Читать книгу The Castle of Twilight - Margaret Horton Potter - Страница 7

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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.

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.