black cloth, they -carried into the Castle and deposited in the chapel on the high, black -bier made ready for it. - -Madame Eleanore, Alixe, and the demoiselles, but not Lenore, were in the -chapel waiting. When the burden of the litter had been placed, and the -black cloth drawn close over the dead body, Eleanore, who till this time -had been upon her knees before the altar, came forward to greet the six -knightly gentlemen, and all of them, as they returned her sad salute, -were struck with her impenetrable dignity. Her salutation at once -thanked them, greeted them, and dismissed them from the chapel; and -indeed they had no thought of staying to watch this first meeting of the -living with the dead; but, returning obeisance to the mother of their -comrade, they left the holy room and found Courtoise outside, waiting to -conduct them to the refreshment that had been prepared. - -So was Eleanore left alone before her dead. Behind her, near the altar, -knelt the maidens, weeping while they prayed. The tall candles around -the bier were yet unlighted; but through one of the high windows came a -last ray of sunlight, to bar the mourning-cloth with royal gold. - -For a moment, clasping both hands before her, in her silent strain, -Eleanore stood still before the bier. Then, moving forward, she lifted -the edge of the covering, and drew it away from the head and shoulders -of her son. - -There was he,—Gerault. There was he, scarcely whiter or more still than -she had seen him many times in life; yet he was dead: transparent and -pinched and ineffably still, and dead! The head was bare of any cap or -helmet, and the black locks and beard were smoothly combed. The broad, -fair brow was calm and unwrinkled. The mouth, scarce concealed by the -mustache, was curved into an expression of great peace. - -Madame took the cover again, and drew it slowly down till the whole form -lay before her. His armor had been removed, and he was clothed in silken -vestments that hid all trace of his wound. The hands were folded fair -across his breast; his feet were cased in long velvet shoes, -fur-bordered. From the peacefulness of his attitude it was difficult to -imagine the scene by which he had met his end: the great flashing and -clashing of arms, the blare of trumpets, the shouting applause of -thousands of fair onlookers, gayly clothed ladies, who, after their -shouting, saw him fall. - -Long Eleanore stood there, looking upon him as he lay, untroubled now by -any human thing. And as she looked, many world-thoughts rose up within -her as to his life, his griefs, and the manner of his going. She had had -him always: had borne, and reared, and watched, and loved him; and he -had loved her, she knew, though he had seldom shown it, and had lived -much within himself. She yearned—ah, _how_ she yearned!—to take him now -into her arms again, and croon over him, and soothe him, as a mother -soothes her children. Alas, that he did not need it of her! Her breast -heaved twice or thrice, with deep, suppressed sobs. Then she fell upon -her knees, and leaned her forehead over upon an edge of his robe while -she prayed. And as she knelt there, twilight gathered over the sunset -glow, and the chapel grew dim and gray with coming darkness. - -After a long while madame rose and turned to Alixe, who stood near, -looking at her and weeping. And madame said gently: “Alixe, let her be -summoned—little Lenore—his wife. She should be here.” - -Alixe bowed silently, and went away out of the room. Eleanore remained -in her place, and the demoiselles still knelt under the crucifix. Then -came footboys, with tapers, to light the candles. Presently the bier was -haloed with yellow flames, and the marble altar blazed with lights. The -hour for the mass was near, and the people of the Castle, and a few -country folk, clothed in their best, began to come softly into the -chapel, by twos and threes. All, after bowing to the cross and pausing -for a few seconds to look upon Gerault, passed over to the far side of -the room, and knelt there, absorbed in prayer. The little room was more -than half filled, when Courtoise, pale and wide-eyed, appeared upon the -threshold, and, holding up his hand, whispered to the throng,— - -“Madame Lenore is here! Peace, and be still! Madame Lenore comes in!” - -Immediately Lenore walked into the room, and men held their breath at -sight of her. She was dressed as for a bridal, in robes of stiff, white -damask, her mantle fastened at her throat with a silver pin, and her -silver-woven wedding-veil falling over her from the filet that confined -it. White as death itself she was, and staring straight before her, -seeing nothing of the throng of onlookers. For a moment her eyes were -blinded by the blaze of light. Then she started forward, to the body of -her lord. - -When she entered, her two hands had been tightly clenched, and she had -thought to restrain herself from any outbreak of grief before the -people. But the living were forgotten now. Here before her was the face -that she had loved so wofully, that she had hungered for so unspeakably. -Here was he, the giver of her one brief hour of unutterable happiness; -the cause of so many days and nights of tremulous woe. Here he lay, -waiting not for her nor for anything, with no power to give her greeting -when she came. Yet it was he; it was his face. - -“Gerault—Gerault—my lord!” she whispered softly, as if he slept: -“Gerault!” She was beside him, and had taken one of the rigid hands in -both her warm, living ones. “My lord, my beloved, wilt not turn thy face -to me? I have waited long for thy kiss. Prithee, give but a little of -thy love; _seem_ but to notice me, and I will be well content. Nay, but -thou surely wilt! Surely, surely, beloved, thou wilt not pass me by!” - -She had been covering the hand she held with kisses, but now she put it -from her, and looked down upon the passive body, her eyes wide and hurt, -and her mouth tremulous with his repulse. The spectators watched this -pitiable scene with fascinated awe; and it seemed not to occur to one of -them to prevent what followed. None there realized that Lenore was -unbalanced: that to her, Gerault was still alive. She bent over, and put -her lips to his. Then, burned and tortured by the unresponsiveness of -the clay, she laid herself down upon the bier and put her head in the -hollow of Gerault’s neck, where it had been wont to rest. - -Now, at last, two of that watching company started forward to prevent a -continuance of the scene. Courtoise and the Bishop went to her with one -impulse; took her—monseigneur by the hands, Courtoise about the body; -loosened her clasp upon the form of her dead husband, and drew her -gently away from the bier. She, spent and shaken with her grief, made no -resistance, but lay quietly back in their arms, trembling and weak. -Thereupon both men looked helplessly toward Madame Eleanore, to know -what should be done. She, strained almost to the point of breaking, came -and stood over the form of Lenore and said to Courtoise,— - -[Illustration: - - _“Gerault—Gerault—my - lord!” she whispered.—Page 275_ -] - -“She cannot remain here. ’Tis too terrible for her. Carry her up to her -room, whither Alixe shall follow her. But I must remain here till the -mass is said.” - -Both of the men would gladly have acted upon this suggestion; but madame -had not finished speaking when Lenore began to struggle in their arms, -crying piteously the while: - -“Nay! Let me stay! In the name of mercy, let me not be sent from him. I -will not seek again to disturb his rest. I will be very quiet—very -still. I will not even weep. I will but kneel here upon the stones, and -will not speak through all the mass, so that you take me not out of his -sight. Methinks he might care to have me here; it might be his wish that -I should remain unto the end. Have pity, gentle Courtoise! Pity, -monseigneur!” - -At once they granted her request, and released her; for indeed her plea -was more than any of the three could well endure. The Bishop was beyond -speech, and the tears were streaming from Courtoise’s eyes as he left -her side. Lenore kept her word. She knelt down upon the stones, two or -three feet from the bier; and, with head bent low and hands clasped upon -her breast, strove to force her thoughts to God and high heaven. St. -Nazaire at once began the mass for the dead, and never had any man more -reverence done him or more tears shed for him than the stern and silent -Lord of Crépuscule, who, it seemed, had formed a light of life for -Lenore the golden-haired. After the beginning of the service, she was -left unnoticed where she had placed herself; and, as the minutes passed, -her strained figure settled nearer and nearer to the floor; the -candle-light played more joyously with her glorious hair; and finally, -as the mass neared its end, she sank quietly down upon the stones, -unconscious and released from tears at last. - -A few moments later, Courtoise and Alixe bore her gently up the great -stairs, and laid her, in her white bridal robes, upon her lonely bed. It -was thus that she left Gerault; thus that her youth and her love met -their end, and her long twilight of widowhood began. - - * * * * * - -Another morning dawned, in tender primrose tints, and saluted the sea -through a low-clinging September haze. The Castle rose at the usual -hour, and dressed, and descended to the morning meal, scarce able to -understand that there was any change in the usual quiet existence. It -was impossible, indeed, to realize that, in two little days of sun and -storm, the life of the Castle had died, its mainstay had broken, and -that henceforth it must exist only in memories. On this day two of the -squires made their adieux to madame, and hied them forth to seek a lord -by whom to be trained yet more thoroughly for knighthood; and mayhap to -get themselves a little more familiar with its third article.[3] But -Courtoise, all heart-broken as he was, and Roland de St. Bertaux, and -Guy le Trouvé, being all of gentle blood, but without other home to -seek, came to their lady and kissed her hand, and swore her eternal -allegiance and service. And the demoiselles, who had, indeed, no need of -a lord in the Castle, renewed their duty to their mistress, and also -tried to give her what little comfort they knew, in the shape of certain -of Anselm’s Latin texts, and a few less pithy but warmer phrases of -their own making. The six knights that had brought Gerault home, rode -off again, sadly bearing with them Eleanore’s brave messages of loyalty -and thanks to Duke Jean in Rennes. The Bishop of St. Nazaire sent his -assistant priest home; but he himself elected to remain for a day or -two, knowing that, should Lenore become seriously ill, he would be a -stay for Madame Eleanore. Of Eleanore herself there were no fears. She -was too strong to cause any one anxiety for her health. Indeed, it was -generally thought that she had put Gerault too much away. How that may -be is not certain; but there was nothing now in the Castle to speak of -him. The chapel was empty; the mouth of the great vault had closed once -more, this time to hide under its grim weight the last of the line of -Crépuscule. - -Footnote 3: - - “He shall uphold the rights of the weaker, such as orphans, damsels, - and widows.” - -On the second day after the funeral, Eleanore, knowing by bitter -experience how excellent a cure for melancholy is hard work, betook -herself and the demoiselles up to the spinning-room as usual. Lenore -only, of the company, was missing. She, by madame’s own bidding, still -kept her bed,—lying there silent, patient, asking no attendance from any -one; listening hour by hour to the soft sound of the sea as it broke -upon the cliffs far below her window. Of what was in her heart, what -things she saw in her day dreams, neither Alixe nor madame sought to -learn. But there was something in her face, thin, wan, transparent as it -had grown, that sent a great fear to Eleanore’s heart, and caused her to -watch over Lenore with deep anxiety; and it seemed as if the effort of -walking would break the last vestige of strength in that frail body. - -Through the first day of return to the old routine, madame was fully -occupied in making a pretence at cheerfulness and in inducing those -around her to hide their sadness. But afterwards, when chatter and -smiles began to come naturally back to the young lips, and the gayety of -youth to shine from their eyes again, she suddenly relaxed her strain, -and let her mind sink into what depths it would. How dim with misery was -the September air! Hope had gone out of her life; and the thought of joy -was a mockery. Throughout her whole world there was not a single spot of -brightness on which to feast her tired eyes. Even imagination had fled, -and there remained to her only a vista of unending, monotonous days, the -one so like the other that she should soon forget the passage of time. -And this future was inevitable. Le Crépuscule was here, and she must -keep to it. She had no other refuge save a nunnery; and that merest -suggestion was terrible to her. Gerault’s widow, the young Lenore, was -left; yet she would be infinitely happier to go back to the home of her -youth. There was a cry of despair in Eleanore’s heart at this -realization, and she fought with herself for a long time before finally -she was wrought to the point of going to Lenore and counselling her -return to her father’s roof. Yet Eleanore brought herself to this; for -she felt that this last sacrifice was one of duty: that she had no right -forever to shut the youth and beauty of the young life into the grim -shadows of Le Crépuscule. - -On the evening of the third day of her new struggle Eleanore went, with -woe in her heart, to the door of Lenore’s room. The apartment was -flooded with the light of sunset, so that Lenore, lying in the very -midst of it, seemed to be resting in a sea of glowing gold. When -Eleanore entered, the young girl turned, with a little smile of -pleasure, and said,— - -“Thou’rt very kind to come to me here while I lie thus in idlesse. -Indeed, I see not how thou shouldst bear with me that I do nothing when -all the Castle is at work.” - -“Bear with thee! My child, thou hast given us nothing to bear. Thou hast -rather brought into the Castle a light that will burn always in our -hearts. And, in thy great grief, thou shalt get what comfort may be for -thee from whatever thou canst find. Now, indeed, dear child, I am come -to make a pleading that breaketh my heart; yet we have done so much -wrong to thy fair young life, that it is not in me further to blight -it.” She went over to the bedside, and Lenore, sitting up, took one of -the strong white hands in her own delicate fingers and pressed it to her -lips. Then, while Eleanore bent close over her, she said softly,— - -“What is this thing that pains thee? Surely thou’lt not think that I -could do aught to hurt thee?” - -“Yes, for this will bring happiness back into thy heart.” - -“Happiness!” - -“Yes, Lenore, happiness. That word sounds strange in thine ears from me; -yet listen while I speak. Gerault, my dead son, brought thee out of a -life of sunshine and gayety and fair youth into this grim Twilight -Castle; and now thou hast entered, with all of us, from twilight into -blackest night. But thou hast in thee what is lacking in me, and in -those that dwell here as part of our race; thou’rt young, and thou hast -had a joyous youth. Thou knowest what I long since forgot: that, in this -world, there is a country of happiness. Now it is I, Gerault’s mother, -that bids thee leave these shades of ours and return to thy real home. I -bid thee go back again into thy youth, to thy father’s house, whither, -if thou wilt, I will myself in all love convey thee; and I will tell thy -father how thou hast been unto me all that—more than—a daughter should -be; that I love thee as one of my own blood; that I am sore to give thee -up—” - -“Madame! Madame Eleanore! Thou must not give me up! Surely thou wilt -not!” Lenore turned a quivering face up to the other; and madame read -her expression with deep amazement. - -“Give thee up! Do I not tell thee that at the thought my heart is like -to break? Nay, thou’rt my daughter always; and when thou wilt, this is -thy home. Yet for the sake of thy youth—” - -“Madame—” Lenore sat up straighter, and looked suddenly off to the -windows of her room, her face by turns gone deathly white and rosy red: -“madame, this Twilight Castle is my double home. Here dwelt Gerault, my -beloved lord, and—and here shall dwell his child—the child that is to be -born to me—the new Lord of Le Crépuscule.” - -“Lenore!—Lenore!” - -“My mother!” - -Then, as the sunset died from the distant west, these two women, united -as never before, sat together upon Gerault’s bed, clasping each other -close and mingling their tears and their laughter in a joy that neither -had thought to know again. - - - - -[Illustration] - - _CHAPTER ELEVEN_ - THE WANDERER - -[Illustration] - - -The utterly unexpected revelation that Lenore had made to madame drew -the two women into a tender intimacy that brought a holy joy to both of -them. That most beautiful, most priceless flowering of Lenore’s life -gave to her nature an added sweetness, and to her soul a new depth that -rendered her incomparably beautiful in the eyes of every one around her. -The secret remained a secret between her and her new-made mother, and -for this reason the happiness of the two was as inexplicable as it was -joyous for the rest of the Castle. Alixe, standing jealously without the -gate of this golden citadel, into which she had frequent glimpses, -wondered at its brightness as much as she wondered at its existence at -all. Day by day Lenore grew beautiful, and day by day the look of -content upon her face became more marked, until it was marvelled at how -she had forgotten her bereavement. And Eleanore—Madame Eleanore—found -herself growing young again in the youth of Gerault’s bride; and in her -love for the beautiful, tranquil girl she learned a lesson in patience -that fifty years of trial and sorrow had never brought her. - -When Lenore finally rose from her bed she did not return to the mornings -in the spinning-room; and, since madame must perforce be there to -oversee the work, Alixe took her frame or her wheel to Lenore’s chamber, -and sat there through the morning hours. Save for the fact that Alixe -could not be addressed on the subject nearest her heart, Lenore probably -enjoyed these periods of the younger woman’s company quite as much as -those graver times with madame. Both of them were young, and Alixe, -having a nature the individuality of which nothing could suppress, knew -more of the gayeties of youth than one could have thought possible, -considering her opportunities. This jumped well with Lenore’s -disposition, for her own sunny nature would have shone through any -cloud-thickness, provided there was some one to catch the beam and -reflect it back to her. The two talked on every conceivable subject, but -generally reverted to one common interest before many hours had gone. -This was Nature: of which Lenore had been vaguely, but none the less -passionately fond; and of which Alixe, in her lonely life, had made a -beautiful and minute study. The two of them together watched the death -of the summer, and saw autumn weave its full woof, from the rich colors -of golden harvest and purple vine to the melancholy brown and gray of -dead moorland and leafless branch. And when the dreariness of November -came upon the land, there remained, to their keen eyes, the sea—the sea -that is never twice the same—the sea whose beauties cannot die. - -This sea, which Lenore had never looked on till she came a bride to -Crépuscule, held for her a deep fascination. She watched it as an -astronomer watches his stars. And its vasty, changing surface came to -exercise a peculiar influence over her quiet life. The night of the -great storm brought it into double conjunction with the bitterest grief -in her life; and, with the knowledge of its cruel power, awe was added -to her interest and her admiration. She and Alixe were accustomed to -talk daily of the lost Lenore, Lenore herself always introducing the -topic with irresistible eagerness, and Alixe answering her innumerable -questions with an interest born of curiosity regarding the young widow’s -motive. In the presence of Alixe, Lenore never betrayed the tiniest -tremor of sensitiveness; and it would have been impossible for Alixe to -surmise how keen was the secret bitterness that lay hidden in her heart. -What suffering it brought she endured alone, by night, and indeed she -kept herself for the most part well shielded from it. - -From the first night after Gerault’s burial, Lenore had insisted upon -sleeping alone. To every suggestion of company she replied that solitude -was precious to her, and that she could not sleep with another in the -room. Eleanore understood her feeling, and, while she left an easy -access from her room to Lenore’s, never once ventured to enter Lenore’s -chamber after nightfall. For this, indeed, the young woman was grateful, -not because of any joy she found in being alone in the darkness, but -because, after she had gone to bed, she felt that her veil of -appearances had fallen, and that she might let her mind take what temper -it would. It was by night that she knew the terrible yearning for the -dead that all women have in time, and from which they suffer keenest -agony. It was by night that she pictured Gerault not as he had been, but -as she had wished him to be toward her; and gradually Gerault dead came -to be vested with every perfect quality, till her loss became endurable -to her through the hours of her dreaming. By night, also, her childhood -returned to her; and she recalled and gently regretted all the simple -pleasures she had known, the rides and games and caroles that she had -been wont to indulge in, in her father’s house. Sometimes, too, in hours -of distorted vision, she came to feel that her great blessing was rather -a burden; and she would weep at the thought of the little thing that -must be born to the interminable shadows of this grim Castle, and felt -that she alone would be responsible for the sadness of the young life. -Yet there might be fair things devised for him. It could not be but a -boy,—her child; and in his early youth she planned that he should ride -to some distant, gay chateau, to be esquired to a gallant knight; and in -time he should come riding home to her, himself golden-spurred; and -then, later, he should bring a lady to the Castle whom he should love as -a man loves once; and the two of them would bring the light of the sun -to Crépuscule, and banish its shadows forever away. So dreamed Lenore -for this unborn babe of hers. - -And then again, sometimes, by night, she would leave her bed and sit for -hours together at that window where, long ago, Gerault had knelt in the -hour of his passion. And Lenore would watch the quiet moon sail serenely -through the sky, till it sank, at early dawn, under the other sea. And -this vision of the setting moon never failed to bring peace to her -heart. Sometimes, after Gerault’s example, but not in his tone, she -would call down from her height upon the spirit of the lost Lenore that -was supposed to walk the rocky shore at the base of the Castle cliff. -But no answering cry ever reached her ears, and this was well; for what -such a thing would have brought to her already morbid mind, it were sad -to surmise. Nevertheless, in the nights thus spent, this gentle ghost -came to have a personality for her, in which she rather rejoiced, for -she felt that here must be some one in whom she could expect -understanding of her secret grief. Lenore at night, living with the -creatures of her fancy, was a strange little being, no more resembling -the Lenore of daylight than a gnome resembles some bright fairy. And so -well did she hide her midnight moods that no one in the Castle ever so -much as suspected them. - -It was not till the middle of November that Alixe learned of the hope of -Crépuscule; but when she did know, her tenderness for Lenore became -something beautiful to see, and she partook both of Eleanore’s deep joy -and of Lenore’s quiet content. Three or four days after the knowledge -had come to her, Alixe was pacing up and down the terrace in front of -the Castle, side by side with Lenore. It was a blustering, chilly day, -and both young women drew their heavy mantles close around them as they -watched the great flocks of gulls wheel and dip to the sea, looking like -flurries of snowflakes against the sombre background of the sky. Far out -in the bay one or two of the crude fishing-boats from St. Nazaire were -beating their way southward toward their harbor, and then Lenore watched -with eyes that dilated more and more with interest and desire. - -“Alixe,” she said suddenly, “canst thou sail a boat?” - -“Why dost thou ask?” - -“Certes, for that I would know.” - -Alixe laughed. “’Tis a reason,” she said. - -“Tell me, Alixe! Make me answer!” - -“Knowest thou not that, after the drowning of the demoiselle Lenore, it -was forbidden any one in Crépuscule to put out upon the sea in any boat, -though he might be able to walk the water like Our Lord?” - -“Hush, Alixe! But yet—thou’st not replied to me.” - -“Well, then, if thou wouldst know, I can sail a boat, and withal -skilfully. In the olden days, Laure—’twas Gerault’s sister—and I have -gone out in secret an hundred times in a fisherman’s boat anchored a -mile down the shore, in front of some of the peasants’ huts. Laure and I -paid the fisherman money to let us take the boat; for she loved it as -well as I. Indeed, I have been lonely for it since her going.” - -“Ah! Since her going thou’st not known the sea?” - -“Not often. Alone, with a heavy boat, there is danger.” - -“Alixe, take me with thee sometime! Soon! To-day! My soul is athirst to -feel the tremor of the boiling waves!” - -“Madame!” murmured Alixe, not relishing what she considered an -ill-advised jest. - -“Nay! Look not like that upon me! I would truly go. Can we not set -forth? There is yet time ere dark.” - -From sheer nervousness Alixe laughed. Then she said solemnly: “Madame -Lenore, right willingly, hadst thou need of it, I would yield up my life -to you; but venture forth with you upon those waters will I not; nor -thou nor any other that were not mad, would ask it.” - -Lenore frowned at these words, but she said nothing more, either on that -subject or another; and presently the two went back into the Castle. But -a strange desire had been born in Lenore, and she brooded upon it -continually. Day by day she hungered for the sea; and, though she did -not again suggest her wish, there were times when the roar of the waves -on the cliffs, and the cold puffs of air strong with the odor of the -salt tide, came near unbalancing her mind, and drove uncanny thoughts of -watery deaths through her heart. But through that long winter she -betrayed only occasional evidences of the effect that illness, -loneliness, and long brooding were having upon her mind; and perhaps it -was only the dread of betrayal that in the end saved her from actual -insanity. - -December came in and advanced in the midst of arctic gales and -continually swirling snow, till Brittany was wrapped deep under a pure, -fleecy blanket. It was the season of warmth and idleness indoors, when -the poorest peasant got out his chestnut-bag, and merrily roasted this -staple article of his diet before the fire by night. The Christmas -spirit was on all men; and this in Brittany was tempered and tinctured -with the quaintest fairy-lore relating to the season, and as real to -every Breton as the story of their Christ. The Christmas mass was no -more devoutly enjoyed than was the great feast, held a week later, on -the night known throughout Brittany not as the New Year, but as St. -Sylvester’s Eve, when all elfdom was abroad to guard the treasures left -uncovered by the thirsty dolmens. And this, and an infinite number of -other tales, of witch and gnome, sprite and fay, sleeping princess and -hero-king, of Viviane and her wondrous forest of Broecilande, were told -anew, each year, behind locked doors, before the crackling fires that -burned from dusk to enchanted midnight. - -To Lenore, the holy week from Christmas to New Year’s was replete with -interest; for in her own home, near Rennes, she had known nothing like -it. Christmas morning saw all the peasantry of the estates of Crépuscule -come to the Castle for mass; after which there was a great distribution -of alms. - -From Christmas Day, throughout that week, according to ecclesiastic law, -the Castle drawbridge was never raised; no watchers were posted on the -battlements, and monk and knight, outlaw and criminal, high lord and -lady, found welcome and food and shelter within the great gray walls. -This open hospitality was made safe by the fact that, during this time, -no matter what war might be in progress, or what family feud in height, -no man was allowed to lift a hand against his neighbor, and the knight -that dared to use his sword during those seven days was branded caitiff -throughout his life. This law prevailed throughout the length and -breadth of France; but its observance belonged more peculiarly to the -far coast regions, where towns were scarce, and feudal fortresses -offered the only hope of shelter to the traveller. And during this week -there was scarcely an hour in the day that did not see its wanderer, of -whatever degree, appealing for safe housing from the bitter cold. - -The week was the merriest and the busiest that Lenore had known since -coming to the Castle; and the arrival of the Bishop of St. Nazaire, on -the day before New Year’s, brought all Le Crépuscule to the highest -state of satisfaction. For many years it had been monseigneur’s custom -to spend St. Sylvester’s Day in the Castle,—formerly as the guest of the -old Seigneur, latterly as that of Madame Eleanore; and though the -Twilight Castle always delighted to honor his coming, on such occasions -it was a double pleasure; for upon this one day he carried with him a -spirit of bonhomie, of general, rollicking gayety, that roused every one -to the same pitch of happiness, and made the Saint’s feast what it was. - -Since the last home-coming of Gerault, St. Nazaire had spent a good deal -of time at the Castle, had played many a well-fought game of chess with -Madame Eleanore, and had exerted himself to lift little Lenore, for whom -he entertained almost a veneration, out of her quiet melancholy. None in -the Castle, from Alixe to the scullions, but would have done him any -service; and his arrival assured the feast of something of its one-time -merriment. - -On this great day the time for midday meat was set forward two hours, it -being just one o’clock when the company sat down at the immense -horseshoe table, that nearly encircled the great hall; for the ordinary -Castle retinue was increased by a rabble of peasants, and a dozen or -more of travellers that had claimed their privilege of hospitality. - -As Madame Eleanore, handed by the Bishop, took her place at the head of -the table, the band of musicians in the stone gallery overhead sent out -a noisy blast of trumpets, and everybody sought a place. Beside madame, -supported by Courtoise, came Lenore; and again by her were Alixe, with -Anselm the steward. When these were all standing behind their tabourets, -monseigneur repeated the grace, in Latin. Immediately upon the amen, the -trumpets rang out again, and there was a great rustling as everybody sat -down and, in the same breath, began to talk. After a wait of not less -than ten seconds, there appeared four pages, bearing high in their hands -four huge platters, on each of which reposed a stuffed boar’s head, -steaming fragrantly. Two more boys followed these first, carrying -immense baskets of bread,—white to go above the salt, black for those -below. Then came Grichot, the cellarer, rolling into the room a cask of -beer, which was set up in the space between the two ends of the curved -table, and tapped. Instantly this was surrounded by a throng of -struggling henchmen, friars, and peasants, each with his horn in his -hand, eager to be among the first to drink allegiance to their lady. -Madame and her little party in the centre of the table were served with -wine of every description known to the north; besides mead or punches -for whosoever should call for them. - -Lenore was seated between Courtoise and monseigneur; and for her alone -of all the company, apparently, the feast held less of merriment than of -sadness. When every one was seated, and the clatter of tongues had -begun, she looked about her, vaguely wondering how many times she -should, by this feast, measure a year passed in the grim Castle. Looking -along the table either way, at the double rows of men and women, Lenore -saw every mouth working greedily upon food already served, and every -hand outstretched for more, as rapidly as the various dishes could be -brought in. She saw burly men, roaring with the laughter of animal -satisfaction, drinking down flagon after flagon of bitter beer. She -caught echoes and fragments of coarse jokes and coarser suggestions; and -her delicate nature revolted at the scene. She turned to look toward the -mistress of the Castle, wondering how madame, who was of a fibre as fine -as her own, could endure such sights and sounds. Eleanore sat calmly -listening to monseigneur, her eyes lifted a little above the level of -the scene, her lips smiling, her air pleasantly animated, though she was -scarcely eating, and only a cup of milk stood before her place. As for -the Bishop, he was unfeignedly enjoying himself. A generous portion of -roast peacock was on his plate, and a bottle of red wine stood close at -his elbow. His wit was at its best, and he was entertaining all his -immediate neighborhood with such stories and reminiscences as he alone -could relate. Lenore found relief in the sight of him and madame, and, -pulling herself together, turned to the young squire on her right hand, -and began to talk to him gently. Roland listened to her with the -reverent adoration entertained for her by every man about the Castle; -but his replies were a little inadequate, and presently Lenore was again -sitting silent, her burning eyes staring straight in front of her, her -white face, framed in its shining hair, looking very set, her white -robes gleaming frostily in the candle-light, her whole bearing stiffly -unapproachable. She was nervous and uneasy, and she longed intensely to -escape to her own quiet room. But there was madame talking serenely on, -apparently unconscious of the gluttony around her; there was Alixe the -Scornful, merrily jesting with Anselm, who had forgotten his frowns and -his Latin together. Here was a great company of varied people, variously -making merry, among whom there was not one that could have understood or -excused her displeasure with the scene. Therefore she was fain to sit -on, disconsolate, enduring as best she might her weariness and her -contempt. - -“En passant!” cried the Bishop, presently, “where is David le petit? Is -the dwarf lying sick?” - -“Why, indeed, I do not know,” answered Eleanore, looking around her. -“David! Is David not among us?” she cried. - -At this moment there was a commotion at one end of the room, and -presently the table began to shake. Dishes and flagons clattered -together, and a little ripple of laughter rose and flowed along from -mouth to mouth, following the progress of David himself, who was darting -rapidly down the table, picking his way easily between clumps of holly -and tall candles, and dishes and plates and flagons, as he moved around -toward Madame Eleanore and her little party. His costume added -materially to the effect of his appearance, for he was dressed like an -elf, in scarlet hose, pointed brown shoes, tight jerkin of brown slashed -with red, and peaked, parti-colored cap. In this garb his tiny figure -showed off straight and slender, and his ruddy face and glittering eyes -gave him proper animation for the role he had chosen to play. - -Flying down the table till he came to a halt in front of madame and the -Bishop, he jerked the cap from his head, whirled lightly round on his -toes, twice or thrice, and then, with a quaint gesture of introduction, -he sang, in a sing-song tone, these verses:— - - “From elf-land I— - Gnome or troll— - Leaped from the cave - Whence dolmens roll - Down from on high - To the tumbling wave! - - “In darkness I live; - In darkness I love. - Yet there’s one thing - To mortals I give. - From treasure-trove - Jewels I bring!” - -With the last words he drew, from a fat pouch at his side, a handful of -bright bits of quartz-crystal, and, tossing them high in the air, let -them fall over him and down upon the table in a glittering shower. There -was a quick scramble for them; and then, with an uncanny laugh, David -pirouetted down the table, backward, guiding himself miraculously among -the articles that loaded the board, flinging about him, at every other -step, more of his “jewels,” and now and then singing more extemporaneous -verses concerning his mysterious country. All the table paused in its -eating and drinking to watch him, for, when he chose, he was a -remarkably clever and magnetic actor. To-day he was making an unusual -effort, and presently even Lenore leaned forward a little to catch his -words; and, in a swift glance, he perceived that some color had come -into her cheeks, and a faint light into her eyes. - -It made a pleasant interlude in the feasting; and when at length the -little man, with a hop and a spring, left the table, and came round to -the place where he was accustomed to sit, he was followed by a burst of -enthusiastic applause. - -The gayety that he had excited by his rhymes and his pebble shower did -not die away for some time. By now, however, the eating was at an end, -and a lighter tone of conversation spread through the room, as the -footboys brought in two extra casks of beer and some dozens of bottles -of red wine. This was the wished-for stage of the day’s entertainment, -and if there was any one present that should be unminded for what was to -come, this was the signal for departure. Madame Lenore was the only one -in the room to go; but she rose the moment that the table had been -cleared of food, and, with a slight bow to madame and monseigneur, -slipped quietly to the stairs and passed up to her room with a relief in -her heart that the day was over. - -The last white fold of Lenore’s drapery had scarcely disappeared round -the bend in the stairway, when there came a knocking upon the outer door -of the great hall, which was presently thrust open, before one of the -henchmen could reach it, to let in a beggar from the bitter cold -outside. It was the last day of the week of hospitality, and perhaps -this wanderer was the more readily admitted for that fact. It was a -woman, ragged, unkempt, and purple with cold. Madame Eleanore just -glanced at her, and then signed to those at the lower end of the table -to give her place with them, and bring her food. But the new-comer -seemed not to notice the invitations of those near by. She stood still, -gazing intently toward Madame Eleanore, till presently one of the -henchmen, somewhat affected with liquor, sprang from his place with the -intention of pulling her to a seat. In this act he got a view of her -face with the light from a torch falling full across it. Instantly he -started back with a loud exclamation,— - -“Mademoiselle!” - -Then all at once the woman, holding out both her arms toward madame’s -chair, swayed forward to her knees with a low wailing cry that brought -the whole company to their feet. There was one moment of terrible -silence, and then a woman’s scream rang through the room, as Madame -Eleanore staggered to her feet and started forward to the side of the -wanderer. - -“Laure! Laure! O God! my Laure!” - -As the two women—madame now on her knees beside her daughter—intertwined -their arms, and the older woman felt again the living flesh of her -flesh, the throng at the table moved slowly together and drew closer and -closer to these central figures. Nearest of all stood Alixe and -Courtoise, white-faced, tremulous, but with great joy written in their -eyes. They had recognized Laure simultaneously an instant before madame, -but they had restrained themselves from rushing upon her, leaving the -first place to the mother. - -Eleanore was fondling Laure in her arms, murmuring over her inarticulate -things, while tears streamed from her eyes, and her strained throat -palpitated with sobs. What Laure did or felt, none knew. She lay back, -half-fainting, in the warm clasp; but presently she struggled a little -away, and sat straight. Pushing the tangled hair out of her eyes,—those -black, brilliant eyes that were still undimmed,—and seeing the universal -gaze upon her, she shrank within herself, and whispered to her mother: -“In the name of God, madame, I prithee let me be alone with thee!” - -Then Eleanore bethought herself, and rose, lifting Laure also to her -feet. For a moment she looked about her, and then with a mere lifting of -her hand dispersed the crowd. They melted away like snow in rain, till -only three were left there in the great hall: Courtoise, Alixe, and -lastly monseigneur, who during the whole scene had stood apart from the -throng, the law of excommunication heavy upon him. Forbid a mother, -starved by nearly a year of denial of her child, to satisfy herself now -that that child was at last returned to her? Not he, the man of flesh -and blood and human passions! - -Madame stood still for an instant in the centre of the disordered room, -supporting Laure with one arm. Then she turned to Alixe. - -“Go thou, Alixe, and get food,—milk, and meat, and bread,—and bring it -in the space of a few moments to my room. But let no other seek to -disturb us in our solitude. Now, my girl!” - -Madame led her daughter across the hall and up the stairs, and to the -door of her bedroom, into which Laure passed first. Madame followed her -in, and closed and fastened the door after her. Then she turned to her -child. - -At last they were alone, where no human eyes could perceive them, no -human ear hear what words they spoke. And now Eleanore’s arms dropped to -her sides, and she stood a little off, face to face with Laure. With -Laure? Yes, it was she,—there could be but one woman like her,—with her -tall, lithe, straight form, terribly wasted now by hardship and -suffering: with those firm features, and the unrivalled hair that hung, -brown and unkempt, to her knees. And again, it was not the Laure that -the mother had known. In her eyes—the great, doubting, haunted, shifting -eyes—lay plainly written the story of the iron that had entered into her -soul. And there was that in her manner, in her bearing, that something -of defiant recklessness, that pierced her mother like a knife. It was -not the rags and the dirt of her body; it was the rags and dirt of her -defiled soul. - -The girl looked straight before her into space; but she saw her mother’s -head suddenly lowered, and she saw her mother’s hands go up before her -face. - -Then came Alixe’s knock at the door; and Laure went and opened it, took -in the food, set it down on the bed, shut and fastened the door again, -and returned to her mother, who was sitting now beside the shuttered -window, her head lying on her arms, which rested on a table in front of -her. - -There was a silence. Laure’s hand crept up to her throat and held it -tight, to keep the strain of repressed sobs from bursting her very -flesh. Her eyes roved round the old, familiar, twilight room; but just -now she did not see. Her brain was reeling under its weight of agonized -weariness. What was she to say or do? What was there for her here? Her -mother sat yonder, bent under the weight of her sin. Was there any -excuse for her to make? Should she try to give reasons? Worst of all, -should she ask forgiveness? Never! Laure had the pride of despair left -in her still. She had come home dreaming that the gates of heaven might -still be open to her. She found them barred; and the password she could -not speak. Hell alone, it seemed, remained. - -“Madame,” she said in a hard, quiet voice, “I have come wrongfully home, -thinking thou couldst give me succor here. But I perceive that I do but -pain thee. I will go forth again. ’Tis all I ask.” - -At the mere suggestion that Laure should go again, madame’s heart melted -and ran in tears within her. “Ah, Laure! my baby—my girl—thou couldst -not leave me again?” she cried in a kind of wail. - -“Mother! First of all, I came to thee!” said the girl, in a whisper that -was very near a sob. - -But, unexpectedly, Eleanore rose again, with a gleam of anger coming -anew into her eyes. “Nay; thou didst _not_ first of all come to me! If -thou hadst—if thou hadst—ere thou wast stolen away by the cowardly -dastard that hath ruined thee—!” - -Laure trembled violently, and her voice was faint with pleading: “Speak -no ill of him, madame! I was not stolen away. Freely, willingly, I went -with him. Freely—” she drew herself up and held her head high—“freely -and willingly, though with the curse of Heaven on my head, would I go -with him still, were it in the same way!” - -“God of God! why hast thou left him, then?” - -A black shadow spread itself out before Laure’s eyes, and in her -unpitying wilderness her woman’s soul reeled, blindly. Her voice shook -and her body grew rigid, as she answered: “I—did not—leave him.” - -“He is dead?” Eleanore’s tone was softer. - -“No; he is not dead!” Laure’s face contorted terribly, as there suddenly -rushed over her the memory of the last three months; and as it swept -upon her, she sank to her knees, and held out her hands again in -supplication: “Ah, pity me! pity me! As thou’rt a woman, pity me, and -ask me not what’s gone! I loved him. God in Heaven! How did I love him! -And he hath gone from me. Mine no more, he left me to wander over the -face of the earth. He left me to weep and mourn through all the years of -mine empty life. Flammecœur! Flammecœur! How wast thou dearer than God! -more merciless than Him.” Here her words became so rapid and so -incoherent that all meaning was lost, and the deserted woman, exhausted, -overcome with her torn emotions, presently fell heavily forward to the -floor, in a faint. - -In this scene Eleanore had forgotten every scruple, every resentment, -everything save her own motherhood and Laure’s need. Putting aside all -thought of the girl’s shame, her abandonment, her rejection, she went to -her and lifted her up in her strong and tender arms, and, with the art -known only to the big-souled women of her type, poured comfort upon the -bruised and broken body of the wanderer, and words of cheer and -encouragement into her more cruelly bruised and broken mind. In a few -moments Laure had recovered consciousness, had grown calm, and was -weeping quietly in her mother’s arms. - -Then madame began to make her fit for the Castle again. She took off the -soiled and ragged garments, that hung upon the skin and bone of her -wasted body. She bathed the poor flesh with hot water, and with her own -tears. She combed and coiled the wonderful, tangled hair. And lastly, -wrapping her, for warmth, in a huge woollen mantle, she led Laure over -to her bed, drew back the heavy curtains, and laid the weary woman-child -in it, to rest. - -When Laure felt this soft comfort; when she realized where, indeed, she -was and who was bending over her; when she knew what land of love and of -tenderness she had finally reached after her months of anguished -wandering,—it seemed that she could bear no more of mingled joy and -pain. She let her tears flow as freely as they would. She clung to her -mother’s hand, smoothing it, kissing it, pressing it to her cheek; and -finally, lulled by the sound of her mother’s voice crooning an old -familiar lullaby, her mind slipped gradually out of reality, and she -went to sleep. - -Long and long and long she slept, with the sleep of one that is leaving -an old life behind, and entering slowly into the new. And for many hours -her mother watched her, in the gathering darkness, till after Alixe had -come softly in, and lit a torch near by the bed. And later the mother, -unwilling to leave her child for a single moment, laid herself down, -dressed as she was, and, drawing Laure’s passive form close to her, -finally closed her eyes, and, worn out with emotion and with joy, lost -herself in the mists of sleep. - - - - -[Illustration] - - _CHAPTER TWELVE_ - LAURE - -[Illustration] - - -Through the long, chilly night, mother and daughter slept together, each -with peace in her heart. At dawn, however, madame slipped quietly out of -Laure’s unconscious embrace, and rose and prepared herself for the day. -And presently she left the room, while Laure still slept. It was some -time afterwards before there crept upon the blank of the girl’s mind a -dim, fluttering shadow telling her that light had come again over the -world. How long it was before this first sense became a double -consciousness, no one knows. Laure’s stupor had been so heavy, she had -been so utterly dead in her weariness, that it required a powerful -subconscious effort to throw off the bonds of sleep. But when the two -heavy eyes at last fell open, she gasped, and sat suddenly up in her -bed. - -“Holy Mother! it is an angel!” - -The face that she looked on smiled sunnily. - -“No. I am Lenore.” And she would have come round to the side of the bed, -but that Laure held up a hand to stay her. - -“Prithee, prithee, do not move, thou spirit of Lenore! Am I, then, come -into thy land? Is’t heaven—for me?” - -For an instant, at the easily explainable illusion about that other, the -new Lenore’s head drooped, and she sighed. How full of the dead maiden -was every member of this Twilight Castle! But again, shaking off the -momentary melancholy, she lifted her eyes, and answered Laure’s fixed -look. So these two young women, whose histories had been so utterly -different, and yet in their way so pitiably alike, learned, in this one -long glance, to know each other. Into Laure’s deeply burning eyes, -Lenore gazed till she was as one under a hypnotic spell. Her senses were -all but swimming before the other turned her look, and then she asked -dreamily: “Thou art Lenore. Tell me, who is Lenore?” - -The other hesitated for a moment. She had learned from Alixe, on the -previous evening, the history of the strange home-coming, and all that -any one knew of what had gone before it; and she realized that any -question that Laure might ask must be fully answered. Yet it cost her a -strong mental effort before she could say: “I was the wife of thy -brother.” - -“Ah! Gerault! Where is he?” Laure paused for an instant. -“Thou—_wast_—his wife, thou sayest?” - -Lenore gazed at her sadly, wondering if the wanderer must so soon be -confronted with new sorrow. Laure sat there, bewildered, but questioning -with her eyes, a suggestion of fear beginning to show in her face. -Lenore realized how madame must shrink from telling the story of -Gerault’s death; so, presently, lifting her eyes to Laure’s again, she -said in a low voice,— - -“Gerault’s wife was I, because—since September, thy brother—sleeps—in -the chapel—by his father.” - -Laure listened with wide eyes to these words; and, having heard, she -neither moved nor spoke. A few tears gathered slowly, and fell down her -face to her woollen robe, and then she bowed her head till it rested on -the hands clasped on her knee. Lenore stood where she was, looking on, -knowing not whether to go or stay; realizing instinctively that there -are natures that desire to find their own comfort. - -While Lenore was still debating the point, Madame Eleanore and Alixe -came together into the room; and as soon as madame beheld Lenore, she -knew that her daughter had learned all that she was to know of sorrow: -that what she herself most dreaded, had mercifully come to pass. And -going to the bed, she took Laure into her arms. - -Their embrace was as close as the first of yesterday had been. Laure -clung to her mother, getting comfort from the mere contact; and, in her -child’s grief for the dead, Eleanore felt the touch of that sympathy for -which she had hungered in silence through the first shock of her loss. -For Laure was of her own blood and of Gerault’s; had known the Seigneur -as brother, companion, and equal, and had looked up to him even as he -had looked up to his mother. Thus, bitterly poignant as were these -moments of fresh grief, there was in them also a great consolation,—the -consolation of companionship. And when finally madame raised her head, -there was written in her face what none had seen there since the time of -Laure’s departure for her novitiate at La Madeleine. Then she reminded -Laure of Alixe’s presence, and Laure, looking up, smiled through her -tears, and held out both hands. - -“Alixe! Alixe! my sister! Art thou glad I am come home?” - -“So glad, Laure! There have been many hours empty for want of thee since -thy going. And art thou—” she hesitated a little—“art thou to stay with -us now?” - -Accidentally, inadvertently, had come the question that had lain hidden -both in Laure’s heart and in her mother’s since almost the first moment -of the return. Laure herself dared not answer Alixe; but she looked -fearfully at her mother, her eyes filled with mute pleading. And -Eleanore, seeing the look, made a sudden decision in her heart,— - -“Yea! Laure shall stay with us now! There shall be no doubting of it. -Laure is my child; and I shall keep her with me, an all Christendom -forbid!” - -The last sentence flew out in answer to madame’s secret fears; and she -did not realize how much meaning it might hold for other ears. Her -speech was followed by an intense silence. Laure did not dare ask aloud -the questions that reason answered for her; and Lenore and Alixe both -felt that it was not their place to speak. In the end, then, Eleanore -herself had to break the strain, which she did by saying, with a brisk -air,— - -“Come, come, Laure! Rise, and go into thine own room here. I have laid -out one of the old-time gowns, with shoes, chemise, bliault, and -under-tunic complete, and also a wimple and head-veil. Make thyself -ready for the day, while we go down to break our fast. When thou’rt -dressed I will have food brought thee here; and after thou’st eaten, -monseigneur will come up to thee. Hasten, for ’tis rarely cold!” - -Laure jumped from the bed eager to see her childhood’s room again; eager -for her meal; most of all eager, in spite of her apprehensiveness, to -know what St. Nazaire had to say to her. As she paused to gather her -mantle close about her, and to push the hair out of her eyes, her gaze -chanced to meet that of Lenore. There was between them no spoken word; -but in that instant was born a sudden affection which, while they lived -together, saw not the end of its growth. - -As Eleanore and the two young women left madame’s room on their way -downstairs, Laure entered alone into the room of her youth and her -innocence. It was exactly as it had been on the day she last saw it. The -small, curtained bed was ready for occupancy. The chairs, the table, the -round steel mirror, the carved wooden chest for clothes, lastly, the -small priedieu, were just where they had always stood. The wooden -shutters were open, and the half-transparent glass was all aflame with -the reflection of sunlight on the sea; for the cold, clear morning was -advancing. Across a narrow settle, beside one of the windows, lay the -clothes that the mother had selected,—the girlhood clothes that she had -worn in those years of her other life. Like one that dimly dreams, Laure -took these garments up, one by one, and examined them, handling them -with the same ruminative tenderness of touch that she might have used -for some one that had been very dear to her, but had died long since,—so -long that the bitterness of death had gone from memory. - -When she had looked at them for a long time, Laure began slowly to don -her clothes. She performed her toilet with all the precision of her -maidenhood, coiling her hair with a care that suggested vanity, and -adjusting her filet and veil with the same touch that they had known so -many times before. Her outer tunic was of green _saie_; and even though -her whole form had grown deplorably thin, she found it a little snug in -bust and hip. Finally, when she was quite dressed, she sat down at one -of the windows to wait for some one to bring food to her. To her -surprise, it was Lenore who carried up the tray of bread and milk; and -she found herself a little relieved that no former member of the Castle -was to see her yet in the familiar dress of long ago. When she took the -tray from the frail white hands of her sister-in-law, she murmured -gratefully: “I thank thee that thou hast deigned to wait on me, madame.” - -Lenore’s big blue eyes opened wide, as she smiled and answered: -“Prithee, say not ‘madame.’ Rather, if thou canst, I would have thee -call me ‘sister,’ for such I should wish to be to thee.” - -“My sister!” Laure’s voice was choked as she raised both arms and threw -them about the slender body of the other girl with such abandon that -Lenore was obliged to put her off a little. Finally, however, Laure sat -down to the table on which she had placed her simple breakfast, and as -she carried the first bite to her lips, Lenore moved softly toward the -door. Before going out, however, she turned and said quietly: “Thou’lt -not be long alone. The Bishop is coming to thee at once.” - -Laure’s spoon fell suddenly into her bowl, and she looked quickly round; -but, to her chagrin, Lenore had already slipped away. - -Left to herself, Laure could not eat. Hungry as she was, her anxiety and -her suspense were greater than her appetite. Why was it that Lenore had -so suddenly escaped from her? Why was it that she had seen no members of -the Castle company save three women since her home-coming? Why was she -forced thus to eat alone? Above all, why should the Bishop come to her -here, instead of receiving her, as had been his custom, in the chapel? -Laure remembered the last serious talk she had had with St. Nazaire, and -shuddered. In her own mind she realized perfectly the spiritual enormity -of her sin; and, however persistently she might refuse to confess it to -herself, she knew also what the penalty of that sin must be. It was many -minutes before she could force herself to recommence her meal; and she -had taken little when there was a tap on the door. She had not time to -do more than rise when the door opened, and her mother, followed by St. -Nazaire, entered the room. - -Madame dropped behind as the Bishop advanced, and Laure bowed before -him. - -“My child, I trust thou art found well in body?” said St. Nazaire, more -solemnly than she had ever heard him speak. - -“Yes, monseigneur,” was the subdued reply. - -Now madame came up, and indicated a chair to the Bishop, who, after -seeing her seated, sat down himself, while Laure remained on her feet in -front of them. Then followed a pause, uncomfortable to all, terrifying -to Laure, who was becoming hysterically nervous with dread. She dared -not, however, break the silence; and with a convulsive sigh she folded -her arms across her breast, and stood waiting for whatever was to come. -Monseigneur regarded her closely and steadily, as if he were reading -something that he wished to know of her, but at the same time he did not -make her shrink from him. On the contrary, his expression brought the -assurance that he had lost nothing of his old-time sympathy with human -nature. His first question was unhesitatingly direct. - -“Laure,” he said very quietly, “art thou bound by the marriage tie to -this Bertrand Flammecœur?” - -At the sound of the name Laure trembled, and her white face grew whiter -still. “No,” she answered in a half-whisper, at the same time clenching -her two hands till the nails pierced her flesh. - -“And thou hast lived with him, under his name, since thy departure from -the priory of the Holy Madeleine?” - -Laure paused for a moment to steady her voice, and then answered -huskily: “Until two months past.” - -“And in that two months?” - -“I have begged my way from where we were—hither.” - -“Thou hast in this time known none but the man Flammecœur?” - -Laure crimsoned and put up her hand in protest. Then she said quietly, -“None.” - -Monseigneur bowed his head and remained silent for a moment. When he -looked at her again it was with a gentler expression. “Laure,” said he, -in a very kindly voice, “but a little time after thy flight from the -priory, I placed upon thee, and upon the man that abducted thee, the ban -of excommunication, for violating the holiest laws of the Holy Church. -That ban is not yet raised, and by it, as well thou knowest, all that -come in voluntary contact with thee are defiled.” - -For a moment Laure dropped her head to her breast. When she lifted it -again, her face had not changed; and she asked, “Can that ban ever be -lifted?” - -“Yes. By me.” - -Laure fell upon her knees before him. “What must I do? Tell me the -penance! I would give anything—even to my life—yet—nay! There is one -thing I will not do.” - -St. Nazaire frowned. “What is that?” he asked. - -“Father, I will not go back into the priory. I will never return alive -into that living death. Rather would I cast myself from the top of the -Castle cliff into the sea below, and trust—” - -“Laure! Laure! Be silent!” cried Eleanore, sharply. - -Laure stopped and stood motionless, her eyes aflame, her face deathly -white, her fingers twining and intertwining among themselves, as she -waited for St. Nazaire to speak again. His hands were folded upon his -knee, and he appeared lost in thought. Only after an unendurable -suspense did he look again into the girl’s eyes, saying slowly, in a -tone lower than was habitual to him,— - -“Thou tookest once the vows of the nun. These, it is true, thou hast -broken continually, and hast abused and violated till their chain of -virtue binds thee no more. Yet the words of those vows passed thy lips -scarce more than a year agone; and for that reason thou art not free. -Ere thou canst be absolved of duty to the priory, thou must go to the -Mother-prioress and ask her humbly if she will again receive thee into -the convent. An she refuse, thou wilt be freed from the bond.” - -“Monseigneur—will she set me free?” asked Laure, in a low tone. - -“Yea, Laure; for methinks I shall counsel her so to do. Thou hast not -the vocation of a nun. Thy spirit is too much thine own, too -freedom-loving, to accept the suppression of that secluded life. If I -will, I can see to it that thou’rt freed from the priory. But that being -accomplished—what then, Demoiselle Laure?” - -“Ah—after that—may not the ban be removed? Can I obtain no absolution? -Can I not be made free to dwell here in my home in my beloved Castle,—my -fitting Crépuscule?—Mother! Shall I not be received here? Have I no -home?” - -“This is thy home, and I thy mother always. Though my soul be condemned -to eternal fire, Laure, thou art my child, the flesh of my flesh and the -blood of my blood; and I will not give thee up.” - -“Eleanore!” The Bishop spoke sharply, and his face grew severe. -“Eleanore, deceive not thyself. Nor yet thou, thou child of wilfulness! -Laure hath sinned not only against the rules of her Church and her God, -but against the laws of mankind. Her sin has been great and very ugly. -Think not that, by brave words of motherhood, or many tears and -pleadings of sudden repentance, she can regain her old position. The -stain of this bygone year will remain upon her forever. She is under a -heavy ban, and she must go through a rigorous penance ere she can be -received again among the undefiled. Art ready, Laure, to place thy sick -soul in my hands?” - -Laure bent her head. - -“Then I prescribe for thee this penance: Thou shalt go alone, on foot, -to Holy Madeleine, and there seek of the Reverend Mother thy freedom -from the priory. If it be granted, thou mayest return hither to this -same room and remain shut up in utter solitude, to pray and fast as -rigorously as thy body will admit, for the space of fourteen days. If, -by that time, thou art come to see truly the magnitude of thy offence, -and if thy mind be purified of evil thoughts and thy heart opened to the -abounding mercy of God, I will absolve thee of thy sin, and lift away -the ban of Heaven. For meseemeth, my daughter, that thy sin found thee -out or ever thou hadst reached this house of safety. There is the mark -of suffering upon thy brow, and, seeing it, I bow before the power of -God, that holdeth over us whithersoever we may go. But see that in thy -lonely hours thou find true repentance for thy evil deed. For if that -come not, then truly shalt thou be an outcast on the face of the earth. -I will go to-day to the priory to talk with the Mère Piteuse, if thy -heart accepteth my word.” - -Laure fell upon her knees before the Bishop and kissed his hand in token -of submission. St. Nazaire suffered her for a few moments to humble -herself, and then, lifting her up, he rose himself and quickly left the -room. - -Eleanore remained a few moments longer with her daughter, and then went -away, leaving Laure alone again, to dread the ordeal that was before -her, the facing of the assemblage of nuns in that place that she -remembered as her heart’s prison. - -By order of the Bishop, Laure was left alone all day, and this -twenty-four hours was the most wretched that she had to spend after her -return to Le Crépuscule. On the following day she went alone to the -priory,—not on foot, as the Bishop had at first commanded; for the snow -was too deep, and Laure too much exhausted by her privations of the last -two months, for her safely to endure the fatigue of such a walk. She -rode thither on horseback; and possibly extracted more soul’s good out -of the ride than she would have got afoot, for the whole way was laden -with bitter memories and grief and shame. The Bishop himself met her at -the priory gate, and he remained at her side throughout the time that -she was there. The ordeal was not terrible. Mère Piteuse bore out her -name, and Laure thought that the spirit of the Saviour had surely -descended upon the reverend woman. As an unheard-of concession, the -penitent was permitted to recant her vows before only the eight officers -of the priory assembled in the chapter-house, instead of before the -whole company of nuns in the great church; and thus Laure did not see at -all her former companion and abettor, Sœur Eloise, a meeting with whom -she had dreaded more than anything else. And when, in the afternoon, -Laure finally rode away from the priory gate, it was with a heart -throbbing with devotion for St. Nazaire and his goodness to her. Swiftly -and eagerly, in the falling twilight, she traversed the road leading -back to the Castle, and, when she reached home, night had fallen. Her -mother, who had spent the day in the deepest anxiety, was waiting for -her in the great hall, and, the moment that Laure entered, weary with -the now unusual exercise, she cried out, “It is well? Thou art -dismissed?” - -And as Laure began to answer the question with a full description of the -day, her mother drew her slowly up the stairs, across the hall, and -finally into her own narrow room, which was to be the chamber of -penance. When they entered there, Laure became suddenly silent; for the -little place was dark and chill, and the thought of what was before her -struck an added tremor to her heart. Madame read her thoughts and said -gently,— - -“Be not so sad, dear child. When thou thinkest of the fair, pure, loving -life that lies before us, in this Castle of thy youth, surely fourteen -little days of peaceful solitude cannot fright thee? Think always that -God is on high, and that around thee are those that love thee well; and -thus thou canst not be very miserable. Lights and food shall be brought; -and then—I bid thee make much of thy solitude, my child; for there is no -more healing balm for wounded souls. Now, commending thee to the mercy -of the All-merciful, I leave thee.” - -In the darkness, Laure clung to her mother as if it were their last -embrace, and madame had to put the girl’s hands away before she would -bear to be left alone. But at last the door was closed and bolted on the -outside; and Laure, within, knew that her imprisonment was begun. -Feeling her way to a chair, she seated herself thereon, and laid her -head in her hands. Burning and incoherent thoughts hurried through her -brain, and she was still lost in these when there was a soft tap at her -door, and the outer bolt was drawn. She rose and stumbled hurriedly to -open it, but there was no one outside. On the floor was a burning -candle, and a tray on which stood a jug of water and a loaf of bread. As -she took them in, Laure experienced a wave of desolation. However, she -set the food and drink down on her table, lighted the torch on the wall -at the candle-flame, and finally sat herself down to eat. No grace to -God passed her lips as she took her first bite from the loaf; for her -heart was bitter in its weariness. But after she had eaten and drunk she -lost the inclination to brood; and, overcome with weariness and the -emotions of the day, she hurriedly disrobed, extinguished both her -lights, and crept, with her first sense of comfort, into the warmly -covered bed. For a long time she lay there, chilly and a little nervous, -but thinking of nothing. Then gradually her spirit grew calmer; some of -the weariness was done away, and she fell asleep. - -When next she woke it was daylight,—a gray, January morning,—and Laure -realized, rather disconsolately, that she could sleep no more for the -time. Therefore she left her bed, threw a mantle around her, and went to -the door, to see if there might be food without. Somewhat to her dismay, -she found the door locked fast, and, having no means of knowing what the -hour might be, she thought that possibly she had overslept, and that she -should have nothing to eat throughout the morning. The heaviness of her -head told her that she had slept too long; and, not daring to get back -to bed again, she began resignedly to dress. She was in the midst of her -toilet when there came a tap at the door, and she flew to open it. -Outside stood a kitchen-boy, who handed her a tray containing fresh -bread and water, and asked her with formal respect for the stale food of -the night before. This she gave him; and immediately the door was shut -and rebolted. - -[Illustration: - - _Mother and child were happy to sit all - day in the flower-strewn meadow.—Page 402_ -] - -With grim precision Laure finished dressing and broke her fast, meantime -keeping her thoughts fixed on the most trivial subjects. But when her -meal was over, and she knew how long the day must be, and realized that -there was no escape from herself, she sat down in the largest chair in -the room, let her eyes wander over the familiar objects, and allowed her -thoughts to take what form they would. The terrible fatigue of her -lonely journey was quite gone now. Nor was there in her own person -anything to remind her of her recent suffering. Her body was clean, -well-clothed, and warm, and, in her youth, the memory of the past -terrible two months grew dim, and instead there rose up before her -mental vision a very different picture,—an image,—the image of the idol -and the ruin of her life: her joy, her shame, her ecstasy, and her -despair; Bertrand Flammecœur, the troubadour, in his matchless, -irresponsible untrustworthiness, his incomparable beauty, his fiery -enthusiasm. For, strange as it may be, all the bitterness, all the -suffering that this man had brought her, had not killed her love for him -nor blackened his image in her heart. There being nothing to check her -fancy, Laure went mentally back to the hour of her flight with the -troubadour, and passed slowly over the whole period of their life -together,—from the first days of physical agony and mental shame through -the period of increasing delight, to the culmination of her happiness in -him and the beginning of its end. Once more she reviewed their journey -out of Brittany up the north coast to Calais, whence, in the fair spring -weather, they had taken passage to Dover, in England, thence making -their way by slow stages to London. Here, in the train of the Duke of -Gloucester, uncle of the young Richard, the most powerful man in the -kingdom, the two had passed their summer. To Laure it was a summer of -fairyland. Flammecœur had become her god, and she saw him ascend height -after height of popularity and favor. His nationality and his profession -won for him instant recognition, for trouvères from Provence were -Persian nightingales to the England of that day. And after his first -introduction into high places, his breeding, his dress, and his graceful -personality brought him an enviable position, especially among the women -of the court. Laure passed always as his wife, and was adroitly -exploited among the court gallants. She was still too single-minded to -receive the slightest taint from this life. She was found to be as -incorruptible as she was pretty, and by this unusual fact her own -reputation went up, and her popularity rivalled that of the troubadour. -If this manner of life sometimes weighed on her and brought her -something of remorse, she found her consolation in the fact that -Flammecœur never wavered in his fidelity. For the time being he was -thoroughly infatuated with her; and in their stolen hours of golden -solitude both of them found their reward for the ofttimes wearisome -round of pleasures that, with them, constituted work. - -Now, alone, in her solitary prison-room, Laure of Le Crépuscule reviewed -her high and holy noon of love, forgetting its subsequence, brooding -only over its supreme forgetfulness, till the madness of it was tingling -in her every vein, and there rushed over her again, in a tumultuous -wave, all that fierce longing, all that hopeless desire, that she -thought herself to have endured for the last time. In their early days -Flammecœur had been so much her companion, so devoted to her in little, -pretty, telling ways, so constant to her and to her alone, that the -thought of any life other than the one with him would have been to her -like a promise of eternal death. It was not more their hours of delirium -than those of silent communion that they had held together, which -brought her now the tears of hopeless yearning. All that she desired -without him, was death. All that she had loved or cared for was with -him. - -At this time came to her the thought of Lenore; and she had an -instinctive feeling that, had God seen fit to give her that most -precious of all gifts, motherhood, this penitential cell had not been -the end for her. - -Three days and three nights did Laure spend in this state of bitter -rebellion against her lot; and then, from over-wishing, came a change. -Up to this time, in her new flood of grief for the separation from -Flammecœur, she had driven from her mind every creeping memory of the -day of his change toward her. Another woman had come upon the horizon of -his life: a young and noble Englishwoman, of high station. And soon he -was pursuing her with the ardor that he no longer spent on Laure. This -lady was one of the first that they had met in England, and Laure had -liked her before Flammecœur’s new passion began to develop. But with her -first real fears, the poor girl’s jealousy was born, and soon it became -the moving spirit of her life. Many times in the ensuing weeks—those -bitter weeks of early autumn—did angry words pass between her and her -protector, her only shield from the world in this strange land. Once, in -a fit of uncontrollable grief and passion, she had left him, and for two -days wandered about the streets of London till starvation drove her back -to the lodgings of the Flaming-heart. Her reception—of quiet -indifference—on her return showed her that her world was in a state of -dissolution. For a week she dwelt among its ruins, and then, when she -demanded it, he told her that she was no longer dear to him, and he -begged her to take what money he had and to set out whither she would, -assuring her that she would find no difficulty in securing some -excellent abiding-place in this adopted land. Laure took her dismissal -heroically. She knew him too well to be horrified at his suggestions as -to her procedure; and, refusing his gifts of money, she sold the clothes -and ornaments that he had given her in a happier day, and with the -proceeds started on her return to Crépuscule. Her little store gave out -when she had scarce more than reached France; and the last half of the -journey had been accomplished by literally begging her way from hut to -hut, never giving up the idea of at last reaching the only refuge she -could trust,—the place where now she sat dreaming out her woe. - -Through the bitter hours when her old jealousy took possession of her -again and seared her with its hot flames, Laure found herself, more than -once, gazing fixedly at the little priedieu in the corner of the room, -where, as a child, she had been wont to kneel each night and morning. -Since the hour she had left the priory, a prayer had scarcely passed her -lips; and now, in the time of reactive sorrow, she felt a pride about -kneeling in supplication to Him whose laws she had so freely broken. In -the course of time, for so doth solitude work changes in the hearts of -the most stubborn, the spirit of real repentance of her sin came over -her; and then, for the first time in her young life, she wept unselfish -tears. It was only inch by inch that she crept back toward the place of -heart’s peace. But at length, on the tenth day of her penance, she went -to her God; and, throwing herself at the feet of the crucifix, claimed -her own from the All-merciful. - -Never in her life of prayers had Laure prayed as she prayed now. Now at -last God was a living Being, and she was come home to Him for -forgiveness and for comfort. Her words sprang from her deepest heart. -Tears of joy, not pain, welled up within her; and it seemed as if she -felt her purity coming back to her again. She believed that she was -received before the throne, and listened to; and no absolution of a -consecrated bishop had brought her such confidence as this, her first -unlettered prayer. - -When she rose from her knees it was as if she had been bathed in spirit. -Her old joy of youth was again alive within her and shone forth from her -eyes with a radiant softness. A strange quiet took possession of her; a -new peace was hidden in her heart; tranquillity reigned about her, and -the four days of solitude that remained were all too short. She was -learning herself anew; but she dreaded that time when others should look -into her face and think to find there what she knew was gone from her -forever. After her first prayer she did not often resume the accepted -attitude of communication with the Most High; yet she prayed almost -continually, with a dreamy fervor peculiar to her state. She still -thought of Flammecœur, but no longer with desire; only with a gentle -regret for the fever of his soul and that he could never know such peace -as hers. She also felt remorse for the part she had played in his life; -and this remorse was now her only pain. She suffered under it; but it -was easier to endure than the terrible, restless longing that had once -consumed her. Indeed, at this time, Laure’s spirituality was -exaggerated; for solitude is apt to breed exaggeration in whatever mood -the recluse happens to be. But this state was also bound to know its -reaction; and, upon the whole, it was as well that the penitential -fortnight was near its end. - -On the afternoon of the fourteenth day, Laure dressed herself in the -somberest robe to be found in her chest,—a loose tunic of rusty black, -with mantle of the same, and a rosary around her waist by way of belt. -She braided her hair into two long plaits, and bound these round and -round her head like a heavy filet. This was all of her coiffure. When -she was dressed, she stood in front of her mirror and looked at herself -by the smoky light of a torch. Her vanity was not flattered by the -reflection; but steel is deceitful sometimes, and Laure did not know how -much younger she had grown in the two weeks of her penance. As the hour -of liberty approached, she became not a little excited. The thought of -being surrounded with such a throng of familiar faces set her aflame -with eagerness; and she waited, literally counting the seconds, till she -should be set free. - -Punctually at the hour in which, two weeks before, Laure had been left -alone, her door was opened, and Eleanore and Lenore came together into -the room, to lead the prisoner down to the chapel. Madame clasped her -warmly by the hand, and looked searchingly into her face: but that was -all the salutation that was given, for the ban of excommunication was -still upon her. And so, without a word, the three moved quickly to the -stairs, and, descending, passed at once into the lighted chapel. - -Of all the ceremonies that had been performed in that little room since -it was built, more than two centuries before, the one that now took -place was perhaps the most impressive, certainly the most unique. Laure, -in her penitential garb, presented a curious contrast to the gayly robed -Castle company, and to St. Nazaire, in his most gorgeous of canonicals. -Yet Laure’s face was more interesting to study than anything else in the -crowded room. St. Nazaire, while he confessed and absolved her, watched -her with an interest that he had never felt for her before; and he -realized that probably never again would he hear such a confession as -hers. She told him the whole story of her life after her flight from the -priory, with neither break, hesitation, tremor, nor tear. She took her -absolution in uplifted silence. And when the ban of excommunication was -raised from her, neither the Bishop nor her mother could guess, from her -face, what her feeling was. - -When she had been blessed, and the general benediction pronounced, all -the company came crowding to her to give her welcome. After that -followed a great feast, at which Laure ate not a mouthful, and drank -nothing but a cup of milk. And finally, when all the merrymaking was -through, the young woman returned alone to her room, and, this time with -her door bolted from within, lay down upon her bed and wept as if her -heart had finally dissolved in tears. - - - - -[Illustration] - - _CHAPTER THIRTEEN_ - LENORE - -[Illustration] - - -On the morning of the sixteenth of January, Laure went into the -spinning-room with the other women, to begin the old, familiar work. The -sight of that room brought back to her a peculiar sensation. -Long-forgotten memories of her girlhood’s yearnings and restless -discontents, half-formed plans and desires, picture after picture of -what she had once imagined convent life to be, crowded thick upon her, -and caused her to shudder, knowing what these vague dreams had led her -to. Here was the room, with its row of wheels and tambour-frames, and, -at the end, the big, wooden loom, filled with red warp. Everywhere were -little disorderly heaps of flax and uncarded wool, bits of thread and -silk, and long woollen remnants clipped from uneven tapestry borders. In -a moment this place would be alive with the droning buzz of wheels, the -clack-clack of the loom, and the bright chatter of feminine voices. -Laure heard it all in the first glance down the room, and in the same -instant she lived a lifetime here. Before her eyes was an endless vista -of mornings spent in this place upon work that could never keep her -thoughts from paths where they should not stray. Alas! with Flammecœur -she had neither toiled nor spun. - -In neither face nor manner did Laure betray any suggestion of her -feeling; and she found herself presently seated at a wheel, between -Alixe, who was at the tapestry frame, and Lenore, who had come to the -room for the first time in many weeks, and was engaged in fashioning a -delicate little garment of white _saie_. Madame, at the head of the -room, was embroidering a square of linen and overseeing the work of -every one else; and she glanced, every now and then, rather searchingly -into her daughter’s face, finding in it, however, nothing that could -cause her anxiety; for Laure was ashamed of her own sensations, and -strove bravely to conceal them. - -Possibly this scene might have held out promise of reward to the -thinker, the psychologist, or the humanitarian. Of all these quiet, busy -women, was there one whose dull, passionless exterior did not cover an -intricate and tumultuous heart-history? The rebellious thought-life of -Alixe was no less interesting, despite her inactivity, than the -deadening sorrow through which Lenore had passed. Nor had the early life -of Eleanore, with its doubtful joys and its bitter periods of -loneliness, left any stronger traces in her face than had the long -after-years of rigid self-suppression. She had nearly overcome her once -devastating habit of self-analysis, by forcing herself to take an -unselfish interest in those around her. But the marks of her later and -nobler struggles with grief lay as plainly in her face as those of her -younger life. Only, the influence of her youth, with its rebellions and -its solitudes, was to be found bodily transferred into the character of -Laure, who had, in her infancy, absorbed her mother into herself. These -four women, by reason either of years or station, had experienced much -in the ways of joy and sorrow. But to what depths of unhappiness all the -other pathetically colorless lives of the uninstructed and unloved women -of that day had sunk, cannot be surmised by any one who has seen what -strange courses loneliness and solitude will take. Who knows how great a -self-struggle may result only in a pallid, vacant face and a negative -personality? And what had they, all these neglected women of the -chivalric age, to give them life, color, or force? Men did battle and -feats of arms, expecting their ladies to sit at home, to toil and spin -and bear them heirs, and, when their time came, haply die. So much we -all know. But how much these same women, having something of both soul -and brain, may have tried to use them in their small way, who has cared -to surmise? - -The January morning wore along, and by and by the fitful chatter became -more fitful: the pauses grew longer; for every one was weary with work, -and with the incessant noise of loom and wheel. Laure, who through the -morning had been covertly watching Lenore at her task, saw that the -young woman had grown paler than was her wont, and that the shadows -under her eyes had deepened till their effect against her pallor was -startling. Gradually Lenore’s hands moved more slowly. She would pause -for a moment, and then, with a slight start, return to her work with so -conscious an effort that Laure was more than once on the point of crying -to her to stop. Presently, however, Lenore herself looked toward -madame’s chair with an appeal in her eyes and a faintly murmured word on -her lips. - -Eleanore glanced at her, and then rose at once and went over to her -side. “Why didst thou not speak sooner? Go quickly to thy room and lie -down. Shall I send Alixe with thee?” - -“Nay! Let me rather be alone!” And Lenore, hastily gathering her work -into her arms, slipped from her place and was gone from the room. - -The little scene caused no comment. Only Laure, who was not accustomed -to the sight of Lenore’s transparent skin and almost startling frailty, -sat thinking about her after she was gone. How forlorn must be her poor -existence! If she had greatly loved Gerault,—and surely any maiden would -have loved him,—how gray her world must have become! how without hope -her life! Laure lost herself completely in a revery of Lenore’s sorrows, -and forgot, for the time, how weary she herself was: how her foot ached -with treading the wheel, and how irritated were her finger-tips with the -long unaccustomed manipulation of thread. But it came as an intense -relief when she heard her mother say softly,— - -“Go thou, Laure, to thy sister’s room. Make her comfortable, if thou -canst. Take the wheel also with thee and finish thy skein there.” - -“Nay, madame. The whirl of the wheel is distressing to Lenore; I saw it -while she sat here. I will finish after noon if thou wilt, but Lenore -must not be disturbed.” - -Madame nodded to her, and Laure slipped away, not noticing how Alixe’s -eyes followed her, or what disappointment was written in her face. For -hitherto this ministering to Lenore had fallen to Alixe’s share, and it -had been the proudest pleasure of her life. - -Lenore was lying upon her bed, which, some weeks previously, had been -moved over close beside the windows of her room, that she might always -have a view of the sea. When Laure entered, she scarcely moved, and her -great eyes continued to rove round the room. The new-comer paused in the -doorway and gazed at her a moment or two before she asked: “May I enter? -May I come and sit beside you?” - -Lenore smiled slightly; but there was no actual welcome in her face as -she said, in her usual, gentle tone: “Certes. As ever, I was idle and -unthinking. Come thou in, Laure, and sit where thou canst gaze out upon -the sea. Look, there is a glint of sun on it, even through the folds of -the clouds.” - -Laure looked to where she pointed, and then came silently over and -seated herself in a large chair that stood between the bed and the -window, in a little jut in the wall. Her eyes were turned not to the -many-paned glass, however, but rather upon the figure of Lenore, who was -now looking off through a half-opened pane, through which blew fitful -gusts of icy wind. The two young women remained here in silence for some -moments, each in her own position, thinking silently. Suddenly, however, -Laure shivered, and then sprang to her feet, saying: “Thou’lt surely -freeze here! Let me cover thee.” She took up a thick coverlet that lay -over the foot of the bed and placed it, folded double, upon Lenore’s -form. Then, glancing down into the milk-white face, she said again: “Let -me bring thee something—a little food—some wine. Thou’rt so pale—so -ill!” - -“Peace, Laure! I am comfortable. I lie thus for hours every day. Ah! for -how many hours in the past months—” - -She looked up into Laure’s face, and the eyes of the two women met, in -an unfathomable gaze. Then Laure went slowly back to her place, wishing -that she might close the window, but not daring to interfere with her -sister’s desired sight of the sea. After she had sat down, Lenore once -more lost herself in a reverie, which, however, her companion did not -respect. - -“Lenore,” she said in a low, rather melancholy voice, “how is it that -thou canst endure this life of thine,—thou, young and bright and gay and -all unused to this dim dwelling; how hath such existence not already -killed thee? Tell me, how hast thou fared since Gerault went?” - -Lenore turned her eyes from the sea and fixed them on Laure’s face. She -wondered a little why she did not resent the question, not realizing -that it was the first throb of natural understanding that had come to -her out of Le Crépuscule. Lenore’s first impulse of affection toward her -new sister had altered a little in the past two weeks. Since she had -heard and understood the story of Laure’s last months, the white-souled -girl had shrunk from contact with her whose career lay shrouded in so -black a depth. Yet now Laure’s tone, as she spoke, and, more than that, -the expression in her eyes, touched a key in Lenore’s nature that had -long been unsounded, and which brought a tremor of unwonted feeling to -her heart. Quickly repressing the impulse toward tears, she gave a -moment’s pause, and then answered in a dreamy, reflective way, as if she -were for the first time examining the array of her own emotions,— - -“Meseemeth that, since the day of Gerault’s death, a part of me hath -been asleep. Save when, on the night of his home-coming, I lay beside -his body and touched again his hair and his eyes—” - -“Holy God! Thou couldst lie beside the dead!” - -“Ah, was it not Gerault come home to me—seeming as if he slept? Since -that time, and the night that followed it, I say, I have not wept for -him. Mine eyes are dry. There is sometimes a fire in them; but the tears -never come. And my heart ofttimes burns, and yet I do not very bitterly -grieve. I know not why, but my sorrow hath not been all that I should -have made it. I have been soothed with shadows. I have found great -comfort in yon rolling sea. And then there is also the child,—Gerault’s -son,—the Lord of Crépuscule.” - -“Yes, the child! Oh, I know how thou lovest him—I know!” - -“Thou knowest? How?” - -“Methinks, Lenore, I understand the mother-love. How should I have -praised God had he deemed me also worthy of it! But I was not. I know -well ’twas a vain desire. But, oh, to hold in mine arms a little one, a -babe, and to know it for mine own! Wouldst not deliver up thy soul for -that, Lenore?” - -Lenore looked at her with a vague little smile. “Perhaps; I do not know. -My babe must carry on his father’s name, and so I love him. Yea, I will -bear any suffering so that he come into the world; for Gerault said to -me long since that such must be my duty and my great joy. He spake -somewhat as you do. Yet I know not that eagerness thou speakest of.” - -Laure examined the ethereal figure lying before her with new curiosity; -and under the gaze of the calm, deep-hued eyes her own were kindled with -a brighter gleam. “Hast thou not loved, Lenore?” she asked. “Knowest -thou nothing of the joy of living, the two in one, united by divine -fire? Dost thou not worship God for the reason that there is now in thee -a double soul? Wake! Wake from thy dream-life! Suffer! For out of -suffering, great joy will come upon thee!” - -As she met Laure’s look, a new light burned in Lenore’s eyes, and the -other saw her quiver under those words. Finally, freeing her gaze, she -said very softly: “I would not wake. How, indeed, should I live, if I -roused myself? Life and love and the world are hidden away behind the -far hills of Rennes. Here I must dwell forever in the twilight. So let -me dream! Ah, Laure, thou too, thou too wilt come to it. The fever may -burn within thee still, but time will cool it. Tell me, Laure,” she -added, smitten with a sudden curiosity that was foreign to her usual -self, “tell me, Laure, how didst thou find courage to run out from thy -dreams in the priory into life with Flammecœur, the trouvère?” - -At sound of the name, Laure flushed scarlet, and then turned pale again. -“Flammecœur! Flammecœur!” she murmured to herself. Then, suddenly, she -shook the spell away. “Ah, how did I fall from heaven to hell and find -heaven in hell? I cannot tell thee more than thou thyself hast said. I -was buried while I was yet alive; and so I arose from mine own tomb and -escaped back to the world of living things. I was among sleepers, yet -could not myself sleep. After a time fire, not blood, began to run in my -veins. And so, in the end, I rode away with the Flaming-heart. And I -loved him! _how_ I loved him! God be merciful to me! Ah, Lenore, how do -they put us poor, long-haired things into the fair world, giving us -hearts and brains and souls, and thereon bid us all only to spin—to -spin, and weave, and so, perchance, kiss, once, and then go back to spin -again?” - -Laure was half hysterical, but wholly in earnest,—so much in earnest -that she had forgotten her companion; and when she looked at her again, -she found Lenore lying back on her pillows, her breath coming more -rapidly than usual, but her face rigidly calm, her blue eyes wandering -through space, and Laure perceived that she had rejected the passionate -words and kept herself still in the dream state. - -It was well that at this moment there came a tap at the door. Laure -cried entrance, and as Alixe came in from the hall, Madame Eleanore -appeared from the other door that led to Laure’s room, and thence -through to madame’s own chamber. Evidently the work hours were over, and -it was time for the noon meal. - -Lenore did not care to descend to meat, and she asked Alixe to bring a -glass of wine and water and a manchet of bread to her room. This request -Alixe joyfully promised to fulfil, and then Laure and her mother -together left the room, Laure in the throes of a painful reaction from -strong feeling, and with a sense, moreover, that Lenore was relieved to -have her go. - -In this last conjecture, or rather, sense, Laure was right. But it was -not through dislike of her sister that Lenore was glad to be alone -again. It was rather because the young widow had been powerfully moved -by Laure’s words, and she wanted time and solitude to readjust herself -from the new and disquieting ideas that had been put into her mind. -Alixe believed her to be fatigued, and perhaps suffering; and, -understanding her nature much better than Laure did, she brought the -invalid everything that she wanted in the way of food, and then left -her, believing that she could sleep. - -It was afternoon in the Castle. Dinner was at an end. Madame had betaken -herself to her own room, for prayer and meditation. The damsels were all -scattered, some to their own small rooms, some to the courtyard and the -snow. Laure was in the chapel, before the altar, struggling with her -newly roused demon of unrest. In the long room, off the great hall, was -Courtoise, seated in Gerault’s old place, before a reading-desk, with an -illuminated parchment before him. It was part of “The Romant de la -Rose,” and he was reading the passage descriptive of the garden of -_Déduit_. Although nothing, perhaps, could be found in the literature of -that day better fitted to appeal to a dweller of Le Crépuscule, the mind -of the dark-browed Courtoise was not very securely fixed upon his book. -His eyes rested steadily on one word; his forehead was puckered, and -there was an expression on his face which, had he been a maid, would -likely have portended tears. Courtoise was not a man to weep; but he had -lately fallen recklessly into the habit of his former lord, of coming -here to sit with a parchment before him, as an excuse for brooding -hopelessly on the trouble in his soul. His head was now so far bent that -he did not see a woman’s figure glide into the room. Not till she stood -over his very desk did he look up with a little start: “Thou, Alixe!” he -said half impatiently. - -“Yea, Alixe, Master Courtoise. Thine eyes, it seems, can make out great -shapes very well, but halt an untold time over one curly letter.” - -“What sayest thou? Thy words, Alixe, are like the quips of the dwarf; -but thou hast not his license to say them.” - -“Ahimé, Courtoise,” she came lazily round the table till she stood -beside his chair, “seek to quarrel with me if thou wilt. A quarrel would -be a merry thing in this Castle. For I am dull—dull—piteously dull, good -master!” - -Courtoise looked at her rather grimly. “Art thou dull indeed, Mistress -Alixe? What thinkest thou, then, of all of us?” - -“Thou also, quiet one? Well, I had guessed it. Yet methought—” she -paused, with mischief in her eyes; and Courtoise, who knew some of her -moods, was wise enough not to let her finish the sentence. Rising from -his place, he went and got a tabouret from a corner of the room, and, -placing it beside the chair at the desk, sat down on it, motioning Alixe -to the seat beside him. - -Alixe refused the offer. “Nay, nay, Master Courtoise. Thou shalt sit in -the brawny chair, for thou’rt to be my adviser. Sit, I prithee, and let -me take the little place, and then list to me carefully while I do talk -on a matter of grave importance.” - -“Name of Heaven! Is there something of importance in this house of -shadows?” - -“There is Madame Lenore,” she said soberly. - -“Lenore! Ah, ’tis of her thou wouldst speak,” he cried, his whole face -lighting. - -Suddenly Alixe broke into a rippling mockery of laughter. “There, -Courtoise, thou art betrayed! Nay, I will be still about it, for I also -love her. Now, to be cruel, my talk is not to be of her, but of myself, -even me,—Alixe No-name. Thou, Courtoise, art in something the same -position in Le Crépuscule as I, save that thou hast a binding tie of -interest here. Then canst thou not offer me a moment’s thought, a -moment’s sympathy? For, in very truth, I need them both.” - -With Alixe’s first words, Courtoise had flushed an angry scarlet; but -with her last, his ordinary color came back to him, and he looked at her -in friendly fashion as he answered: “What time and thought I have are -thine, Alixe. But thou must show me thy need of sympathy.” - -“Why, let it be just for dwelling in Le Crépuscule. And—if thou wouldst -have more—for holding no certain place here. There was a time, after -Laure had gone away, and when the Seigneur was in Rennes, that I was -really wanted. I brought comfort to madame, and I know she loved me -well. And also, since Madame Lenore was widowed, I have been sometimes a -companion to her. But now there are two daughters here. Madame’s life is -full with them; and my place in Le Crépuscule is only one of tolerance. -Therefore—lend thine ear closely, Courtoise—I would go away, I, Alixe -No-name, out into the world, to see if there be not a fortune hidden for -me beyond the eastern hills. I would go to Rennes, or even farther, to -try what city life might be; yet I would not have the trouble of -explanation and protests and insistence, and finally of farewell, with -the dwellers here. Rather, I would just steal away, some night, nor -return again hither evermore. What say you, Courtoise? Think you that -that wish is all ingratitude?” - -It was some moments before Courtoise replied. His face was a little -turned from Alixe, but she could see that his brow was knit in thought. -At length he answered her: “Nay, Alixe, thy wish is not ingratitude. -Rather, indeed, I have sometimes thought that Madame Eleanore showed -something of ingratitude toward thee; for thou wast a daughter to her in -her sorrow; and since the return of mademoiselle, I have seen thee many -a time set aside. - -“If thou wouldst fare forth into the world—well, Alixe, the world is a -wide place, and many dangers lurk therein. Yet thou art stout of heart, -and strong enow in body, and methinks there are few like thee that would -of choice dwell in such a place as this. I myself, were it only not for— -Ah, well, if thou wouldst go forth and make thy way at once to Rennes, -depart not now in the winter season. Thou’dst freeze on thy way. Wait -till the spring is upon us, and the woods are light at night. And then—” - -“Then thou’lt help me? Wilt thou, Courtoise? Wilt thou tell madame when -I am gone wherefore it was I went? Wilt thou give her messages of -faithful love? Wilt—” - -“Wait, wait! Ask no more than that,” he said, smiling thoughtfully. -“When the days are warmer and the spring is in the leaf, when the blood -flows fast through the veins, and the head burns with new life—” he drew -a sudden, quick breath, and Alixe, looking upon him with new interest, -said quickly and softly: - -“Then come thou, also, Courtoise, out into the wide world! Let us -together go forth to seek our fortunes. Thou’lt find me not too weak a -comrade, I promise.” - -Courtoise’s smile vanished, and he shook his head, a look of sadness -stealing into his eyes: “Think you, Alixe, that after the death of my -well-loved lord I should have stayed in this Castle to grow gray and -mouldy ere my time, had it not held for me a trust so sacred that I -could not give it up?” - -“Lenore,” murmured Alixe, gently. - -“Thou knowest it. Since the first day that she came home with the -Seigneur, I knew that here she would sadly need a friend; and indeed she -hath been my very saint. I have worshipped her more as an angel than as -a woman, in her purity; and my heart hath all but broken for the great -sadness of her life here. And if by remaining I can serve her in any -way, in thought or in deed; if it giveth her comfort to have me in the -Castle, I would sooner cut off my hand than leave her here alone. I feel -also that my lord knoweth that I am faithful to the trust he left with -me; and I would not forfeit his dead thanks. Therefore, Alixe, ask me -not to return into the world with thee or with another.” - -While he spoke, Alixe had watched him fixedly, and had seen no suspicion -either in tone or in face of a deeper feeling for Lenore than he had -confessed. Now she sighed quietly, and said in a gentle voice: -“Courtoise, I think thou shouldst not mourn that thou’rt to dwell here; -for thou hast thy trust, and thou hast some one to serve, always. -Therefore fear nothing, and give thanks to God; for with Lenore in thy -world—” - -“Alas, alas, Alixe, there is that fear in me! Should Lenore be -lost—should Lenore die—ah!” - -Low as was his voice, the agony in it was unmistakable; and now Alixe -was sure of all his secret: that he also loved Lenore as man sometimes -loves woman,—purely. And she could find no words to say to him when the -usually self-contained and tranquil man laid his head down on the table -before him and did not try to hide his grief. - -It was at this inopportune moment that Laure, tired of prayers, and -still consumed by her restless fever, rushed in upon the two in the long -room. Her old-time wild gayety was upon her, and she did not pause -before the position of Courtoise, who, however, quickly straightened up. -Laure scarcely saw it. She knew only that here were the companions of -her youth, and as she entered she cried out to them,— - -“Alixe! Courtoise! Up and out with me! Burn ye not? Stifle ye not in -this dim hole? Courtoise, is our old sailing-boat still in its mooring? -Let us fare forth, all three, and set out upon the wintry sea! Let us -feel this January wind pull and strain at the ropes! Let us watch the -foamy waves pile up before and behind us—” - -“Mon Dieu!” - -“Mademoiselle, it is impossible. The boat lies on the beach; two days’ -work would not fit her for the water.” - -Laure stamped angrily on the floor. “Something, then, something! I will -get out into the cold, into the snow; I will move, I will feel, I will -breathe again!” - -It was so much the wild, free Laure, it had in it so much her old-time -magnetism of comradeship, so much the spirit of the dead Gerault, -desirous of action, that Alixe and Courtoise were drawn irresistibly -into her mood. Both of them moved forward, while Alixe cried gayly: “The -hawks! Come, we will ride!” - -“The hawks!” echoed Laure. “Run, Courtoise, and get the horses, while -Alixe and I go don our riding-garb and jess the birds!” - -Without a moment’s hesitation, rather with a throb of pleasure, -Courtoise ran obediently away toward the stables, while the young women -hurried to their rooms. In twenty minutes the wild trio were dashing -across the lowered drawbridge, all well mounted, hawk on wrist, spur at -heel, with Laure in the lead. Down the road for the space of a mile they -went, and then struck off to the snowy moor. They rode long and they -rode hard, finding scarce a single quarry, but letting their pent-up -spirits out in this free and healthful exercise. When they came in again -to the Castle courtyard, it was in starry darkness; and not one of the -three but felt a new strength to resist the dead life of the Castle. - -Perhaps, had Courtoise known how Lenore had quietly wept away the -afternoon in her solitude and loneliness, he had not appeared at evening -meat with air so vigorous, eye so bright, and appetite so ready. Lenore, -however, was never known to make a plaint; and she came to table with -her cheeks hardly paler than usual, though her downcast eyes were -shrunken with tears, and their lids were tinged with feverish red. - -Men say that it is one of the irrevocable blessings that Time should -move as surely as he does. But when the hours, nay, the minutes, lag -away as drearily as they did in Le Crépuscule that winter, one feels no -gratitude to Time; but rather a resentment that his immortality should -be so dead-alive. Yet winter did pass, however slowly. In March the -frozen chains of the prisoned earth were riven. Streams began to flow -fast and full. The snow melted and soaked into the rich, black soil, -making it ready for the seed. The doors of the peasants’ huts were -opened to the sun and rain. Flocks of storks began to fly northward on -their return from the Nile to their unsettled fatherland. Spring caught -the earth in a tender embrace; and wherever her warm breath touched the -soil, a flower appeared, to mark the kiss. - -To Lenore the spring warmth was as heaven to a soul newly freed from -earth-sorrow and suffering. Now the windows of her room could all be -thrown wide open to the outer air. The whole sea lay before her, strewn -with sunlight, and frosted with white foam. She saw the fishing-fleet -from St. Nazaire go up past the bay, on its way to the herring -fisheries; and then she was suddenly inspired again with an -uncontrollable desire for the sea. That afternoon she sent one of her -damsels to find Courtoise. He came to her room breathless, and eager to -learn her will; and to him, without delay, she made known her imperative -wish to be upon the sea. - -Courtoise found himself in a dilemma. He knew that there was a boat at -her disposal, for he and Laure and Alixe had now been sailing every day -for a fortnight. He believed Lenore to be aware of this, though as a -matter of fact she was not; nevertheless he at first refused her request -point-blank. After that, because she wept, he temporized. Finally, in -despair, he went and consulted madame, who was horrified at the idea. -Lenore still insisted, appealed to every one in the Castle, from Alixe -and Laure to the very scullions. Finding herself repulsed on every hand -and powerless to act of her own accord, she became, all at once, utterly -irresponsible, and made a scene that threatened to end everything with -her. Half unbalanced by months of illness and lonely brooding, and -tortured by this morbid and unreasonable fancy, she wept and screamed -and raved, and threw herself about her bed, till she was in a state of -complete exhaustion, and every one in the Castle awaited the result of -her paroxysm with unconcealed distress. - -After this time she did not leave her bed. She was very weak, and she -seemed to have lost all ambition and all desire to move or even to -speak. Her days she spent in silent moodiness, her nights in tossing -feverishly about the bed. She seemed to take no notice of the little -attentions so tenderly showered upon her by every one; except that she -was pleased to see the little spring flowers, tender pink bells and -anemones, that David and Courtoise spent hours in gathering at the edge -of the forest on the St. Nazaire road. Upon these she smiled, and for -many days kept a bouquet of them at her side, carrying them often to her -lips. But after a little while she grew impatient of these simple -flowers, and began to plead for violets, which no one in the world could -find in Brittany before May. Courtoise brooded for two days over his -inability to supply her want, and every one condoled her. Indeed, her -own condition was not more pathetic than that of the Castle household in -their eagerness for her welfare and her happiness, and for the welfare -of that other precious soul that was in her keeping. Madame prayed night -and morning for the heir of Le Crépuscule. Laure sewed for him, talked -of him, dreamed of him, and bitterly envied Lenore. And now there was no -whisper in the Castle that was not understood to pertain to “the little -lord.” - -At last there came an April twilight when the glow of the sunset was -growing dim beneath the lowering veil of night. Lenore had passed an -unusually quiet day, and was now lying in her bed, quite still and -tranquil. That afternoon David had been admitted to her presence, and -had amused her with tales from the fairy-lore of Brittany, which she -dearly loved. Now he was gone, and Madame Eleanore sat in her room -beside the bed. The two had been silent for some time when Lenore’s eyes -opened, and she said softly,— - -“Madame, hast ever thought that there might be a daughter of Le -Crépuscule? That is what I believe.” - -“God forbid!” exclaimed Eleanore, involuntarily. Then, as Lenore turned -a white, half-resentful face toward her, madame went on hurriedly: -“There must be no more daughters of this house, Lenore. ’Tis what I -could scarcely bear,—to see another maiden grow up in this endless -twilight—” Her voice trailed off into silence, and then, for a long -time, the women were still together, thinking. - -A tear or two stole from Lenore’s eyes and meandered down her cheek to -the folds of her white gown; but her weeping was noiseless. The evening -darkened. A sweet, rich breath of spring blew softly in from off the -sea. Finally, one by one, the jewels of night began to gleam out from -the sky. Each woman, unknown to the other, was offering up a prayer. And -it was in the midst of this quiet scene that Lenore started suddenly up, -knowing that her agony had begun. - -No one in Le Crépuscule slept that night. Laure was called to help her -mother; and the three women were alone in the bedroom of dead Gerault. -The demoiselles, all dressed, had assembled in the spinning-room, and -clustered there in the torchlight, whispering nervously together, and -listening with strained ears for any sounds coming from Madame Lenore’s -bedchamber. In the hall below were a company of servants, women and men, -and a half-dozen henchmen, who quaffed occasional flagons of beer, but -spoke not a word through the hours. David and Alixe sat in a corner -playing at chess together; and a wondrous game it was, for neither knew -when the other was in check, nor paid attention to a queen in jeopardy. -Lastly, Courtoise was there, pacing up and down the hall, his hands -clenched behind him, and the beads of sweat rolling off his face. And -how many miles he walked that night, he never knew. - -The hours passed solemnly away, and there was no sign from the holy room -above. Time dragged by, slowly and yet more slowly, till the hours -became as years; and it seemed that ages had gone when finally the dawn -came creeping from beyond the distant hills, and a pale light glimmered -across the moving waters. By the time the torches were flaring high in -their mingling with the daybreak, there came, from above, the sound of a -door softly opening and then closing again. In the hall below, no one -breathed. Courtoise paused beside a table, and trembled and shook with -cold. Alixe, very pale and white, moved slowly toward the stairs. There -was a faint sound of rustling garments across the stones of the upper -hall, and then, descending step by step in the wavering light, came -Laure, great-eyed and deathly white, after the night’s terrible toil. -She came alone, carrying nothing in her arms; and on the fifth step from -the floor she stopped still, and looked down upon the motionless -company. Once she tried to speak, and her throat failed her. - -“Mademoiselle—in the name of God!” pleaded Courtoise, hoarsely. - -Laure trembled a little. “Good friends,” she said, “Madame Lenore is -safely delivered; and there is—a new daughter in Le Crépuscule.” - - - - -[Illustration] - - _CHAPTER FOURTEEN_ - ELEANORE - -[Illustration] - - -When Laure, her message given, started back upstairs again, Alixe was at -her side. At Lenore’s door they both stopped, till madame opened it. -Laure entered the room at once, but Eleanore shook her head at the -maiden, and bade her seek her rest. Then Alixe, disappointed, but too -weary for speech, followed the chattering demoiselles down the corridor -where were all their rooms, and, saying not a word to one of them, shut -herself into her own chamber. Once there, she disrobed with speed, but -when she had crept into her bed and pulled the coverings up above her, -she found that sleep was an impossibility. There was a dull weight at -her heart, which for the moment she could not analyze. It was as if some -great misfortune had befallen her. Yet Lenore lived—was remarkably well. -And the child—ah, the child! It was the first, almost, that Alixe had -thought of the child. A girl, another girl, in Le Crépuscule! a thing of -inaction, of resignation, of quiescence; the sport of Fate; the jest of -the age! Alas, alas! A girl! To grow up alone, here in this wilderness, -companionless, without hope of escape! Thus, dully, inarticulately, -every one in Le Crépuscule was meditating with Alixe, till at last, one -by one, they fell asleep, each in his late bed. - -The morning was far spent, and an April sun streamed brightly across her -coverlet, when Alixe finally awoke. Her sleep had done her good, and -there was no trace of melancholy in her air as she rose and made herself -ready for the day. She was healthfully hungry, but there was another -interest, greater than hunger, that had caused her so speedily to dress. -Hurrying out and down the hall, she stopped at the door to Lenore’s -room, and tapped there softly. - -Laure opened it at once, and smiled a good-morning to her. “Come thou -in,” she whispered. “Lenore would have thee see the child.” - -Alixe entered softly, and halted near the bed, transfixed by the sight -of Lenore. Never, even in the early days of her bridal, had Gerault’s -lady been so beautiful. The mysterious spell of her holy estate was on -her, was clearly visible in her brilliant eyes, in the rosy flush of her -cheeks, in the coiling, burning gold of her wondrous hair, in the -smiling, gentle languor of her manner. There was something newly born in -her, some still ecstasy, that had come to her together with the tiny -bundle at her side. - -“Come thou, Alixe, and look at her,” she said, in a weak voice, smiling -happily, and casting tender love-looks at the little thing. - -Alixe went over, and, with Laure’s aid, unwrapped enough of the small -creature for her to see its tiny, red face and feeble, fluttering hands. -As she gently touched one of the cheeks, the wide, blue, baby eyes -stared up at her, unwinking in their new wonder at the world; while -Lenore watched them, eagerly, hungrily. Neither she nor Alixe noticed -that Laure had moved off to a distance, and was staring dully out of a -window. When Alixe had stood for some moments over the baby, wondering -in her heart what to say to Lenore, the mother looked up at her with -those newly unfathomable eyes, and said softly,— - -“Put her into my arms, Alixe.” - -Alixe did so, laying the infant carefully across the mother’s breast. -Lenore’s arms closed around it, and her eyes fell shut while a smile of -unutterable peace lighted up her gentle face. - -Alixe knew that it was time for her to go, and, moved as she had never -been moved before in her young life, she started toward the door, -glancing as she went at Laure, who followed her. - -“How beautiful she is!” whispered Alixe, as they stood together on the -threshold. - -Laure nodded, but there was no sign of joy in her face. “Alas for them -both!” she said quietly. “There have been enough daughters in Le -Crépuscule.” - -To this Alixe could find no reply, and so, with a slight nod, she left -the room and went down to the morning meal. Madame Eleanore was not -there. After the strain of the past night, she had gone to her room a -little after sunrise, leaving Laure to care for the young mother. At -breakfast, then, Courtoise and Alixe sat nearest the head of the table, -but they did not talk together. In fact, no one said very much during -the course of the meal. Instead of the joyful gayety that might have -been expected, now that their dead lord’s lady was safely through her -trial, a dull gloom seemed to overhang everything, to weigh every one -down: Courtoise ate in silence, heavy-browed and brooding, his head bent -far over; David, in no humor for wit, scarcely spoke; even Alixe, whose -heart had been somewhat lightened by the sight of Lenore and her -happiness, presently succumbed to the atmosphere, and began to reflect -that the last hope of the Castle was gone, that the line of Crépuscule -had died forever. And neither she nor any one else paused to think that, -if the little Twilight baby asleep upstairs had understood the true -nature of her welcome into the world, she might readily have been -persuaded to escape again, as rapidly as possible, into her blue ether, -where pain and unwelcome were things unknown. - -When Alixe had eaten, she returned to the sick-room and, madame being -still asleep, insisted upon taking Laure’s place till the weary girl had -eaten and slept. Lenore had already taken some nourishment, and the baby -had been fed; and, while the noon sunshine poured a flood of gold over -the world, the mother and child drowsed happily together in their bed. - -Alixe, having set the room as much to rights as was possible, seated -herself by one of the open windows, and straightway began to dream. Her -thoughts were of her own life, of the new life that she should now soon -enter upon, and of what would befall her when she should really reach -the vast world that lay behind the barrier of eastern hills,—that world -that Laure had found, but could not stay in; that world from which -Lenore had come, and whither Gerault had betaken himself to die. Alixe -mused for a long time, and, in her untaught way, philosophized over the -sad stories of those in the Castle, and the prospect of a real history -that there might be for her when she should leave Le Crépuscule; and it -was in the midst of this reverie that the door from Laure’s room opened -softly, and madame came in. - -Near the threshold she paused, looking intently at the sleeping mother -and child, so that she did not at first perceive Alixe, who sat -motionless, transfixed by the change which, since yesterday, had come -upon madame. If there were gloom throughout the Castle, because of a -disappointment in the sex of Lenore’s child, that gloom was epitomized -in the face of Madame Eleanore. She was paler and older than Alixe had -ever seen her before. The white in her hair was more marked than the -dark. Every line in her face had deepened. Her eyes, tearless as they -were, seemed somehow faded, and her manner bespoke an unutterable -weariness. She looked haggard and old and worn. And yet, as she gazed at -the unconscious picture of youth and tender love, the joy of the world, -and the life of her race asleep there before her, her face softened, and -her mouth lost a little of its hardness. - -After some moments of this gazing, seeing that still she had not moved, -Alixe went to her. - -“Laure was weary, madame, and so I took her place while Lenore and the -baby slept,” she said. - -Eleanore nodded, and Alixe wondered uneasily if she should leave the -room. After a second or two, however, madame shook away her -preoccupation and turned to the girl. - -“Alixe,” she said, “none hath as yet been despatched for Monseigneur de -St. Nazaire; and I will not have Anselm baptize the child. Go thou and -tell Courtoise to ride and fetch the Bishop as soon as may be, to -perform one last ceremony for this house. Give him my good greeting. -Tell him Lenore is well—and the babe—a girl. Mon Dieu! a girl!—Haste -thee, Alixe. And thou needst not return. I will sit here while Lenore -sleeps.” - -Alixe bowed, but still stood hesitating, near the door, till madame -looked up at her impatiently. - -“When I have given Courtoise his message, let me bring thee food and -wine, madame. Thou’lt be ill, an thou eat not.” - -“Nay. Begone, Alixe! Bring nothing to me. Why should I eat? Why should I -eat, when after me there will be none of mine to eat in Crépuscule?” And -it was with a kind of groan that madame moved slowly across to the -bedside. When Alixe left the room she was still standing there, gazing -down upon Lenore, who, if awake, could hardly have borne the look with -which madame regarded her. - -An hour later, Courtoise was on his way to St. Nazaire; but he did not -return with Monseigneur till evensong of the next day. Arrived at the -Castle, the Bishop was given chance for food and rest after his ride, -before he was summoned to Lenore’s room, where madame received him. From -Courtoise, on their way, St. Nazaire had learned of the disappointment -of the Castle; so that he was prepared for what he found. He read -Eleanore’s mind from her face, and was not surprised at it, but from his -own manner no one could have told that he felt anything but the utmost -delight with the whole affair. He was full of congratulations and -felicitations of every kind; he was witty, he was gay, he was more -talkative than any one had ever seen him before; and he took the baby -and handled it, cried to it, cooed to it, with the air of an experienced -old beldame. Lenore, still radiant with her happiness of motherhood, -brightened yet more under the cheer of his presence; and in her -unexpected joy the Bishop found some consolation for the cloud of misery -that shrouded madame. Indeed, he watched Lenore with unaffected delight, -seeing with amazement the miracle that had been worked in her, and -knowing her now for the first time as what she had been before her -marriage, when there was, in her nature, none of the melancholy, the -morbidness, the pain of loneliness, that had for so long clouded her -life. - -Lenore was not strong enough to endure even his cheerful presence very -long; and when Laure presently stole in, he seized the opportunity that -he had been waiting for, and, on some light excuse, drew madame with him -out of the room. - -The moment that they were alone together, his gay manner dropped from -him like a cloak, and he looked upon the woman before him with piercing -eyes. - -“Eleanore,” he said severely, “it were well an thou came with me for a -little time before God. There is written on thy face the tale of that -old-time inward rebellion that hath been so long asleep that I had hoped -it dead.” - -Madame looked at him with something of defiance, displeasure very -plainly to be read in her brilliant eyes. “My lord,” she said coldly, -“thou’rt wearied with thy ride. It were well an thou soughtest rest.” - -“I have already rested. Where wouldst thou rather be,—in thine own room, -or in the chapel?” - -“Charles!” madame spoke with angry impetuosity. “Think you I am to be -treated as a child?” - -“There are times when all of us are children, Eleanore,—times when we -need the Father-hand, the Father-guidance. I would not be harsh with -thee were there another way; nevertheless, thou must do my bidding.” - -She led him in silence to her own room, and they entered it together, -St. Nazaire closing the door behind him. Madame seated herself at once -in a broad chair near a window, and the Bishop paced up and down before -her. The room was warm, for the night air was soft, and a half-dead fire -gleamed upon the stone hearth. A torch upon the wall had been lighted, -and two candles burned on the table near by. By this light St. Nazaire -could watch Eleanore’s face as he walked. It was some moments before he -spoke, and when he began, his voice had changed again, and was as gentle -as a woman’s,— - -“This birth of a girl child hath been a grievous disappointment to thee, -dear friend?” - -Eleanore replied only by a look; but what words could have expressed -half so much? - -“Art thou angry with me, Eleanore! Am I to blame for it? Is there fault -in any one for what is come? Sex is no matter of choice with the world. -Were it so, methinks thou hadst not now been grieving.” - -“Thou sayest truly, it is no matter of choice with the world. But hast -not ever taught that there is One who may choose always as He will? -There is a fault, and it is the fault of God! God of God, Charles, have -I not had enough to bear? Could I not, now that the end cannot be far -away, have known a little content in mine old age? What hath there been -for me, these thirty years, save sorrow? With the death of Gerault, I -believed that the world held no further woe for me; but in the following -months hope, which I had thought forever gone, came on me again, combat -its coming as I would. Yet the thought that an heir might be born to -Crépuscule, the thought that the line might yet be carried on to -something better than this eternal sadness, came to be so strong with me -that I gave way, fool that I was, to joy. And now, by the merciless -wrath of God, Fate makes sport of me again. God alone would have been so -pitiless. And am I, a mortal, to forgive the Almighty for all the woes -that He recklessly putteth on me?” - -In this speech Eleanore’s low voice had risen above its usual pitch, and -rang out in tones of deep-seated, passionate anger. St. Nazaire paused -in his walk to look at her as she spoke; and never had he felt himself -in a more difficult position. Sincere as was his belief, there were, -indeed, things in the divine order that his creed could not explain -away. He dreaded to take the only orthodox stand,—resignation and -continued praise of the Lord, for in Eleanore’s present state of mind -this would be worse than mockery; and yet in this he was obliged at -length to take his refuge. - -“Eleanore, when Laure, the infant, was first put into thy arms, wast -thou grieved that she was not a man child?” - -“I had Gerault—” - -“Hast thou not loved Laure and cared for her throughout thy life because -she was thy child, flesh of thy flesh, blood of thy blood, conceived of -great love, and born of suffering?” - -“Yea, verily.” - -“And, despite her months of grievous wandering from thy sight, still -hath she not given thee all the joy that Gerault gave?” - -“More, methinks; in that she hath ever been more mine own.” - -“Then, Eleanore,” and there was joy in the man’s tone, “take this child -of thy son to thy heart and love her. Let her young innocence bring thee -peace. Hold her close to thy life, and give and receive comfort through -thy love. Seek not woe because she is not what she cannot be. Assume not -a knowledge greater than that of God. Trouble not thyself about the -future; but, rather, take what is given thee, and know that it is good. -Shall not a young voice cause these walls to echo again to the sound of -laughter? Will not a child bring light into thy life? Why shouldst thou -grieve because, in the years after thy death, Le Crépuscule may fall -into other hands than those of thy race? Thinkest thou thou wilt be here -to see it? For shame, Eleanore! Forget thy bitterness, and find the joy -that Gerault’s widow already knows!” - -Though she would not have acknowledged it, Eleanore was influenced by -the Bishop’s words; and the change in her was already visible in her -face. Judging wisely, then, St. Nazaire let his plea rest where it was, -and blessing her, said good-night and left her to sleep or to pray—he -could not tell which. And in truth Eleanore slept; but in her sleep, -love and pity entered into her heart. She woke in the early dawn, and, -hardly thinking what she did, stole into Lenore’s room, creeping softly -to the bed where the sleeping mother and infant lay. At sight of them a -wave of feeling overswept her. She knew again the crowning joy of -woman’s life: she felt again the glory of youth; and when she returned -to her solitude, it was to weep away the greater part of her bitterness, -and to take into her inmost heart the helpless baby of Gerault. - -On the following morning, in the presence of an imposing company, the -Lord Bishop officiating, the little girl was baptized. Laure and -Courtoise were the godparents; Laure feeling that, in being trusted with -this holy office, she stood once more honorably in the eyes of the -world. According to her mother’s wish, the babe was christened Lenore, -and Alixe guessed wrong when she thought the little one called after -another of that name. When the ceremony was over, and the baptismal -feast lay ready spread, madame took the child into her arms to carry it -back to the mother; and St. Nazaire, seeing the kiss that she pressed -upon the tiny cheek, realized that the cause was won. - -Madame Eleanore’s lead was quickly followed by every one in the Castle; -and the disappointment at the baby’s sex wore away so rapidly that in a -month probably no one would have admitted that there had ever been any -chagrin at all. Perhaps no royal heir had ever known more abject homage -than was paid to that wee, bright-eyed, grave-faced, helpless creature, -who was perfectly contented only when she lay in her mother’s arms. - -Lenore regained her strength slowly. Her long winter of idleness and -grieving had ill-fitted her to bear the strain of what she had endured; -and it was many weeks before she tried to leave her room. Thus, bit by -bit, the whole life of the Castle came to gravitate around her chamber. -It was like a court of which the young mother was queen, and where at -certain hours of the day, all the women-folk of Crépuscule were wont to -congregate. It was on an afternoon in the middle of May, when summer -first hovered over the land, that Lenore was dressed for the first time. -She sat in a semi-reclining position by the window, whence she could -look off upon the sea, the baby at her side, and Alixe the only other -person in the room. For nearly an hour Lenore had been silent, one hand -gently caressing the baby’s little cheek, her big eyes wandering along -the far horizon line. Alixe was bent over a parchment manuscript, which -Anselm had taught her how to read, and she scarcely raised her eyes from -it to look at anything in the room. Her passage had become complicated, -and, at the same time, interesting, when Lenore’s voice suddenly broke -in upon her,— - -“Alixe, ’tis long time now since I saw Courtoise. Thinkest thou he is -near and would come and talk to me?” - -Alixe let her poetry go, and jumped hastily up. “I will seek him. An he -be about the Castle, he will surely come.” - -Lenore smiled with pleasure. “Thank thee, maiden. Let him come now, at -once.” - -Alixe, hugging Courtoise’s secret to her heart, hurriedly left the room, -and ran downstairs, straight upon Courtoise, who stood in the hall -below. He was booted and spurred, and his horse waited for him in the -doorway. Making a hasty apology to Alixe, he was going on, when she -cried to him: “Courtoise, stay! Madame Lenore seeks thy presence. She -would have thee go to her and talk with her for an hour this afternoon. -Shall I tell her thou’rt ridden hawking?” - -“Holy Mary! Say that—say that I come instantly. She hath asked for me? -Hurry, Alixe! Say that I come at once!” - -Courtoise retreated to his room, trembling like a girl. He had forgotten -his horse, which Alixe considerately caused to be taken back to the -stable, and while he removed his spurs and fussily rearranged his dress -and hair, he tried in vain to recover his equanimity. Then, when he -could no longer torture himself with delay, he hurried away to the door -of her room and there paused again, remembering how many times since her -illness he had stood there, both by night and by day, listening, not -always vainly, for the sound of her voice, or for the little wailing cry -of the hungry babe. And now—now he was to enter that sacred room, holier -to him than any consecrated church of God. Now he was to look at her, to -touch her hand, to feast his eyes upon her exquisite face. He drew a -long breath and was about to tap on the door, when it suddenly opened, -and Alixe, finding herself face to face with him, gave a little -exclamation,— - -“Holy saints! I was just coming to seek thee again. Hadst forgotten that -madame waits for thee? There—go in!” - -Courtoise never noticed the mischief of Alixe’s tone, but went straight -into the room, and saw Lenore sitting by the window with the baby on her -lap. She turned toward him, smiling, and holding out her hand. He went -over, looking at her thirstily, but not so that she could read what was -in his heart. Then he realized vaguely that Alixe had left the room, and -that he was alone with Lenore. - -“’Tis very long, Courtoise, very long, since we have seen each other. -Why hast thou not come ere now?” - -“Madame! Had I but thought thou’dst have had me! Thrice every day during -thy illness came I to thy door to ask after thee and the babe; and since -then—often—I have stood and listened, to hear if thou wast speaking here -within. But I did not know—” - -“Enough, Courtoise! I thank thee. Thou’rt very good. Thou knowest -thou’rt all that I have left of Gerault, and I would fain have thee -oftener near me. Wilt take the babe? Little one! She feels the strength -of a man’s arms but seldom. Sit there yonder with her. So!” - -She put the tiny bundle into his strong arms, and laughed to see the -half-terrified air with which the young fellow bore it over to the -settle which she indicated. But when he had sat down, he laid the baby -on his knees, and then, retaining careful hold of it, turned his whole -look upon Lenore. - -She smiled at him, supremely unconscious of the electric thrills that -were making the man’s whole body quiver and tremble with emotion. -Indeed, it would have been difficult enough to read his feeling in his -matter-of-fact manner. For a long time they sat there, talking upon many -subjects, but most of all about Gerault, whose name had scarcely crossed -Lenore’s lips since the time of his death. To Courtoise it was an acute -pain to hear her refer to the various incidents of her courtship in -Rennes; but back of her words there was no suggestion of either grief or -bitterness. She recalled her first acquaintance with Gerault fully, -incident by incident, and caused Courtoise to take an unwilling part in -the reminiscences. He hoped continually to get her away from the -subject, to matters now nearer both of them; but time sped on, and, as -the sun began to near the sea, the baby woke from sleep with a little -cry that Courtoise recognized with a pang. His hour was over; and he had -gained little hope from it. Yet, as he returned the baby to its mother’s -arms, there was a smile for him in Lenore’s calm eyes, and he retreated -with a beating heart as Madame Eleanore and Laure came together into the -room, to spend their usual evening hour with the mother and child. - -This hour of the day, the twilight time, the time of yearning for things -long gone, had of late weeks been drawing these three women of the -Twilight Castle very close together. Laure, Lenore, and Eleanore, these -three, with Alixe ofttimes a shadow in the background, were accustomed -to sit together, watching the sunset die over the great waters, and -waiting for the appearance of the evening star upon the fading glow. And -in this time of silent companionship each felt within her a new growth, -a new, half-sorrowful love for the life in this lonely habitation. The -spell of solitude was weaving about them a slow, strong bond, which in -after years none of the three felt any wish to break. Many -dream-shadows, the ghosts of forgotten lives, rose up for each out of -the darkening waste of the sea; and with these spirits of memory or -imagination, each one was making a life as real and as strong as the -lives of those that dwelt out in the great world, for which, at one time -or another, all of them had so deeply yearned. Each felt, in her heart, -that her active life was over; and, as time passed, and thoughts began -adequately to take the place of realities, none of them cared to keep -alive the sharp stings of bitterness or of unavailing regret. They knew -themselves dead to the great, outer life that each, in her way, had -known. Nor did they mourn themselves. What fire of life remained with -them had been transformed into secret dreams and ambitions for the -future of that little creature swathed so carefully from the world, now -lying peacefully asleep upon the mother-breast of Gerault’s widow. - - - - -[Illustration] - - _CHAPTER FIFTEEN_ - THE RISING TIDE - -[Illustration] - - -Summer was on the world again, and with its coming, melancholy was -banished for a season from Le Crépuscule. With the first northward -flight of storks, a new air, a breath of hidden life and gayety, crept -into the Castle household, and, in the early days of June, broke forth -in a riot of pleasures,—caroles, garland-weaving parties, and hunting. -As in former times, Laure was now the moving spirit in every sport, and, -to the general amazement, madame, who in her younger days had been -celebrated at the chase, herself headed one of the rabbit-hunts,—in that -day a favorite pastime with women. - -The country around Le Crépuscule was as beautiful in summer as it was -desolate in winter; for the moorlands were one gay tangle of -many-colored wild-flowers. The cultivated land around the peasants’ -homes was thick with various crops, and the cool, green depths of the -forest hid beauties surpassing all those of the open country. The -stables of Le Crépuscule were well supplied with horses, for the family, -both women and men, had always been persistent riders. In these June -days the women-folk, Madame and Laure and the demoiselles, rode early -and late, deserting wheel, loom, and tambour frame to revel in a -much-needed rest and change of occupation. Only Lenore refused to take -part in the sports, finding pleasure enough at home with the child, who -was growing to be a fine lusty infant, with a smile as ready as if she -had been born in Rennes. And the mother and child were happy enough to -sit all day in the flower-strewn meadow, between the north wall and the -dry moat, playing together with bright posies, watching the movements of -the birds in the open falconry, and sometimes taking part in quieter -revels with the others. Ere June was gone, the demoiselles were scarcely -to be recognized for the pale, heavy-eyed, pallid things that had been -wont to assemble in the great hall after supper on winter evenings to -listen to the stories told round the fire. Now their laughter was ever -ready, their feet light for the dance, their cheeks brown, and their -eyes bright with the continual riot in sunlight and sea-winds. Winter -lay behind, like the shadow of an ugly dream, and now, of a sudden, -God’s world, and with it Le Crépuscule, became beautiful for man. - -In the first week of July, however, the period of gayety was checked by -the loss of four members of the household. Two of the demoiselles of -noble family, whom madame had taken to train as gentlewomen of rank, -Berthe de Montfort and Isabelle de Joinville, had now been in Le -Crépuscule the customary time for the acquirement of etiquette and the -arts of needlework, and escorts arrived from their homes to convoy them -away. After their departure, the squires Louis of Florence and Robert -Meloc resigned their places and rode out into the world, to seek a life -of action. - -There were now left in Le Crépuscule the demoiselles whom Lenore had -brought with her from Rennes a year ago, and two others who had come to -madame many years ago, and who must perforce stay on, having no other -home than this, living as they did upon madame’s bounty. And there were -also two young squires, who had sworn fealty to madame, but hoped some -day to ride to Rennes and win their spurs in the lists of their Lord -Duke. For the present they were content to remain out on the lonely -coast, where Courtoise taught them the articles of knighthood, and where -twenty stout henchmen could look up to them as superiors. These, with -David le petit, Anselm the steward, Alixe, Courtoise, and a young -peasant woman, who had come to foster the infant of Madame Lenore, -comprised the attendants of the three ladies of Crépuscule. It was a -well-knit little company, and one so accustomed to the quiet life, that -none of them save only one desired better things. - -Of the mood of Alixe during these summer months, much might be said. -Throughout the spring she had been in a state of hot desire for what was -not in Le Crépuscule. She was filled with unrest; but her plans were too -vague, too indefinite, for immediate action. Strong as was the will that -would have carried her through any difficulty that lay not in the -condition of her heart, she was still, after nearly six months of -dreaming and debating, in Le Crépuscule. Still she labored through the -long, dull mornings; and still, through the afternoons, she drifted -about through moving seas of doubt and yearning. She longed for the -world, but she could not give up Le Crépuscule, and those whom it held. -Here was her problem,—which way to turn. She felt that another such -winter as she had just passed would drive her senses from her; but she -knew that anywhere outside Le Crépuscule the visions of three faces, the -fair, sad faces of her ladies, would haunt her by day and by night till -she should return to them at last. She carried her struggle always with -her, and at length it drove her to seek an old-time solitude. She began -to spend her afternoons in a cave in the great cliff north of that on -which the Castle stood. This cave had been formed by the action of the -water, and it stretched in cavernous darkness far into the wall of -rock,—much farther than Alixe had ever dared to go. Near the entrance, -four or five feet above the tide-washed floor, was a little ledge where -she was accustomed to sit till the rising water drove her to the upper -shore. Tides, in Brittany, are proverbially high; and at full tide the -top of the cave’s opening was scarcely visible above the water; so it -behooved Alixe to restrain herself from sleep while she lay therein, -meditating on her other life. - -On the 19th of July the tide was at low ebb at half-past two in the -afternoon; and at three o’clock Alixe entered the cave, and climbed, -dry-shod, up to her ledge of rock. Here, as she knew, she was safe for -two hours, if she chose to stay so long. - -The interior of this cave was by no means an uninteresting place, though -Alixe had never yet explored it beyond the space of twenty feet, where -it was bright with the daylight that poured in through its jagged -entrance. After that it wound a darker way into the cliff, and the far -recesses were lost in utter blackness. A spoken word directed toward the -inner passage-way would reverberate along that mysterious interior till -one could not but be a little awed at the vast extent of the lost -passage. The visible floor of the cavern was a thing of interest and -beauty, for at low tide it was like a little park, where pools of clear -sea-water alternated with groves of filmy plants, small ridges of -pebbles and rocks, and patches of delicately ribbed sand, where every -species of shell-fish dwelt. At times Alixe spent hours in studying -sea-life in these places; and certainly, on hot summer afternoons, no -pleasanter occupation could have been found. Probably others than Alixe -would have taken to it, were it not for the fact that the cave was the -scene of one of the weirdest legends of the coast, and was held in -avoidance as much by Castle folk as by the peasantry. Alixe, however, -had long been held to possess some uncanny power over the people of the -supernatural world, for she would venture fearlessly into the most -unholy spots, emerging unharmed and undisturbed; nor could any one ever -learn from her whether or not she had actually held intercourse with the -creatures whom they devoutly believed in, and so devoutly dreaded. - -To-day, certainly, there was no suggestion of the uncanny about her as -she lay upon her ledge of rock, looking off upon the sparkling waters -that danced up to the very edge of her retreat. With one hand she shaded -her eyes from the golden glare, and her head was pillowed on her other -arm. Her usually smooth brow was puckered into a frown for which the sun -was not responsible; nor yet was Alixe’s mind upon any subject that -might be supposed to anger or distress her. For the moment she had -dropped her inward debate, and was lazily watching the sea. The warmth -of the afternoon had made her drowsy, and now the shadowy coolness of -the cave soothed her till her vivid mental images had become a little -blurred, and the sparkle of the water and its crispy rustle, as it -advanced and retreated over the sand outside, was luring her mind into -the faery wastes of dreamland. She wondered a little whether she were -awake or asleep; but, in point of fact, her eyes were not actually shut, -when a slender figure came round a corner of the entrance, and slipped -lightly into the cave. - -Alixe started, and sat up straight, while a high tenor voice cried out: -“Ho, Mistress Alixe, ’tis thou, then? Is’t I that discover thee in thy -retreat, or thou that hast invaded mine?” - -“Ohé, David, thou’st startled me! Meseemeth I all but slept.” - -“’Tis a day for sleep, but this is not the place. Is there room there on -the ledge? Wilt let me up? ’Tis wet enough, below here.” - -“Yea; thy feet slop i’ the sand, and thou’st frightened two crabs. Canst -climb hither?” - -He laughed merrily, and scrambled up beside her, his light body seeming -but a feather in weight. She made room beside her, and he sat down -there, cocking one parti-colored knee upon the other, and beginning -lightly: “Thus bravely, then, thou comest into the cave of the water -goblin. Art thou, perchance, courted here by some sly water sprite?” - -The maiden, responding to his mood, laughed also. “Not unless thou’lt -play the sprite, Master David. Say—wilt court me?” - -“Nay, sister. Thou and I, and all i’ the Castle up above, know each -other in a way that admits no love-foolery. Heigho!” The little man’s -tone had changed to one of whimsical earnestness. Alixe made no -immediate reply to his speech, and so, to entertain himself, he took -from his open bag two pebbles, and began to toss them lightly into the -air, one after the other. - -For a few seconds Alixe watched him absently. Then she said: “Those -pebbles, David, are like thee and me. Watch now which will be the first -to fall from thy hand. Thou’rt the mottled; I the gray.” - -“And I, damsel,” said he, as he began to handle them a little less -carelessly, “I, who sit here forever, for my amusement tossing into the -air two light souls, catching them when they come back to me, and -flinging them again away—who am I, I ask?” - -“Thou, David?” Alixe’s face took on a little, bitter smile. “Why, thou -art that inexorable thing that men call God. Wilt never drop thy stones -from their wearisome sphere, Almighty One?” - -“They will not fall. They return to me evermore,” he answered; and, -after another toss or two, he let them both remain in his hand while he -looked at them for a moment. After that he put them back into his bag -again, with a curious smile. “That, then, is our end,” he remarked, at -last. - -“_Is_ it our end? David, David! Shall I not leave Le Crépuscule, to fare -forth into the world? I dream, and dream, and vow unto myself that I -shall surely go; and then—I still remain.” - -“Ay. There are things that keep thee here—and me too. There is the baby, -now, and its angel-faced mother. And then madame—how is one to leave -her, when she is a little more alive than formerly? I, too, Alixe, have -dreamed dreams. The fever of my boyhood, with its wanderings, its life, -its continual change, comes upon me strong sometimes. Here, in this -place, my wit lies buried, my soul grows gray within me, my eyes have -forgot the look of the world’s bright colors. And yet I stay on—I stay -on forever.” - -“How if we two went out together, David, thou and I? Think you the world -might hold a place for us? I would be a good comrade, I promise thee. I -would march stoutly at thy side, nor complain when weariness overcame -me. We should not have always to beg for food, for I have a little bag—” - -“See, Alixe, look! There below, on the sand, by that sharp-pointed -stone,—there is a gray-white crab. He must be hurt. See how he fumbles -and struggles, without avail, to reach the little pool ten inches from -him. Watch him; he makes no progress. Now that were thou and I, thrown -upon the world. Oh, this place is full of omens! I have found them here -before. ’Tis the witchery of the cave.” - -Alixe failed to smile. This last augury, though it confirmed the one -that she herself had made, did not please her. She sat silent on the -ledge, her feet hanging, her elbows on her knees, her head on her hand, -watching intently all the little dramas taking place below her among the -sea-creatures. Nor was David in a mood to make conversation. So the two -of them sat silent for a long time—how long a time neither of them knew. -The water was growing more brightly golden under the beams of the -fast-descending sun, and Alixe noted the fact, but held her peace. It -was David who, after a little while, suddenly exclaimed,— - -“Diable, Alixe! See how the tide hath risen! We shall be wet enough -getting out and back to the upper cliff. Come quickly!” As he spoke, he -slid from the ledge, landing in water that was up to his ankles. -“Quickly, Alixe! I will steady thee. Come, thou’lt but be the wetter if -thou stayest.” - -Alixe sat motionless upon the ledge above, and looked calmly down upon -the dwarf. - -“Reflect, David, how easy it were not to wet my ankles thus. How easy -’twould be just to sit here—until the stone should drop for the last -time into the hand of God.” - -David stood looking up at her, wide-eyed. The idea was slow to pierce -his brain. “Why, yes,” said he, “’twere easy enow, easy enow. Yet when I -go, ’t must be from mine own room, and by a clean dagger-stroke. I care -not to choke myself to death in a goblin’s cave. Come, Alixe, the water -riseth.” - -“Go thou on, David. I can come down when I will; for I have traversed -the way often.” - -“Come down!” - -“Nay, David.” - -“Come down.” - -“Nay.” - -The water was deeper by four inches than it had been when he first -reached the bottom of the cave. The dwarf looked up at the girl, who sat -smiling at him, and his face reddened slightly. Then, without more ado, -he climbed back upon the ledge, and sat down beside Alixe, hanging his -dripping feet toward the water, which now covered the tallest of the -stones on the floor of the cave. - -“David, thou must go. Climb down, and save thyself quickly. Thy slender -body cannot much longer breast the tide.” - -David crossed his knees and clasped his hands around them. “If thou -stayest, I also will remain.” - -“I beg of thee, go, ere it is too late!” - -“Not without thee.” - -“In the name of God I ask it.” - -“We two were together in God’s hand.” - -“Then so be it, David. Sit thou here beside me. We will wait together.” - -The little man did not reply to her this time, and Alixe felt no more -need for speech. They sat there, occupied with their own thoughts, both -watching, under the spell of a peculiar fascination, how the green water -was mounting, mounting toward them. The cave was filled with blinding -light from the setting sun. The roar of the ocean, a voice mighty and -ineffable, filled all their consciousness. White-crested breakers rolled -in and broke below them, and their faces were wet with chill salt spray. -The water in the cave was waist-deep. - -Alixe was growing cold. A deadly intoxication stole upon her senses, and -she bent far over the ledge to look into the swirling, foamy green below -her. - -“By the Almighty God, His creation is wondrous! This is a scene worthy -of the end!” cried David, suddenly, in a hoarse, emotional tone. - -Alixe started violently. The sound of a human voice, breaking in upon -the universal murmur of the infinite waters, sent a sudden stab to her -heart. In a quick flash, she beheld Lenore’s baby holding out its feeble -hands to her. Near it stood Laure, the penitent; and, on the other hand, -madame, with her great, grave, sorrowful eyes fixed full upon herself, -Alixe. - -“David!” cried the girl, suddenly, wildly, above the roar of the tide: -“David! We must escape!—Quickly! Quickly! Quickly!” - -As she spoke, she left the ledge, to find herself swaying almost -shoulder deep in the fierce, swelling water. “Come!” she cried, her face -livid with her new-born terror. - -For an instant, David looked down upon her with something resembling a -smile. Then he followed her, and would have been carried off his feet in -the water, had not Alixe steadied him with one hand, while, with the -other, she clung to the rock above her head. The sudden chill woke -David’s senses, and he said sharply: “We must hurry, Alixe! There is no -time to lose.” - -[Illustration: - - _Hand in hand, by the murmurous - sea, they walked.—Page 427_ -] - -Then the two of them began their work of getting out of the cave. David, -with his small, lithe body clad in tight-fitting hosen and jerkin, -started to swim lightly through the water, diving headforemost into the -beating breakers, and rounding toward the shore with rather a sense of -pleasurable skill than anything else. But with Alixe, the case was -different. Her long skirts were soaked with water, and clung -disastrously about her feet. The idea of her swimming was vain; and she -grimly gave thanks for her height. But she found that the matter of -walking had its dangers too. The bottom of the cave and the outer -stretch that lay between her and safety was very uneven. She stumbled -over rocks and sank into sudden hollows, continually hampered by her -clinging skirts. Presently she fell, and a great breaker came tumbling -over her. In it she lost her self-control, and was presently rolling -helpless in the tide, gasping in sea-water with every terrified breath, -and unable to get her limbs free from their binding, clinging robe. -Alixe was very near death in earnest, now, and she knew it. Presently, -where a sweeping wave left her head for a moment above water, she sent -one hoarse, guttural shriek toward David, who had regained the land; and -he turned, horrified, to look at her. She heard his cry of amazement and -distress, and then she was rolled upon her face, and knew nothing more -till she found herself lying on the sand, with David bending over her, -whiter than death, and trembling like a woman. - -She was dizzy and weak and sick, and her lungs ached furiously; yet with -it all, she saw David’s distress, and managed to keep herself conscious -by staring at him fixedly. - -“Up, Alixe! Up!” he muttered. “Thou _must_ get up to the Castle. I -cannot carry thee there, and here thou’lt perish. Up, I say! Here, hold -to my belt. See, the water is upon us again.” - -With an effort that seemed to her to be superhuman, Alixe struggled to -her feet. He held her dripping skirts away from her, so that she could -walk as little hampered as possible; and though she staggered and reeled -at every step, they still made progress, and were halfway up the cliff -before she collapsed again, utterly exhausted. Happily, at that moment, -David spied the figure of Laure at the top of the cliff, and he cried to -her with all the strength that was left him to come down. In a moment -she was beside them, staring in silent astonishment at their plight. - -“The demoiselle Alixe had a fancy for bathing. She hath bathed,” -observed David. - -Alixe did not speak. But suddenly her eyes met Laure’s, and she burst -into hysterical laughter. Laure, being a woman, realized that she was -strained to the point of collapse. So she bade David go on before them -and take all precautions to recover from his bath; and then, as soon as -Alixe signified her ability to go on again, Laure put one of her strong, -young arms about the dripping body, and, sustaining more than half her -weight, succeeded in getting her to the Castle. Alixe demurred faintly -about going in, for she dreaded questions. But it was that hour of the -day when the open rooms of the Castle were deserted, when all the world -was asleep or at play, and, as the two crossed the courtyard and went -through the lower hall, they met no one but a pair of henchmen who were -too respectful of Laure to voice their curiosity. As the young women -went through the upper hall, on their way to Alixe’s room, there came, -from behind Lenore’s closed door, the gurgling crow of the baby. At this -sound Alixe shuddered, and through her heart shot a pang of horrified -remorse at the crime she had so nearly committed. - -A few moments later the exhausted girl lay in her bed, wrapped round -with blankets, her dripping garments stripped away, and her body glowing -again with the warmth of vigorous friction, while her wet hair was -fastened high on her head, away from her face. When Laure had removed, -as far as possible, every evidence of the escapade, she bent for a -moment over the pillow of her foster-sister, and then stole quietly -away. Alixe made no sign at her departure. She lay back in the bed, her -eyes closed, her face set like marble, her mind wandering vaguely over -the events of the afternoon. Gradually her world grew full of misty, -creeping shadows, and she was on the borderland of sleep, when some one -again bent over her, and the fragrant breath of hot wine came to her -nostrils. With an effort she shook her eyes open, to find Laure’s kindly -face above her, and Laure’s hand holding out to her a silver cup. - -“Drink, Alixe. ’Twill give thee strength.” - -Obediently, Alixe drank; and the posset sent a new glow of warmth -through her body. - -“Now, if thou canst, thou must sleep.” - -Alixe sent a thoughtful glance into her companion’s eyes, and there was -something in her look that caused Laure to take both of the trembling -hands in her own, and to wait for Alixe to speak. - -“Nay, Laure, nay; I cannot sleep till I have told thee. Some one I must -tell,—some one that will understand. Let me confess to thee.” - -Laure seated herself on the edge of the bed, Alixe still retaining her -hands. And Laure’s sad eyes looked down upon the drawn face of her -foster-sister, while she spoke. “Alixe,” she said softly, “methinks I -know thy confession. Thou hast tried to leave Le Crépuscule. Is it not -so?” - -Alixe’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. “It is so. I tried—to leave Le -Crépuscule.” The last she only whispered, faintly. - -“But it drew thee back again? The Castle would not loose its hold on -thee? Even so was it with me. Methought I hated it, Alixe, with its -loneliness and its shadows and its vast silences. Yet however far away I -was, I found it always before my eyes, or hidden in my thoughts. Through -my hours of highest happiness I yearned for it; and it drew me back to -it at last.” - -“It is true! It is true! I know thou speakest truth.” - -“And thou wilt not try again to go away, my sister?” - -“Not again; oh, not again! I could see you all, you and madame and -Madame Lenore, and your eyes called me back. It is my home, is’t not? I -have a place here, have I not? Ah, Laure, thou’st been so good to me! -Shall we not, thou and I, go back again into our childhood, and dream of -naught better than dwelling here forever in this place? Both of us have -sinned. And now we are come home into the shadow of the Castle of -Twilight, for forgiveness’ sake.” - - - - -[Illustration] - - _CHAPTER SIXTEEN_ - THE MIDDLE OF THE VALLEY - -[Illustration] - - -Alixe had faith enough in David to believe that he would keep silent -about the affair of that afternoon, and her confidence was not -misplaced. No one save Laure knew of the caprice and the projected sin -that had led them into their dangerous plight. And to the dwarf’s credit -be it said that he never attached any blame to Alixe for their -adventure. Indeed, thereafter, his manner toward her was marked by -unusual consideration, a little veiled interest and sympathy, sprung -from a knowledge that their habits of mind had led them both in the same -ways of thought and desire. During the remainder of the summer, however, -neither of them ventured again into the Goblin’s Cave; and, from Alixe’s -mind at least, every thought, every desire, to leave the Castle, had -been washed away. Her dreams of another life were dead. And, as the -golden days slipped by, the thought that Le Crépuscule must be her home -forever, came to have no bitterness in it; for she had learned in a -strange way how Le Crépuscule was rooted into her heart, and how -impossible it would be that she should leave it till the great -Inevitable should bid her say farewell. - -Indeed, the Castle had set its seal upon every one of its inmates. The -little household had acquired the peculiar characteristics that -generally grow up in a secluded community. Every dweller in the Twilight -Land was unconsciously possessed of the same quiet manner, the same air -of tranquil repose, the same habit of abstracted thought. And these -things had stolen upon them so unawares that none was conscious of it in -any other, and least of all in herself. It was a singularly beautiful -atmosphere in which to bring up a little being fresh to the world. In -this place a new soul might have dwelt forever untainted by any mark of -worldliness, of passion, or of sin; for these things were foreign to the -whole place. No one in the Castle but had, at some time, been through -the depths of human experience, been swayed by the most powerful -emotions, and known the passion that is inherent in every mortal. But -from these things the Twilight folk had been purified by long stretches -of vain longing, vain struggles in the midst of solitude, and that -continued repression that alone can eradicate mortal tendencies toward -sin. And now the women of this Castle had reached, in their progress, -the neutral vale of tranquillity that lies between the gorgeous meadows -of delight and the grim crags of grief and disappointment. - -There was no one in the Castle that did not at times reflect upon these -things; but of them all, Eleanore saw most clearly whence they had all -come, and where they now were. Whither they might be going—ah, that! -that, who should say? But she could see and understand the quiet -happiness that Lenore had reached through her child; and the increasing -contentment, that was more than resignation, in Laure. And if she was -ignorant of the route by which Courtoise, Alixe, and David had come into -the kingdom of tranquillity, at least she knew that all had reached it, -and was glad that it was so. To St. Nazaire, who was now her only -connection with the outer world, she talked of all these things, and -found in him not quite the spirit of her Castle, but yet a great -understanding of human and spiritual matters. - -Summer wove out its web over the Castle by the sea, and at length its -golden heat began to give way before the attacks of chilly nights and -shortening days. The earth grew rich and red with autumn. Chestnut fires -began to blaze upon peasants’ hearths, and the early morning air had in -it that little sting that brings the blood to the cheek and fire to the -eye. It was still too early for flights of storks toward the Nile, and -the year, hovering on the edge of dissolution, was at the zenith of its -glory. It was the time when the smoke from the forest fires lingers -pungently over the land for days on end, like incense proffered to the -beauty of Mother Earth. It was the time when the sun rises and sets in a -veil of mist that transcends the splendor of its golden gleams, till, -before the incomparable richness and purity of its glory, the human -spectator can only stand back, aghast and trembling with awe. In fine, -it was that time when, Nature having reached the full measure of her -maturity, she was turning to look back upon her youth, in retrospect of -all the loveliness that had been hers, before she should start toward -the darker, colder, grayer regions that lay about her coming grave. - -It was late in the afternoon of such an autumn day that the three women -of Le Crépuscule, Laure, Lenore, and Eleanore, each lightly wrapped -about to protect her from the slight chill in the air, went out of the -Castle to the terrace bordering the cliff, for their evening walk. In -the hearts of all three lay that little wistful sadness that was part of -the time of year, and in their surrounding solitude they involuntarily -drew close each to the other. Yet their faces were not wholly sad. None -of them wept at the thought of the long winter that was again upon them. -Hand in hand, by the murmurous sea, they walked, looking off upon the -broad plain of moving waters, each unconsciously seeking to read there -the destiny of her remaining years. - -The hour was a holy one, and there came no sound from the living world -to pierce its stillness. Nature knelt before the great marriage of the -sun and sea. The altar of the west was hung with golden and purple -tapestries; and the ministers of the sky poured out a libation of -crimson-flowing wine before the Lord of Heaven. And when the sacrifice -was made, all could behold how the great sun slipped gently from his car -into the embrace of the sea, and the two of them were presently hidden -underneath the golden locks and shimmering veil of the beautiful bride; -and thereafter Twilight, the swift-footed handmaid, aided by all the -ocean nymphs, quickly pulled the broad curtains of gray and crimson -across the portals of the bridal room. - -The sweet dusk deepened, but it was not yet time for the rising of the -moon. There was still a flush of red in the west, and still the breasts -of the gulls that veered over the waters flashed white and luminous in -the gathering gray. The silence was absolute, save for the silken swish -of the tide rising gently along the shore. The spell of twilight, the -great soul-twilight of the middle ages, hung heavy on the battlements of -the Castle on the cliff. On the terrace the three women paused in their -slow walk. Lenore, her white face uplifted, and a look in her face as if -the gates of Heaven had opened a little before her eyes, said dreamily,— - -“How sweet it is,—and how beautiful,—our home!” - -The silence of the others throbbed assent to her whispered words. - -The gulls were sinking slowly toward their nests. The drawbridge over -the moat was just lifting for the night. A lapwing or two floated round -the high turrets of the Castle; and from the doorway there, Alixe was -coming forth, bearing Lenore’s baby in her arms. The stillness grew more -intense, and over the edge of the eastern trees slipped the round, pink -harvest moon. Then, one by one, a few great stars came sparkling out -into the sky. - -“See,” murmured Eleanore, very softly, “the east is clear around the -rising moon.” - -And Laure replied to her: “Yes, very clear. How beautiful will be the -morrow’s dawn!” - - - THE END - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration] - - - - - MISS POTTER’S FIRST SUCCESS - - _Uncanonized_ - - BY MARGARET HORTON POTTER - - _Author of “The Castle of Twilight”_ - - -[Illustration] - -A story of English monastic life in the thirteenth century during the -momentous reign of King John. The leading character, Anthony -Fitz-Hubert, is a brilliant young courtier, son of the Archbishop of -Canterbury, who turns monk to insure the safety of his father’s soul. -The interpretation of King John’s character and acts differs widely from -the traditional view, but it is one which investigation is now beginning -to present with confidence. - - One of the most powerful historical romances that has ever appeared - over the name of an American writer.—PHILADELPHIA INQUIRER. - - In such romances we shall always delight, turning to them from much - that is dull and inane in what passes for the realistic reflex of - our present-day life.—HARPER’S MAGAZINE. - - It is a noteworthy book of its very attractive kind.—THE - INDEPENDENT. - -[Illustration] - - SIXTH EDITION - - WITH FRONTISPIECE. 12mo. $1.50 - - A. C. McCLURG & CO., _Publishers_ - -[Illustration] - - - - - UNIFORM WITH “THE THRALL OF LEIF THE LUCKY” - - _The Ward of King Canute_ - - A ROMANCE OF THE DANISH CONQUEST - - BY OTTILIE A. LILJENCRANTZ - - -[Illustration] - -This book is for those who are weary of conventional romances and are -searching for a story that does not give them the dusty and worn-out -historic trappings with which they are over familiar. The story of -Randalin, the beautiful Danish maiden who served King Canute disguised -as a page, is spontaneous and unhackneyed, and has a mediæval atmosphere -of the most inspiring kind. The reader forgets his practical -twentieth-century point of view, and loses himself in the glamour of -these brave old days of the Danish conquest. - - It is a romance of enthralling interest.... Written in plain, - unadorned Anglo-Saxon, it is as pure and wholesome as the lovely - maiden whose face smiles between the lines. It is one of the few - novels that can be read a second time with increased enjoyment. Than - this, what more can be said?—CHICAGO TRIBUNE. - - Readers of “The Thrall of Leif the Lucky” can understand without - description the pleasure in store for them in Miss Liljencrantz’s - latest tale. The volume is a remarkable example of bookmaking, the - colored illustrations showing to what heights the art of book - illustration may attain.—BOSTON TRANSCRIPT. - - A stalwart and beautiful tale—a fine, big thing, full of men’s - strength and courage and a girl’s devotion, the atmosphere of great - days and primitive human passions.—PHILADELPHIA LEDGER. - -[Illustration] - - THIRD EDITION - - WITH SIX FULL-PAGE PICTURES IN COLOR AND OTHER DECORATIONS BY THE - KINNEYS. $1.50 - - A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS - -[Illustration] - - - - - A BOOK OF GREAT BEAUTY - - _The Thrall of Leif the Lucky_ - - A STORY OF VIKING DAYS - - BY OTTILIE A. LILJENCRANTZ - - -[Illustration] - -A remarkable book because it not only tells an unusual and fascinating -story, with a novel and seldom used—and therefore interesting—historical -background, but it was everywhere declared “the most beautiful book of -fiction of 1902.” The striking appearance of the volume is due to the -appropriate character of the type, initials, end-papers, etc., and to -the wonderful pictures in color. It is the story of Alwin, the son of an -English earl, and how he served the great Leif Ericsson on his famous -voyage to the New World, and how he finally won his freedom and the -beautiful Helga by his own high courage. - - Nearer to absolute novelty than any book published this spring.—NEW - YORK WORLD. - - The most beautifully illustrated and artistically ornamented romance - published this year.—NEW YORK JOURNAL. - - A tale which moves among stalwart men, and in the palaces of - leaders.—NEW YORK MAIL AND EXPRESS. - - One of the best constructed historical romances that has appeared in - America in some years.—BROOKLYN EAGLE. - - The atmosphere of the old days of fighting and adventure glows in - the book.—SPRINGFIELD REPUBLICAN. - -[Illustration] - - SIXTH EDITION - - WITH SIX FULL-PAGE PICTURES IN COLOR, AND OTHER DECORATIONS BY THE - KINNEYS. $1.50 - - A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. - 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. - 3. Footnotes were re-indexed using numbers. - 4. 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