THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 The Castle of Twilight
 
 THE CAS' LE 
 
 OF TW1LIGH 
 
 By MARGARET 
 HORTON POTTER 
 
 With 
 
 by Ch. Weber 
 
 CHICAGO 
 A.C.McCLURG 
 7903
 
 COPYRIGHT 
 
 A. C. MCCLURG fif Co. 
 1903 
 
 Published September a6, 1903 
 
 DESIGNED, ARRANGED, AND PRINTED 
 BY THK UNIVERSITY PRESS
 
 TO 
 
 G. M. McB. 
 
 WHOSE MUSIC SUGGESTED THE STORY 
 
 This little volume is faithfully 
 inscribed 
 
 933861
 
 [ftp 
 
 
 
 Nocturne Grieg: Opus 54, No. 4.
 
 CONTEN TS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 vii 
 
 2 9 
 62 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. THE DESOLATION OF AGE . . 
 
 II. THE SILENCE OF YOUTH . . 
 
 III. FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 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 
 
 XL THE WANDERER 286 
 
 XII. LAURE 316 
 
 XIII. LENORE 347 
 
 XIV. ELEANORE 378 
 
 XV. THE RISING TIDE 401 
 
 XVI. THE MIDDLE OF THE VALLEY . 423
 
 LLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Lenore . . Frontispiece 
 
 The whole Castle had assembled to say God 
 speed to their departing lord 90 
 
 Only one among them seemed not of their 
 
 mood 1 80 
 
 " Gerault Gerault my lord ! " she whis 
 pered 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 Harloiu
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 TTTT'ISTFULLY I deliver up to you my 
 r r simple story, knowing that the first sug 
 gestion of "historical novel" will bring before 
 you an image of dreary woodenness and unceasing 
 carnage. Tet 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.
 
 The CASTLE of TWILIGHT 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 THE DESOLATION OF AGE 
 
 T 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 riot lessened by the unceasing mur 
 mur of ocean waves breaking upon the face 
 of the cliff on which the Castle stood. This 
 sound held in it a note of unutterable melan 
 choly. Indeed, despite the sunlight, the spar 
 kle of the waves, and the fragrance of the 
 fresh spring air, this whole building, the cul 
 minating point of a long slope of landscape, 
 ' HI [1]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 seemed wrapped in an atmosphere of loneli 
 ness, 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. Ma 
 dame 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 chate 
 laine of Le Crepuscule 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 
 [2] '
 
 THE DESOLATION OF AGE 
 
 of her life, the object of all the blind devo 
 tion 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 cele 
 brated for its piety, though many a generation 
 of Lavals and Crepuscules 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, Cre- 
 puscule 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 de 
 parture for Rennes, without her, she had felt 
 as now. It came back very vividly to her 
 memory, how he had ridden away for the 
 [3]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 capital, the city of war, of arms, of glittering 
 shield and piercing lance, of tourney and laugh 
 ter 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 bit 
 terly, 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 
 [4]
 
 THE DESOLATION OF AGE 
 
 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 be 
 lieve 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 con 
 jured 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 
 [5]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 was unexpectedly broken. There came a 
 knock upon the door, which immediately after 
 wards opened, and Gerault, her son, entered 
 the room. 
 
 This fourth Seigneur of Le Crepuscule, 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 some 
 thing of distance, that killed in her the over 
 whelming 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 par 
 don ! 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 in- 
 [6]
 
 THE DESOLATION OF AGE 
 
 vitation 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 discom 
 fort 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 sur 
 face 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 
 [7]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 feel 
 ing at the announcement. Too many times be 
 fore 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 ! Permis 
 sion ! Was ever a reason why a Crepuscule 
 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." 
 [8]
 
 THE DESOLATION OF AGE 
 
 " Pain, Gerault ? Pain ? " Eleanore re 
 pressed 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 chatelaine 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 unhappi- 
 ness, 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 uneasi 
 ness to both of us at times. 'T is true that 
 there is lost an alliance that might have brought 
 much honor to Le Crepuscule. By the favor 
 of my Lord Duke, Laure might have wed 
 with Grantmesnil, Senlis, Angers itself, per 
 haps; and there was ever Laval. Yet " 
 [9]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 sur 
 prise 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 
 [10]
 
 THE DESOLATION OF AGE 
 
 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 bagard, fluttered its 
 [ 11 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 any 
 one 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. 
 'T is not only for myself, child. It is for the 
 house, and the line of Crepuscule. 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 
 
 [12]
 
 THE DESOLATION OF AGE 
 
 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 des 
 olation 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 Crepuscule itself was 
 very large, and its adjacent buildings were on a 
 corresponding scale. Like all the feudal for 
 tress-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 Crepuscule 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 
 [13]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 sec 
 ond, 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 out 
 side 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 re 
 turned 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 
 [14]
 
 THE DESOLATION OF AGE 
 
 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 cap 
 tured 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 sway 
 ing toward him in the measure of a " carole " l 
 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 
 
 1 A "carole" was originally a dance to which the dancers 
 sang their own accompaniment. 
 
 [15]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Trouve." 
 But, of them all, Alixe, surnamed the Laugh 
 ing One, was the brightest of eye, the warmest 
 of color, and the lightest of foot. 
 
 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 com 
 pany, ran to Gerault's side, dragging Cour 
 toise with her. The dance ceased while the 
 young people stood still, staring at their erst 
 while leaders. Alixe, however, impatiently 
 motioned them on. 
 
 " Go back to the Castle with your f Roi 
 qui ne ment pas.' 2 I will come soon." 
 
 Obedient to her command, the little com 
 pany resumed their quaint song, and, with 
 steps that lagged a little, passed into the 
 
 1 An old-time game. 
 
 [16]
 
 THE DESOLATION OF AGE 
 
 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 pat on the rope." 
 
 " Diable ! Bee 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 
 m [ 17 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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, treacher 
 ous bay, in a more than treacherous boat, 
 such wild and risky amusements as she and 
 the daughter of Le Crepuscule 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. To 
 ward 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 
 [18]
 
 THE DESOLATION OF AGE 
 
 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 ani 
 mation. 
 
 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 per 
 fectly 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. 
 [19]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 Courtoise and Gerault ceased their conver 
 sation when Alixe went up to this bird and 
 addressed it in a curious jargon of Latin and 
 Breton-French. Courtoise betrayed an ad 
 miring 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 ex 
 pectant 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 pat from 
 your hand ? " 
 
 Alixe merely nodded. To all appearances, 
 she was wholly engrossed with the bird, which 
 she continued to handle. Gerault and Cour 
 toise had come close to her side, though the 
 falcon betrayed its displeasure at their ap 
 proach. All three of them had been silent 
 for some seconds, when Alixe turned her 
 green eyes upon the Seigneur, and, looking 
 [20]
 
 THE DESOLATION OF AGE 
 
 at him with a glance that carried discomfort 
 with it, said in a very precise and cutting 
 tone : 
 
 " So you leave Le Crepuscule to-morrow, 
 Gerault ? And for how long ? " 
 
 " That I cannot tell," answered Gerault, ex 
 hibiting no annoyance. " For as long a time 
 as Duke Jean will accept my services." 
 
 " Ah ! then there will be righting. 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 
 
 [21]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 sss=s:ssss=s:sss=s:sx=s::s=ss=fis^3s:s:s:^:s:ssss;s^s 
 
 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 im 
 patiently. "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, watch 
 ing the falcons at his feet, and whistling under 
 his breath for his own amusement. Alixe re 
 placed Bec-Hardi, screaming angrily and flap 
 ping 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 
 Crepuscule and his almost sister, walked 
 together in the sunny light of the late after 
 noon. 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 
 [22]
 
 THE DESOLATION OF AGE 
 
 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, mus 
 ing, 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. 
 [23]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 " 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 sum 
 mer," 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 deepen 
 ing 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, 
 [24]
 
 THE DESOLATION OF AGE 
 
 but from the tranquillity of his manner Cour- 
 toise 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 Elea- 
 nore, 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 Crepuscule. 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 
 [25]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 port 
 cullis 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 Crepuscule, 
 passed the priory-convent of Les Vierges de 
 la Madeleine. 
 
 When the twain were gone, and the group 
 prepared to disperse, <he 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 jour 
 ney," 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, look- 
 [26]
 
 THE DESOLATION OF AGE 
 
 ing 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 com 
 forted her as best she could, soothing her, 
 caressing her, whispering to her in a magnetic, 
 gentle voice, till madam e's grief had been 
 nearly washed away. Then the young girl 
 said, softly, in her ear: 
 
 " Think, madame ! 't is now but eleven days 
 till thou mayest ride out to Laureat the priory. 
 And there thou canst talk with her alone, and 
 for as long as thou wilt. Also, when her no 
 vitiate 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 convul 
 sively, she said, with returning self-control : 
 [27]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 " 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?" 
 
 [28]
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 HE priory-convent of the Vir 
 gins of the Magdalen was as 
 old as any nunnery in Brit 
 tany 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 cen 
 turies 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 
 [29]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 little house, of excellent architecture and ample 
 room for the practice of any amount of wor 
 ship. 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 Crepuscule. 
 And it was here, in this pleasant if austere 
 retreat, that many a noble lady of Laval and 
 Crepuscule 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 recrea 
 tion time. The day was exquisite : sunny, a 
 little chilly, its breeze laden with the rare per 
 fume of awakening summer. The garden, at 
 this season of the year, was a place of won 
 drous 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 prim 
 roses and crocuses and a hyacinth or two, 
 [30]
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 ^^?^^^-g^^g^s?<!^g^g^gr>s^<^>E><s^^ 
 
 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. Bene 
 dict." One only among them seemed not 
 of their mood. This was a young girl, white- 
 robed like all the rest, her unveiled head pro 
 claiming 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 recog- 
 [31]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 nized all the meaning in the long, slow looks, 
 half wondrous and half probing, with which, 
 every now and again, she traversed the circle 
 effaces 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 Crepuscule 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 
 [32]
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 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 men 
 tal 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 Brit 
 tany ; 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 mo 
 bile. 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 
 - [3] [33]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 tg^r^T^^^^^g^^g^g^gg^s^s^ssag^s^s^^ 
 
 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 
 Crepuscule to see her daughter. She was ad 
 mitted 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. 
 
 Mere 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, 
 
 [34]
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 "And Laure, Reverend Mother, how fares 
 my child ? Is she content with you ? " Elea- 
 nore'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 Mere Piteuse. 
 [35]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 con 
 vent ? Art thou happy ? Dost thou wish it, or 
 wilt thou come home again to Crepuscule ? " 
 
 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 
 [36]
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 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, unfal 
 tering : " 'T is 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 
 [37]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Crepuscule. 
 
 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 
 [38]
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 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 ex- 
 clusiveness 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 morn 
 ings 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 morn 
 ing heaven. Last of all, over the feathery line 
 of trees that made a horizon for her at her cell- 
 [39]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 
 tuttiy 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 ten 
 der companion. And after her exercise here, 
 the rest of the day, nones, vespers, supper, 
 confession, and compline, melted away almost 
 [40]
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 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 un 
 toward happening, without her once leaving 
 the priory, the days flowed on, spring melted 
 into summer, and Laure found herself pos 
 sessed of an infinite and ever-increasing con 
 tent, 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, heed 
 less 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 frag 
 ile 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. 
 [41]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Decem 
 ber, directly after the forty-eight-hour vigil 
 of the birth of the Christ. 
 
 Laure heard this news with every appear- 
 [42]
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 ^^^^^^^'^'^^s^s^'gr^p^r^^^ 
 
 ance 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 es 
 cape, 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 
 Mere 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 
 [43]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 the prerogatives of monasticism, unappreciated 
 to this day. 
 
 Christmas time drew near ; and gradually 
 Laure dropped her efforts toward understand 
 ing and fell into dreams of a varied and com 
 plex, 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 re 
 flection and prayer. Every day she was sum 
 moned 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 
 [44]
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 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 sleep 
 ing, in preparation for the strain of the forty- 
 eight-hour Christmas service. The stillness 
 
 D 
 
 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 be 
 hind 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, 
 [45]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 her 
 self, 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, sud 
 denly overwrought and overswept with re 
 pressed 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 unex 
 pressed fears took possession of her. She 
 made no effort to bring them into definite 
 order in her mind. They merely joined them 
 selves 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 
 [46]
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 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 Crepuscule ? " 
 
 Laure, while she looked at her mother, gave 
 a sudden sigh, and her face became staring 
 pale. Eleanore strove to fathom her daugh 
 ter'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 
 [47]
 
 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 de 
 sire when one lives but to pray and sleep, and 
 wake and pray again. God lives here contin 
 ually in our hearts and He begets in us the 
 [48]
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 * s gr^^T^?^^~^^Sr^ : ^^g^i^g^\" ? ^^ < ?' g^<7^cr -g^-fp-q- -gy-gpg 
 
 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 temp 
 tation." 
 
 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 (3f it; as, in God's time, thou surely 
 wilt." 
 
 Once again the mother kissed her girl 
 kissed her in final renunciation. Laure felt a 
 [ * ] 49
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 ff^Vv^*5=gassaS3Sas^JsSa5^s^j^5=s5=S^^ 
 
 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 wonder 
 ful that the impulses of the girl's heart had 
 been stilled by the unceasing precept of the 
 past months. Her years were naturally pow 
 erless 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 argu 
 ment that she conducted within herself after 
 her mother's going was not one of justification 
 of her own act, but oh, ye gods ! an at 
 tempted justification of Eleanore's impiety. 
 
 Laure passed the next two days in an odor 
 of extreme sanctity, and hailed with deep in 
 ward joy the beginning of the long vigil of the 
 [50]
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 s?s'g^^^^s^s?a^^^pg^^sssssaa^67g~s^6-^^~sass 
 
 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 ec 
 stasy, 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 snow- 
 flakes float down through the clear blue air. 
 The earth was wrapped in a mantle whiter than 
 [51]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Soeur Celeste, 
 the chaplain, came to summon the bride-elect 
 to confession and interrogation with Mon- 
 seigneur 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 pro 
 gressed, how many nuns had fainted in their 
 fatigue. She thought of anything but the 
 [52]
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 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 Crepuscule. But never before had 
 she seen him in this fulness of his office, so 
 replete with magnetic spirituality. If the un 
 swervingly 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 
 [53]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 in 
 most being of the daughter of Le Crepuscule 
 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 confi- 
 [54]
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 dence, 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 manip 
 ulation 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 
 [55]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 as 
 sembled 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-prior 
 ess, the sub-prioress, the chaplain and the dea 
 cons ; while his Grace was in the great chair of 
 honor used by none but him. The only mem 
 ber 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 parch- 
 [56]
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 merit 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 mechani 
 cally, 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 com 
 pany 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, 
 [57]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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, after 
 wards, 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, turn 
 ing 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 Rev 
 erend Father Charles, Lord Bishop of St. 
 Nazaire, of the Duchy of Brittany, Lord under 
 the most Christian Duke, Jean de Mont- 
 fort." 
 
 Thereafter she went up to the altar, and 
 [58]
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 gggg>g>ep~E> g --r< ; ^<r-B^T'"'^^--^-*^r^fg->^^ 
 
 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 ad 
 journed to the refectory, where a little feast of 
 rejoicing was held in honor of the newly con 
 secrated 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 Soeur 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 
 [59]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 re 
 fused 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 
 [60]
 
 THE SILENCE OF YOUTH 
 
 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 Crepuscule, with a wild sea-wind blow 
 ing 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, rever 
 ent words were uttered by her. Then Laure 
 du Crepuscule 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. 
 
 [61]
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 )HE 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, per 
 mitted 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 immen.se rock rolled away from its hole, 
 leaving a pit of gold and gems open to the 
 [62]
 
 FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 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 Crepuscule, no less than the surround 
 ing countryside, participated in the interest of 
 these supernatural matters ; but the old Cha 
 teau 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 
 [63]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 gracious ness. 
 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 gen 
 eral 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 Crepuscule 
 since Laure's consecration, and madame had 
 given up hoping for his arrival. Darkness had 
 fallen some time since, and the hour was grow 
 ing late. This could be told from the increased 
 noise at the table. Puddings and crumcakes 
 [64]
 
 FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 S^=S=SSSS=S=S^2S=fi=!S2i 
 
 had been finished, and the men of the com 
 pany 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 
 madam e 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. Mon- 
 seigneur 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 
 [ 5 ] [ 65 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 sprang up and lurched forward to open it, peer 
 ing 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 pierc 
 ingly 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 Elea- 
 nore rose, and the stranger saluted her with a 
 grace that became him well, and began to speak 
 in a mellow voice, 
 
 [66]
 
 FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 " Madame la Chatelaine, give thee God's 
 greeting ! I hight Bertrand Flammecoeur, 
 singer of Provence, the land of the trouvere ; 
 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 com 
 fort our stomachs withal," and the trouvere 
 bent his body in a graceful obeisance ; while 
 Eleanore, smiling her hospitality, stepped for 
 ward a little from where she stood. 
 
 " It is the Breton custom, Sir Trouvere, 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 
 [67]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 Laval, in which house I, Eleanore du Crepus- 
 cule, 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 
 Flammecoeur, smiling, went forward at ma- 
 dame'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 rever 
 ence ; 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, 
 Flammecceur, taking a quick glance to see, 
 [68]
 
 FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 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 care 
 less and rambling but nevertheless highly en 
 tertaining account of some of his wanderings, 
 and was amused to see how the young demoi 
 selles hung on his words. Only upon Alixe 
 did he waste his efforts, for she paid scant at 
 tention to him, listening just enough to escape 
 the charge of rudeness. And Flammecoeur 
 was man enough and vain enough to get him 
 self into something of a pique about her in this 
 first hour of his coming to Le Crepuscule. 
 
 When the stranger had had his say, and 
 proved himself sufficiently " trouvere," 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 
 [69]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 5S^525^S=^a5S^S^^t^T'S^T*C^K?SaS^=Sas^ 
 
 to be heard from ladies' lips. Burliest hench 
 man and slenderest squire alike tuned his verse 
 for the ears of Madame Eleanore to hear ; and 
 the wanderer, Flammecceur, 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 Flammecoeur 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 del 
 icate 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 de 
 manded, Flammecceur, satisfied with the im 
 pression already made, sprang to his feet, and 
 turned to Eleanore, saying : " Lady, I crave 
 [70]
 
 FLAMMECGEUR 
 
 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 Flammecoeur, we render thee thanks 
 for our pleasure, and give ye God's sleep. 
 Hither, Foulque ! Light the Sieur Trouvere 
 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 dis 
 appeared 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 con 
 fessed, 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 
 [71]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Crepuscule, ordinarily a 
 lonely place enough ; and its chatelaine 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 after 
 noon 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 
 [72]
 
 FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 S^SSXSSSSSEiSSSiSiSS'ETJSS 
 
 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, Altxe, 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 attrac 
 tive 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 
 [73]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Flammecceur, love- 
 child as he was, and filled with unholy pas 
 sions, 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 con 
 ceal her dislike for him, and it was her great 
 est 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, con 
 temptuous indifference. And after a week 
 of effort the minstrel was obliged to confess 
 to himself that never before, in all his adven 
 tures, had he met with so complete a rebuff 
 from any woman. 
 
 [74]
 
 FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 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 re 
 mained standing before the altar looking upon 
 the crucifix, her hands fervently clasped before 
 her. After watching her for a moment in 
 silence, Flammecceur 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 
 [ 75 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 have I seen a household so devout. Madame 
 Chatelaine repeats her prayers five times a 
 day ; and the step before the altar here is 
 ever weighted by some ardent maid or squire. 
 Ohe ! Love in the south ; prayer in the 
 north. Rose of Langue d'Oc, snows of 
 Langue d'Oi'l. 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 Nor 
 mandy that are not all of ice. Methinks this 
 cheerless Breton coast is the mother of melan 
 choly ; 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," Flammecoeur dropped his anger, 
 and took on a sudden tone of exceeding in 
 terest, "Demoiselle Alixe, I hold in my 
 heart a great curiosity concerning thee. I see 
 [76]
 
 FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 thee here living as a daughter of the house ; 
 yet art thou called Rieuse. Now, wast thou 
 born in Crepuscule ? " 
 
 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 Crepuscule, 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! 'T is 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 Die'u ! Now know I why the Castle 
 breathes with prayer. Madame would make 
 all things holy enough to receive her. She 
 [77]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 punish 
 ment 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. 
 
 Flammecoeur looked after her, but for the 
 first time felt no inclination for pursuit. Per 
 haps 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 inter 
 ested him extremely. It was quite surpris 
 ing to find how interested one could become 
 in little matters, after a few days in Le Cre- 
 puscule. So Flammecoeur 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 con 
 cerning the Demoiselle Laure. Was she mis 
 shapen ? This was the only excuse for entering 
 a nunnery that occurred to the Flame-hearted. 
 [78]
 
 FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 Yvain had not heard that she was deformed. 
 Was she crossed in love ? Mayhap ; but Yvain 
 had not heard it. Flammecoeur 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 Flammecoeur had 
 taken on the state of mind of the whole Castle. 
 Mademoiselle was coming home on the mor 
 row. Every one knew it, for a message had 
 arrived on the previous day from Monsei- 
 gneur the Bishop of St. Nazaire, arid Le Cre- 
 puscule was in a state of unwonted excitement. 
 The word came to madame as less of a sur 
 prise 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 
 [79]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Crepuscule 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, 
 [80]
 
 FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 :sas^rir^>s>fr?gT-fr~s^s?s^ga5^ 
 
 wearing short riding-shoes under her white 
 robe, with her hair bound tight beneath her 
 coif and veil, for galloping. During the sim 
 ple prayer-service, she got twenty penitential 
 Aves for inattention, and read added reproof 
 in the eyes of Mere Piteuse. At length, how 
 ever, it came to be the hour for the breaking 
 of the fast, and Laure found opportunity to 
 speak to the Soeur Eloise, who was to follow 
 her as attendant and protectress on the road 
 to Crepuscule. 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 bear 
 ing 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 
 [6] [81]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 cov 
 ered 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 
 [82]
 
 FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 gg - -5>ss>g^->fr~s^ss>sr*s>s 
 
 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, bor 
 dered on either side with a thin line of trees, 
 beyond which stretched broad fields and moor 
 lands, among which, somewhere, the priory 
 estate ended and that of Le Crepuscule 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 thanks 
 giving 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, 
 [83]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Flammecoeur of Provence. The 
 suddenness of the horse's stop caused Laure 
 to jerk heavily forward. Flammecoeur 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 Flammecoeur'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 Flammecceur'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 Soeur 
 [84]
 
 FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 Eloise is behind me. I fear that I did much 
 outdistance her," she said, with a demure- 
 ness through which a smile was very near to 
 breaking. 
 
 Flammecoeur looked at her with a peculiar 
 pleasure, a pleasure that he had not often ex 
 perienced. 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 ana 
 lyze 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 Flammecoeur, and was muttering a prayer 
 while she stared from Laure to the trouvere. 
 As soon, however, as she came, the others 
 reined their horses about, and immediately, in 
 the most remarkable silence that the Provencal 
 had ever experienced, proceeded up the hill 
 and into the Castle courtyard. 
 [85J
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 In this wise they reached the Chateau, and 
 Laure came to her own again. She found her 
 self 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, striv 
 ing in vain to free her mind from its encom 
 passing mists. When she was alone with her 
 mother, in Eleanore's familiar and beloved 
 room, Laure felt in herself an inexplicable in 
 sincerity. She clung to madame, and wept, 
 and kissed her, and expressed in eager, dis 
 jointed 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 un 
 wonted 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. 
 [86]
 
 FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 No look of Flammecoeur'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 sin- 
 cerest 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 sud 
 den relief to her, in this rush of home-feeling, 
 that Flammecoeur was nowhere to be seen, he 
 and Yvain having disappeared immediately 
 after dinner. 
 
 Much to the satisfaction of Eloise, who en 
 dured a good deal of discomfort when she was 
 [87]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 
 [88]
 
 FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 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 horse 
 back, were Flammecceur and his page. 
 
 Eloise began a series of weak and rapid ex 
 postulations. 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 move 
 ment, young Yvain wheeled his horse between 
 Laure and Eloise, and presently fell back with 
 Eloise's animal beside him, while Bertrand 
 Flammecoeur drew up beside Laure. The 
 [89]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 con 
 tracted so that she could not speak. But 
 looking, for one fleeting instant, into his face, 
 she smiled. 
 
 Flammecoeur could have laughed for joy, 
 for he saw that his cause was won. And the 
 ease of this conquest did not make him con 
 temptuous of it ; for however little he under 
 stood 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 con 
 tinual, droll chatter of Yvain and the answer 
 ing giggles of Eloise. But Laure could not 
 have laughed, and the trouvere 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. 
 
 " Let me have some gage, some token 
 [90]
 
 r 
 
 HE whole Castle had assembled to say 
 Godspeed to their departing lord. Page 25
 
 FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 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, rein 
 ing 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 hesita 
 tion, Flammecreur 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 
 [91]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Flammecreur, 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 al 
 most 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, 
 [92]
 
 FLAMMECCEUR 
 
 somehow, no fear that she would betray her 
 self, 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 peni 
 tential 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, stand 
 ing 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. 
 
 [93]
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 THE PASSION 
 
 N 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 sud 
 denly from heavy unconsciousness. Mechani- 
 [94]
 
 THE PASSION 
 
 cally 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 mechani 
 cal. Her brain was not yet awake. But, with 
 the first words of the Agnus Dei, the full mem 
 ory of yesterday suddenly flashed upon her. 
 She had been at home, and had found there 
 Flammecoeur! Flammecoeur! 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 
 [95]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 presence till they are changed for their inhab 
 itants beyond recognition. Strictly speaking, 
 Laure was not thinking of the trouvere. 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 dress 
 ing, 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 happi- 
 [96]
 
 THE PASSION 
 
 ness 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 pro 
 cess would inevitably have brought her to the 
 beginning of these things, to the moment, the 
 ineffable moment, when the hand of Flamme- 
 cceur 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 Crepuscule ; 
 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 
 
 ~ in [ 97 j
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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, spark 
 ling 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 
 [98]
 
 THE PASSION 
 
 g^ ;r^~-c~<rx 
 
 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 riant 's, lone et trait its le nez ; 
 La boucbe vermeillete, le menton forcel'e , 
 Le col plain et b lane plus que n'est flor de pre." 
 
 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 
 Flammecceur. 
 
 He was scanning closely the row of cell 
 windows above him, hoping against hope for 
 [99J
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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, Flamme- 
 coeur experienced a rush of emotion that was 
 overpowering. She inspired him with a rever 
 ence 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 indistinguish 
 able phrases of adoration. 
 
 Flammecceur 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 in 
 extricably mingled. And Flammecoeur strove 
 to adjust his rather callous spirit to hers, 
 feeling that he would sooner breathe his last 
 [100]
 
 THE PASSION 
 
 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 rever 
 ence the young nun lost a little of her timid 
 ity 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 pleas 
 ure, " tell me, is this thy regular hour of soli 
 tude ? 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 sup 
 posed to be with the other sisters at this 
 hour of recreation. Only to-day was I per 
 mitted " 
 
 " And didst thou think of me ? Hopedst 
 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 ! " 
 [ 101 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 Laure was about to utter her reproach when 
 suddenly, around the corner of the wall, ap 
 peared the head of Flammecoeur'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 Crepuscule ! " she cried out, utterly 
 forgetful of herself and of her position. 
 
 Instantly Flammecceur 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 Flammecoeur could grasp her sud 
 den 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 
 [102]
 
 THE PASSION 
 
 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 suffi 
 cient 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. Flammecoeur 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 in 
 nocent 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 teach 
 ing 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 un- 
 [ 103]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 awares, 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 Flamme- 
 coeur, 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 sis 
 ters. Her thoughts had strayed from the gen 
 eral 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, Flammecoeur 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 unde 
 cidedly. Then she halted. 
 [104]
 
 THE PASSION 
 
 " I had forgot," she said quietly. " I must 
 to my cell. I have five Aves to repeat for in 
 attention at the reading of St. Elizabeth this 
 morning." 
 
 " Methought they were to be said in chap 
 ter," observed one of her companions, indif 
 ferently. 
 
 " Nay ; Reverend Mother gave permis 
 sion, in my cell," answered Laure, rather 
 weakly ; for she saw that she should get into 
 difficulty if any one mentioned this matter 
 again. However, Flammecoeur'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. 
 [105]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 r-S-5^--F ; --"= : '-^^g>35^F~?^-fre^ 
 
 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 Crepuscule 
 had not changed. The troubadour still lin 
 gered 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 
 [106]
 
 THE PASSION 
 
 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 Flam mecosur 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 Flammecoeur, with Eloise and her 
 now very bel ami, Yvain, were riding from 
 Crepuscule 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 trouvere grew slowly in 
 toxicated 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, Flammecoeur, leaning far toward her, 
 whispered thickly, 
 
 " Thou must come to me alone ! I must 
 [ 107 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 exalta- 
 [108]
 
 THE PASSION 
 
 tion 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 ? 
 
 [ 109 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 her 
 self 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 con 
 science, 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 Flammecoeur, 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 
 [110]
 
 THE PASSION 
 
 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 sud 
 denly 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 fear 
 fully. A moment later she was caught in 
 Flammecceur'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, pri 
 thee, earnest thou into this garden, then ? 
 Was it to stand here in this doorway and per-
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 mit 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 'It come ! " 
 [112]
 
 THE PASSION 
 
 ESSSSS5SSS^SiS2SSiSS=S 
 
 Once again he took her m his arms, but 
 more calmly now, the force of his passion 
 having spent itself in words but half articu 
 late. And now he perceived how she was 
 all trembling and afraid ; and so he soothed 
 her with gentle phrases and tender caresses, 
 for indeed Flammecoeur 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, Flammecceur 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 
 ~ {] [113]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 hour, in this place ; and all things will be pre 
 pared for our flight. If thou come to me be 
 fore 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 bet 
 ter 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 san 
 dals ; 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 her 
 self safe from the consequences of her night. 
 Then, and only then, did she turn her mind to 
 [114]
 
 THE PASSION 
 
 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 Flammecffiur. 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 trouvere ; and Eloise was unaware that 
 Soeur Angelique had ever seen that gallant gen 
 tleman save when she and Yvain were present. 
 Moreover, the stupid one was becoming alarmed 
 lest the sudden devotional fervor of Demoi 
 selle 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 
 [115]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Flamrnecoeur 
 was still in Le Crepuscule, 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, trust 
 ing 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 eter 
 nal night. Once alone, face to face with her 
 [116]
 
 THE PASSION 
 
 ^^-g^C^y^-^^^^r-SP*?^^ 
 
 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 com 
 pline, 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 be 
 came cold and damp, and the hot saliva poured 
 into her mouth. Would that hour never end ? 
 
 It ended. By now Flammecreur was in the 
 garden, three hundred feet away. Flamme- 
 creur was waiting for her. Horses were there, 
 and garments for her, other garments than 
 these of sickening white wool. How long 
 would the trouvere 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 mid- 
 [117]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 die of the phrase she was silent. Prayer was 
 suddenly nothing to her. She had prayed so 
 much ; she had prayed so Jong ! 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. Flammecceur 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 Ma 
 donna 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 
 [118]
 
 THE PASSION 
 
 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 Flammecoeur was at her side. 
 " Laure ! " cried he, half laughing in his tri 
 umph. " 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 out 
 side the garden, Flammecceur gave a low 
 whistle. Then, out of the shadow of the 
 wood, on the north side of the road, came 
 [119]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 5 ^ g ^-^^~<^<!^a<gSasgfreT*^^^ 
 
 Yvain, riding one steed, and leading that of 
 Flammecoeur, on which were both saddle and 
 pillion. Flammecoeur 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 un 
 utterable heartbreak, how should she know, 
 poor girl, whose only guide was God Inscru 
 table, working His mysterious way alone, in 
 heaven on high ? 
 
 [ 120]
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 N 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
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Flammecoeur and his squire God-speed 
 on their journey to Normandy. Their long 
 sojourn at Crepuscule 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 some 
 thing 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 
 
 [122]
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 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. Sud 
 denly there came a clamor at the door. Some 
 what 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, 
 
 " Soeur 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, 
 [123]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 ? " 
 
 Soeur 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 break 
 ing of the fast Soeur Eloise was despatched to 
 her cell, and returned with word that she was 
 not there. Since that hour even the daily ser 
 vices have been suspended, while we sought 
 [124]
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 gSSas^7^vT^S^ c n''n>^ 
 
 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, un 
 say 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 ner 
 vousness. 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 
 trouvere ! " 
 
 Alixe quivered as if she had been touched 
 [125]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 FlammeoEur 
 closely, and had seen a good deal of his at 
 tentions 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 com 
 ment, 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 
 [126]
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 Flammecceur 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 Flammecoeur ? 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 con 
 trol 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-pos 
 session. Out of the Castle and into the court 
 yard 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 
 [127]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 and as commanding as that of a lord of Cre- 
 puscule, " my men, a great blow has fallen 
 upon me, and a disgrace to all that dwell in 
 this Castle. Laure, my daughter, your demoi 
 selle, 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 
 Flammecceur, the troubadour, hath brought 
 dishonor upon Le Crepuscule, 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 
 country-side, 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 
 [128]
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 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 Soeur 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 physi 
 cal. 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 
 _ m [129]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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, how 
 ever, was silent. From her bed the mother, 
 tearless, bright-eyed, watched the broken moon 
 light creep along the floor, past the figure of 
 Alixe. Her mind was filled with terrible things, 
 pictures of Laure, and of what the young 
 [130]
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 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? In 
 deed, meseemeth Laure will not die. Doubt 
 less the Sieur Trouvere loveth her " 
 
 She was interrupted by a long groan. 
 
 " Madame ? " she whispered, in soft depre 
 cation. 
 
 "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 pur- 
 [131]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 ity ! 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, righting 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 Crepuscule. 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 bit 
 terness of guilt been on me when I was brought 
 home to Le Crepuscule, 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 't were but yesterday. Ah ! leave 
 me now, maiden. Leave me alone. Thou 'st 
 been good and faithful to me, but a mother's 
 [ 132 ]
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 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, com 
 manding 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 
 [133]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 s=ss^asag^sas^^3Sssr-5^r?g^>ffi^^r^sss=sT^r7?s~ 
 
 night, had learned that Flammecceur and his 
 page had been there on the afternoon of the 
 day they left Crepuscule. And, upon further 
 search, this man found a shop where the trou- 
 vere 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, Flammecosur'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 an 
 swered 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,
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 SiSS^==S2S2SS5S 
 
 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. Na- 
 zaire 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 
 [135]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 Eloise, a lay sister, she that was accustomed 
 to ride hither from the priory with Laure, 
 confessed to many rides and love-passages be 
 tween herself and Yvain the young squire, 
 while Bertrand Flammecoeur 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 
 [1361
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 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 sim 
 plicity, 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 con 
 tentment throughout the period of her novi 
 tiate ; 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. 
 
 [137]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 look 
 ing 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 
 [138]
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 weighed certain things in certain balances. 
 Because of many years of the confessional and 
 also of free confidence he knew Eleanore thor 
 oughly, 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 con 
 fidence now by whatever answer he should 
 make. Ignorant of the purport of her ques 
 tions, 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 Crepuscule, 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 crea 
 tures can give ? " 
 
 [139]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 " Eleanore ! Eleanore ! thou shalt not ques 
 tion 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 way 
 wardness 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 con 
 tracted, head far bent upon his breast. Elea 
 nore, meantime, had slid to her knees and 
 watched him as he moved. 
 [140]
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 "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 I am but an instru 
 ment 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. Elea 
 nore, 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 
 [141]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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, fruit 
 less returned from a fruitless quest. And when 
 they were all back again, and the hope of see 
 ing 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. 
 [ 142]
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 ^?g^g^g^^^g!^^>g^ 
 
 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 super 
 natural 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 
 [143]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 sur 
 roundings, 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 after 
 noon, 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, Elea- 
 [144]
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 g^S^>g?g^^>g^s>^>g 
 
 nore 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 Crepuscule. 
 
 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 morn 
 ing 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 some 
 thing 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 
 [10] [145]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 E^gssacasasssass^ssssa^ 
 
 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 ab 
 solved 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 flut- 
 terer, hath been such a dream of tears as even 
 thou and I, dead thing, have never known. 
 [146]
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 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 Elea 
 nore, advancing till she stood before him, for 
 getful 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 Twi 
 light, 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 
 [147]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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." 
 
 " 'T is now fifteen years since thou earnest 
 with my lord to Crepuscule ? " 
 
 " Ay, fifteen. I was then a boy of about 
 such age. Fifteen years in Le Crepuscule 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 ? 'T is a tale 
 I have never heard." 
 
 " 'T is 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 
 [148]
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 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 be 
 gan 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 Twi 
 light 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 
 [149]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 with jests. Forget the brooding silence of 
 Le Crepuscule, 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 dis 
 tant 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 expres- 
 [150]
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 sion 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. Pres 
 ently 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 Elea- 
 nore, when she had given the young girl greet 
 ing, 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 Crepuscule 
 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 
 [151]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 unex 
 pressed hope and an inarticulate fear. There 
 was a little pause. The new-comer was dis 
 mounting. Then, after what had seemed a 
 year of waiting, Courtoise walked into the 
 [152]
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 hall, advanced to his liege lady, and bent 
 the knee. 
 
 " Courtoise ! " gasped Eleanore, faintly. 
 " Courtoise thy message ! " 
 
 " Madame," he cried, " I bring joyful tid 
 ings from my lord ! He sends thee health, 
 greeting, and duty, and prays you to pre 
 pare the Castle for a great feast ; for in a 
 week's time he brings home his bride from 
 Rennes ! " 
 
 [153]
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 A LOVE-STRAIN 
 
 ATE that night, when the 
 little throng below had been 
 as nearly satisfied with infor 
 mation 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, re 
 peatedly, 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 com 
 posed of pink and white, so cunningly mingled 
 [154]
 
 A LOVE-STRAIN 
 
 that none can judge which hath most play 
 upon it. And her eyes are blue like a mid 
 summer 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, mus 
 ingly, " 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. 'T will be the first 
 time since since " Suddenly Eleanore be 
 gan to tremble. " Courtoise," she whispered, 
 pale with dread, " hath thy lord heard of 
 of Laure's flight? " 
 
 Courtoise bent his head, answering in a 
 [155]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 strained voice : " My lord had news of of 
 the flight late in the month of March. Mon- 
 seigneur de St. Nazaire sent us the word of it, 
 and for many weeks my lord hunted the coun 
 try over for a trace of her. And when he 
 found her not, nor any word of her, he for 
 bore, 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 daugh 
 ter." 
 
 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 
 
 [156]
 
 A LOVE-STRAIN 
 
 KSSS=SSSBE=S33SSSS5S=as=&3S 
 
 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 drink 
 ing barons, had Le Crepuscule shown such 
 symptoms of gayety. Every scullion scam 
 pered 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 
 [157]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Croitot 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 cor 
 ner 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. 
 [158J
 
 A LOVE-STRAIN 
 
 gS?S?5?Sap-S?ggrS5SSS^gg-Sa 
 
 For the adornment of Gerault's and Lenore's 
 apartment, madame brought out the old his 
 toric 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 re 
 cited in Le Crepuscule. 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 satis 
 factory to all that saw it. Eleanore only, with 
 eyes new-opened by the thought of approach 
 ing 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. Mean 
 time the lower hall was hung with banners and 
 scarred pennants and gay streamers ; and then 
 the pillars were wreathed with greenery and 
 [159]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TV/ILIGHT 
 
 flowers till the still, gray place was all trans 
 formed, 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 Croitot 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 re 
 tired 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- 
 [160]
 
 A LOVE-STRAIN 
 
 S=SSS=S5SSSSSS=SSS=S2S=S=S 
 
 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 beauti 
 ful 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, Elea- 
 nore ordered the general retirement at an early 
 hour. 
 
 The next day, the great day, dawned over 
 Le Crepuscule, 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 scat 
 tered in the courtyard for the coming of the 
 [ 11 1 [ 161 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 cap 
 tain, 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 
 [162]
 
 A LOVE-STRAIN 
 
 crossed the courtyard, bearing herself as roy 
 ally 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 Crepuscule. 
 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, embroi 
 dered 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 Cour- 
 toise, who rode just behind his master, carried 
 the gray streamer of Le Crepuscule. 
 
 Amid a tumult of blaring trumpets, vigorous 
 shouting, and eager choruses of welcome and 
 greeting, the Lord of Crepuscule, with his 
 [163]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Crepuscule 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 hench 
 men, 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 
 [164]
 
 A LOVE-STRAIN 
 
 crowded into the brilliantly decorated hall and 
 moved about, each selecting a desired place at 
 the great horse-shoe 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 droop 
 ing, 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. 
 
 [165]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 " 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 stead 
 fastly into the dark face of the other girl. 
 Alixe, anything but laughing now, was absorb 
 ing, 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 Le- 
 nore'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 
 [ 166 ]
 
 A LOVE-STRAIN 
 
 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 dis 
 ordered 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 strange 
 ness 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 
 [167]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 Lenore, this fair usurper of her place, this 
 Gerault's bride. 
 
 Presently the moving company resolved it 
 self 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 busi 
 ness was sufficiently tedious : not to say, how 
 ever, 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. Cour 
 toise and Alixe also displayed healthy appe 
 tites. But madame and Lenore, whether from 
 [168]
 
 A LOVE-STRAIN 
 
 ^^> ; ^^^<^g><^^^^s~ x s^r < r^fr^gr^r^s 
 
 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. What 
 ever impression of indifference madame re 
 ceived, however, she admitted no such thing 
 to herself. Her heart was too full of joy for 
 Gerault, and for Le Crepuscule. 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 
 [169]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 to her with a straightforwardness that had in 
 it no taint of self-consciousness, even address 
 ing 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 indul 
 gence, 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 rest 
 less, 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 
 [170]
 
 A LOVE-STRAIN 
 
 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 over 
 lapped a little the edge of the gray surcoat of 
 Le Crepuscule, 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 Crepuscule, 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 surround 
 ings 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 benedic 
 tion fell upon her ears, and presently the 
 [171]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 al 
 ready unpacking the coffer which had come 
 from Rennes with them. And here she re 
 moved 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 laugh 
 ter 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 
 [172]
 
 A LOVE-STRAIN 
 
 ^^3?^mgvsT<ry^<?^g^~<^-g>g>q^ s --s 
 
 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 de 
 scended almost intact to the children of a more 
 advanced and less light-hearted age. Lenore 
 entered into the play with a pleasure too un 
 conscious 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 in 
 numerable : Pantouffle, Pince-M'erille^ Brie, >ui 
 Fery, 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 appre 
 ciate 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. Obedi 
 ently he gave one hand to Lenore, the other 
 [173]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 to Alixe, and went through the dance with 
 apathetic grace, bringing by his half uncon 
 scious 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 
 [174]
 
 A LOVE-STRAIN 
 
 the sea was infinitely soothing. Eleanore lis 
 tened 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 turn 
 ing, 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 satis 
 fied, 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." 
 
 [175]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 " 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 per 
 fectly controlled : " Methinks I love her, thy 
 lady, already. Ah, my son, she is very sweet ! 
 Very, very sweet and fair ! " 
 
 [176]
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 THE LOST LENORE 
 
 JHEN 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, how 
 ever, 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 home 
 sick, 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 
 [12] [177]
 
 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 im 
 possible 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 
 [178]
 
 THE LOST LENORE 
 
 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 re 
 mained but a short time with his mother, 
 and returned immediately to his wife. The 
 moment that he entered the room, Lenore 
 [179]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 rg^ST7'<r s ?r s tr > * vg ^*r < ^"g*^y<^<?!*^ 
 
 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, car 
 rying 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. 
 
 Next morning, however, Gerault watched her 
 waken, looking as rosy and fresh as a child, 
 [180]
 
 o
 
 THE LOST LENORE 
 
 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 imme 
 diately 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 
 [181]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 house 
 hold 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 carols. 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, - 
 [ 182]
 
 THE LOST LENORE 
 
 " Beloved, I shall see thee at noon meat. 
 Courtoise and I go forth this morning to 
 gether to try two of the new falcons that Alixe 
 hath trained. Thou 'It 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, Le- 
 nore'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 
 
 [183]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 in every way to gain the attention of the com 
 pany. 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 astonish 
 ment plainly indicated in every glance. Never 
 theless 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 
 [184]
 
 THE LOST LENORE 
 
 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 for 
 gave 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 after 
 noon ? 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 
 [185]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 ves 
 pers, a service held only when the Bishop 
 was at Le Crepuscule. Gerault and Lenore 
 were the last to appear, and while the Sei 
 gneur'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 Crepuscule, 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 Cour- 
 toise, but holding his lady from him at arm's 
 length. His attitude toward her was un 
 easy. He did not avoid her, but, were they 
 [186]
 
 THE LOST LENORE 
 
 by chance left alone together for ten min 
 utes, his manner changed till it was like that 
 of a man guilty of some dishonorable thing. 
 Oftentimes, when they were with a num 
 ber 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 out 
 stretched arms of silent sympathy, and never 
 betrayed to her by so much as a glance how 
 much they had observed of Gerault's incom 
 prehensible neglect. 
 
 [187]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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. 
 [188]
 
 THE LOST LENORE 
 
 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 ap 
 proval even of Eleanore. And as the morning 
 wore along, Lenore found herself unaccount 
 ably 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. Fin 
 gers grew constantly damp with sweat. Thread 
 knotted and broke, silk drew, and little ex 
 clamations of anger and disgust were fre 
 quently 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 down 
 stairs 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 
 [189]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 parch 
 ment 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 manage 
 ment of the great building. She saw every 
 thing, 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 deter 
 mined 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 even 
 ing were devoted to recreation, which was en- 
 [190]
 
 THE LOST LENORE 
 
 tered 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 Crepus- 
 cule ; 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 
 Crepuscule, squire Courtoise sat in the armory, 
 polishing the design engraved on his lord's 
 breastplate. Courtoise was moody. Ordina 
 rily 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 
 [191]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 embraced the whole family of Le Crepuscule, 
 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 Flammecoeur 
 from the priory. But from the day of Ge- 
 rault's betrothal to little Lenore, the daugh 
 ter 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 natu 
 rally 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 
 Crepuscule, 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 
 [192]
 
 THE LOST LENORE 
 
 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 
 [ 13 ] [ 193 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 return. The hour for evening meat ap 
 proaches. I I " he broke off, stammer 
 ing; 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 
 [194]
 
 THE LOST LENORE 
 
 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, pay 
 ing 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 repres 
 sion. " 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 ! Ge 
 rault thou churl ! Ay, I that have been faith- 
 [195]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 ful 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 ne 
 glect. 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. 'T is true I 
 [196]
 
 THE LOST LENORE 
 
 H3S^JESES=S3S=E==SSS=SiS5SSeS5SS= 
 
 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 be 
 tween 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, 
 
 D * * 
 
 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 
 
 [ 197 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 the Seigneur, with a faint smile at him, was 
 gone, carrying alone the burden of his inex 
 plicable 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 atti 
 tude. 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 kneel 
 ing beside her, and a quiet voice said gently in 
 her ear, 
 
 " Lenore ! My child ! Why art thou 
 lying here ? " 
 
 [198]
 
 THE LOST LENORE 
 
 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 
 [199]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 
 
 [200]
 
 THE LOST LENORE 
 
 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 
 Crepuscule. 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 Ge- 
 rault's words her heart had leaped up with 
 a great cry of " Yes " ; and yet now there 
 [201 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Crepuscule !" 
 
 Suddenly Lenore shivered in his clasp. 
 That word " Crepuscule " 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 
 [202]
 
 THE LOST LENORE 
 
 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 even 
 ing 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 Cour 
 toise, who was again at work in the armory, 
 knew how long they sat and ate and talked 
 [203]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 ; 
 [204]
 
 THE LOST LENORE 
 
 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 ex 
 pressed 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 her 
 self 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, pre 
 paratory 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 
 [205]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 tor 
 ture 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 
 [206]
 
 THE LOST LENORE 
 
 ^:^^g < ^^~^^?^^~g^^rag^>g^^^<^yg^gT;^^^^gr^< 
 
 his mental anguish. For the first time in all 
 his years of silent grief, he gave way unreserv 
 edly to himself; let all the pent-up agony 
 come forth as it would from him, as he stood 
 there, looking off upon that wonderful, inscru 
 table, 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, 
 [207]
 
 CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 and passed, like a wraith, off the sea, and be 
 yond, 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 wan 
 dered so long, so patiently, and, at last, so 
 wearily, alone. 
 
 [208]
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 TO A TRUMPET-CALL 
 
 FTER 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 calm 
 ness, 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 
 [1*1 [209]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 Madame Eleanore, madame of the command 
 ing 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 Crepuscule 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 con 
 sider ; 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 ab 
 normal and unhealthy frame of mind. It 
 seemed to her that all the world lived only to 
 hide its sorrows. But her melancholy specu 
 lations 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 
 [210]
 
 TO A TRUMPET-CALL 
 
 iss2Ssss^sasa52S2sas=sgsa5=sg=ca==s^=^^ 
 
 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 Crepuscule. 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 him 
 self 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 her 
 self, till she was shut to all thought of con 
 fiding 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
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 was unconscious of it. Did she desire to co 
 quet 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 Crepuscule, much as the fact did 
 him dishonor. In the very hour of their high 
 est 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 her 
 self, and even his occasional half-hours of devo 
 tion 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. 
 [212]
 
 TO A TRUMPET-CALL 
 
 g^^s^^^g??re<^^>^<r^^s-^^g-<^<T^^^ 
 
 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 sum 
 mer month, when Anselm had found the tem 
 perature 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 mon 
 astery 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 
 [213]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 trans 
 lated still with some lordly difficulty. He found 
 himself in the mood to consider the thoughts 
 of men long dead, and was indulging in the un 
 surpassed 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 re 
 proach, his eye caught the dress of his squire's 
 companion, and he broke off with an exclama 
 tion : " Dame ! Thou, Favriole ? " 
 
 " May it please thee, Seigneur du Crepus- 
 cule," was the reply, as the new-comer ad 
 vanced, 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 
 [214]
 
 TO A TRUMPET-CALL 
 
 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 mes 
 sage 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 there 
 after till the twentieth day of that month, 
 there will be a great pardon of arms and very 
 noble tourney fought after the ancient customs, 
 [215]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 An- 
 delin 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 vari 
 ous retreats to learn the meaning of the un 
 toward 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. 
 [216]
 
 TO A TRUMPET-CALL 
 
 ^<^m^x^<^^~<^--g^s^^^>^;-<^g--<r>fr-v;^>gr-^^ 
 
 She came forward to him quietly, and took her 
 place, acknowledging the pleased salute of the 
 visitor with the slightest inclination of her gold 
 en 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 gen 
 eral 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 plead 
 ing 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 c 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. 
 [217]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 com 
 rade to the keep, and find him refreshment ere 
 he proceeds upon his way." 
 
 Courtoise bowed, wearing an expression of 
 mingled pleasure and disapproval, and pres 
 ently he and the herald left the room to 
 gether, 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 
 [218]
 
 TO A TRUMPET-CALL 
 
 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 sug 
 gestion 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, 
 [219]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 satis 
 fied, 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 Crepuscule ! " 
 
 [220]
 
 TO A TRUMPET-CALL 
 
 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, half-way 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 ap 
 pearance 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 
 [221 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 for what, sometimes, he was, the most intoler 
 ant 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 even 
 ing meal was nearly at an end ; and he per 
 ceived, 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. In 
 stantly 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 pres 
 ently I will come to thee ; for I have some 
 what 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 
 [222]
 
 TO A TRUMPET-CALL 
 
 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 Crepuscule 
 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 ges 
 ture 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 
 
 T 
 
 J
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 bit 
 terly empty. And having her here, and see 
 ing her growing devotion to thee, her contin 
 ual striving to please thee in thine every desire, 
 methought that thou, a knight sworn to chiv 
 alry, 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-thought 
 ful 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 earnest 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 re 
 gained 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 ? 
 'T was in this room, the day before I went 
 last to Rennes. Thou didst entreat me to
 
 TO A TRUMPET-CALL 
 
 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 know- 
 est 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 yes 
 terday 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 mes 
 sage of Laure's disgrace, her excommunica 
 tion ; 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 
 [ 15 ] [ 225 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 G5SXS5S^S^=S^SSS2SSS=S=S3^=S^=S5S=S=iS3SS3S^ 
 
 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, ma- 
 dame, 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 sin- 
 cerest speech, that I depart at early date for 
 Rennes. How likes you that ? And more 
 over, 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 
 [ 226 ]
 
 TO A TRUMPET-CALL 
 
 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 
 [227 J
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 anger make thee to understand for one instant 
 only! Ah, 'tis the same tale that every wo 
 man 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 1 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 earnest 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 
 [228]
 
 TO A TRUMPET-CALL 
 
 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 in 
 voluntarily ; when it was out Eleanore bit her 
 lip and drew herself up haughtily. " Thou 'rt 
 [229]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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, 
 [230]
 
 TO A TRUMPET-CALL 
 
 cg?g5=sgs^5P^g>e^sj^^^g><sr-g^^^ 
 
 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 round 
 about inquiries as to Gerault's intentions with 
 regard to Rennes. Not so, however, the 
 demoiselles of the Castle. Courtoise was un 
 der 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 Crepuscule. 
 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 
 
 [231]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 inde 
 finable, 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 expression 
 less, 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
 
 TO A TRUMPET-CALL 
 
 ??<=r?S!*g^?-'K?i;g<^<r>r*grg-ssg?va^'^^ 
 
 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 dia 
 monds. 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. 
 [233]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 whis 
 pered 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 re 
 mained 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. 
 
 [234]
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 THE STORM 
 
 OR ten days after Gerault's 
 departure, Lenore led a disas 
 trous 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 yearn 
 ing that had never been satisfied, and with use 
 less 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 
 [ 235 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 refused to acknowledge them. The changes 
 in her life had come upon her with such over 
 whelming 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 
 [236]
 
 THE STORM 
 
 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 prom 
 ised 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 eter 
 nity ? 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 
 [237]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 morn- 
 [238]
 
 THE STORM 
 
 ing 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 mues 
 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 
 
 D 
 
 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 con 
 sciousness. 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 
 [239]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 g~* : ^7^Tr'' : r''fT''5~~r'g^r'g~S'g x r'' g ^^ 
 
 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 vis 
 ion ! 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 't was 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, insist 
 ing 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, how 
 ever, 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. 
 [240]
 
 THE STORM 
 
 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 con 
 tinued. WoYk 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. 
 [ 16 ] [ 241 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 
 [ 242 J
 
 THE STORM 
 
 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 to 
 gether 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 fol 
 lowed 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 incom- 
 [243]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 ing 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 protec 
 tion ; 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. 
 [244]
 
 THE STORM 
 
 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 twist 
 ing about, but letting no sound escape her. It 
 seemed at last as if the fury of the wind had 
 diminished, though the lightning-flashes con 
 tinued 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. 
 [245]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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, find 
 ing 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 
 [246J
 
 THE STORM 
 
 5?g-s>s^ssas^r'5~5S7-s.7-s5 
 
 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 op 
 posite the great, locked door. Sitting here, 
 her lantern at her feet, elbow on knee, chin on 
 hand, she fell into a strange reverie. The bit 
 terest of all memories came back to her with 
 out 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 ex- 
 [247]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 amination. 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 surround 
 ing 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 her 
 self. 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 
 [248]
 
 THE STORM 
 
 S=S5S=S=sr=E=S=SSS5G=S2C 
 
 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, ques- 
 [24,9]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 tioning 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 
 [250]
 
 THE STORM 
 
 5SgrT^S>fir^-g>S^-S''g'-S^ 
 
 life so tragically cut off in the midst of its 
 happiness and beauty. Alixe's changeable 
 eyes shone in the semi-darkness with a phos 
 phorescent 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 
 Crepuscule 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 
 [251]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 under 
 stood how precious each moment seemed. 
 
 " On this day I am to tell thee of oh, 
 Mother of God, that it would leave my mem 
 ory ! 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 de- 
 [252]
 
 THE STORM 
 
 light 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 
 [253]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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, ma- 
 dame ? It beginneth, 
 
 " f Assez i a reson porqoi 
 
 L'eu doit fame chiere 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 
 [254]
 
 THE STORM 
 
 the wind. While she sang she had been play 
 ing with a ring that she had drawn from her 
 finger. Just as monsieur sprang forward to 
 the rope, Lenore dropped this ring, which me- 
 thinks 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 
 [255]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 /, madame held him from it. 
 I caught him round the arms till we were both 
 forced to the tiller again, and I cried and com 
 manded 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 
 [256]
 
 THE STORM 
 
 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." 
 ["I [ 257 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 " 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 
 [258]
 
 THE STORM 
 
 ^^s^^^^T^^^^^^T^^^^^^^C 
 
 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, Cour 
 toise made no reply. 
 
 [259]
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 FROM RENNES 
 
 ENORE'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, 
 
 [260]
 
 FROM RENNES 
 
 " 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- 
 [261]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 SaDS^S^S=^g^?gC^S^g-5>^g<53S3S>S^^ 
 
 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 fore 
 head ; 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. 'T is 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 ; 
 't is very late, Lenore, and thou art also 
 lightly clad. Come thou to thy bed, and let 
 Alixe to hers. Come, my girl." 
 [262]
 
 FROM RENNES 
 
 57r?rtTn^fra>5s^g^r~pr^srgrgrga: 
 
 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 under 
 neath 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. 
 [ 263 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF -TWILIGHT 
 
 But now, in the knowledge of his death, the 
 memory of Gerault's coldness and of his 
 elected solitude went from her, and she re 
 called 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, glitter 
 ing 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 treas 
 ures gathered by night and stored within its 
 [264]
 
 FROM RENNES 
 
 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 morn 
 ing. She was glad indeed to escape from the 
 fetters of sleep, for her dreams had been fever 
 ish things. In them she had wandered abroad 
 over the gray battlements, and through the 
 grim chambers of dimly lighted Crepuscule, 
 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 
 [265]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 exhi 
 bition of her grief. Quietly, with the stillness 
 of death about her movements, she returned 
 to her room and began to dress herself. Be 
 fore she had finished her toilet, Alixe crept in, 
 white-faced and red-eyed, to ask if there were 
 any service she might do. Lenore tremu 
 lously 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 
 [266]
 
 FROM RENNES 
 
 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 Crepuscule. 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 com- 
 
 [267]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 pany 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, Cour- 
 toise 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 
 [268]
 
 FROM RENNES 
 
 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 Monsei- 
 gneur 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 
 [269]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 hench 
 men 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 salut 
 ing the Bishop, went to the cart and lifted 
 out the stretcher. This, its burden still cov 
 ered 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 demoi 
 selles, 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 
 [270]
 
 FROM RENNES 
 
 time had been upon her knees before the altar, 
 came forward to greet the six knightly gentle 
 men, 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, 
 [271 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 hel 
 met, 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 peace- 
 fulness 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 thou 
 sands 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 hu 
 man thing. And as she looked, many world- 
 thoughts rose up within her as to his life, his 
 [272]
 
 FROM RENNES 
 
 ES=SSSS=SS=S=S=S^5!S2S: 
 
 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 olid 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 sun 
 set 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 cru 
 cifix. Then came footboys, with tapers, to 
 light the candles. Presently the bier was
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 c ^ <: ' < rg'r^~^-'n^^^-s--s'^gg>5y^'S 1 ^^ 
 
 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 rilled, 
 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 con 
 fined 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. 
 [274]
 
 FROM RENNES 
 
 g-r^^WC-g^g^gr^SSSSSiS: 
 
 When she entered, her two hands had been 
 tightly clenched, and she had thought to re 
 strain herself from any outbreak of grief be 
 fore 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 trem 
 ulous 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 whis 
 pered 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 
 [275]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 wide and hurt, and her mouth tremulous with 
 his repulse. The spectators watched this piti 
 able 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 unrespon- 
 siveness of the clay, she laid herself down up 
 on 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, 
 
 [276]
 
 FROM RENNES 
 
 " She cannot remain here. 'T is 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 strug 
 gle 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 re 
 leased 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 
 [277]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Crepuscule, 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 morn- 
 
 [278]
 
 FROM RENNES 
 
 ing 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 mem 
 ories. 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. 1 But Courtoise, all heart-broken 
 as he was, and Roland de St. Bertaux, and Guy 
 le Trouve, being all of gentle blood, but with 
 out 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 
 
 1 << He shall uphold the rights of the weaker, such as orphanse, 
 damsels, and widows." 
 
 [279]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Crepuscule. 
 
 On the second day after the funeral, Eleanore, 
 knowing by bitter experience how excellent a 
 cure for melancholy is hard work, betook her 
 self 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. 
 [280]
 
 FROM RENNES 
 
 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 walk 
 ing 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 after 
 wards, 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 bright 
 ness 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 
 [281 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 soon forget the passage of time. And this 
 future was inevitable. Le Crepuscule 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 de 
 spair 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 her 
 self to this ; for she felt that this last sacri 
 fice 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 
 Crepuscule. 
 
 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, 
 [282]
 
 FROM RENNES 
 
 " 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 deli 
 cate 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 'It 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 
 [283]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 for 
 got : 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. 
 
 [284]
 
 FROM RENNES 
 
 " 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 Crepuscule." 
 
 " 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. 
 
 [285]
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 j?HE utterly unexpected rev 
 elation that Lenore had 
 made to madame drew the 
 two women into a tender in 
 timacy 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 joy 
 ous for the rest of the Castle. Alixe, standing 
 jealously without the gate of this golden cita 
 del, into which she had frequent glimpses, 
 wondered at its brightness as much as she 
 [286]
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 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 prob 
 ably 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 
 [287]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 eS2>S52sSS SSS=52S=SS2S^SS=aifiSSS5S=^^ 
 
 Lenore's disposition, for her own sunny nature 
 would have shone through any cloud-thick 
 ness, provided there was some one to catch 
 the beam and reflect it back to her. The two 
 talked on every conceivable subject, but gener 
 ally 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 Crepuscule, 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
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 >^*^>^'^*L^^ i g^E^!g^^>g^r'<r^ 
 
 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 accus 
 tomed to talk daily of the lost Lenore, Lenore 
 herself always introducing the topic with irre 
 sistible 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 sensitive 
 ness ; 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 cham- 
 - [ 19 1 [ 289 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 her 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 keen 
 est 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. Some 
 times, 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 
 [ 290 ]
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 ^g?^r^ST'm^i^s^s^^T^T^asasagaaa5BS 
 
 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 es 
 quired 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 
 Crepuscule, 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 exam 
 ple, 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 
 [ 291 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 re 
 joiced, 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 Crepuscule ; 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 
 [292]
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 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 back 
 ground 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. " 'T is a reason," she said. 
 " Tell me, Alixe! Make me answer ! " 
 " Knowest thou not that, after the drown 
 ing of the demoiselle Lenore, it was forbidden 
 any one in Crepuscule 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 't was Gerault's sister and I 
 [293]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 
 [294]
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 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 ill 
 ness, 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 idle 
 ness 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 
 [295]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 de 
 voutly 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, be 
 hind locked doors, before the crackling fires 
 that burned from dusk to enchanted mid 
 night. 
 
 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 Crepuscule 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 draw 
 bridge was never raised ; no watchers were 
 [296]
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 !g^^7yE7>sr?<S^rr^r^^-<^>-35T^ 
 
 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 hos 
 pitality was made safe by the fact that, dur 
 ing 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 pre 
 vailed 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 of 
 fered the only hope of shelter to the travel 
 ler. And during this week there was scarcely 
 an hour in the day that did not see its wan 
 derer, 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 Crepuscule to the highest state of satis 
 faction. For many years it had been mon- 
 [ C 2W]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 y-"g-g - r > g''^ : ^' : ^ : v^5^^ 
 
 seigneur'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 de 
 lighted 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 gen 
 eral, 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 im 
 mense horseshoe table, that nearly encircled 
 the great hall ; for the ordinary Castle retinue 
 was increased by a rabble of peasants, and a 
 [298]
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 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 over 
 head 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 be 
 hind 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 
 [299]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 be 
 gun, 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 
 [300]
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 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 listen 
 ing 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 entertain 
 ing all his immediate neighborhood with such 
 stories and reminiscences as he alone could re 
 late. 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, 
 [301 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 to 
 gether. 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 
 
 [302]
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 flowed along from mouth to mouth, following 
 the progress of David himself, who was dart 
 ing 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 ! 
 [303 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 r-sNgg-s5S3E^S!io-S^aaJsasss5s^>jv'Sa:'v srsracas^aT-?r-erg^?fr=^?F?'srss 
 
 " 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, fling 
 ing about him, at every other step, more of his 
 "jewels," and now and then singing more ex 
 temporaneous 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. 
 [304]
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 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 entertain 
 ment, 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 
 [ 20 ] [ 305 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 stairway, when there came a knocking upon 
 the outer door of the great hall, which was 
 presently thrust open, before one of the hench 
 men 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 wan 
 derer 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 inten 
 tion 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. 
 
 [306]
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 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 liv 
 ing 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, tremu 
 lous, but with great joy written in their eyes. 
 They had recognized Laure simultaneously 
 an instant before madame, but they had re 
 strained 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- fain ting, 
 in the warm clasp ; but presently she struggled 
 a little away, and sat straight. Pushing the 
 tangled hair out of her eyes, those black, 
 [307]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 
 [308]
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 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. Ma 
 dame 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 hard 
 ship 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 reckless 
 ness, that pierced her mother like a knife. 
 [309]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 It was not the rags and the dirt of her body ; 
 it was the rags and dirt of her denied soul. 
 
 The girl looked straight before her into 
 space ; but she saw her mother's head sud 
 denly 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 
 [310]
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 <^^gr^-"FT?tr~p?c^<^-<=^-<r~<^g--<-.~<^ g - 
 
 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. 
 
 <f Madame," she said in a hard, quiet voice, 
 "I have come wrongfully home, thinking thou 
 couldst give me succor here. But I per 
 ceive that I do but pain thee. I will go forth 
 again. 'T is ail 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, 
 [311]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 an 
 swered : " I did not leave him." 
 
 " He is dead ? " Eleanore's tone was softer. 
 
 " No ; he is not dead ! " Laure's face con 
 torted 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 supplica 
 tion : "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 
 [312]
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 empty life. Flammecoeur ! Flammecoeur ! 
 How wast thou dearer than God ! more merci 
 less than Him." Here her words became so 
 rapid and so incoherent that all meaning was 
 lost, and the deserted woman, exhausted, over 
 come 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 aban 
 donment, 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 con 
 sciousness, 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 
 >oor flesh with hot water, and with her own 
 [313]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 wander 
 ing, 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, press 
 ing 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 
 [314]
 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 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. 
 
 [315]
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 LAURE 
 
 HROUGH the long, chilly 
 night, mother and daughter 
 slept together, each with peace 
 in her heart. At dawn, how 
 ever, madame slipped quietly 
 outof Laure's unconscious em 
 brace, 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 pow 
 erful subconscious effort to throw off the bonds 
 
 of sleep. But when the two heavy eyes at 
 [316]
 
 LAURE 
 
 ^rfTJgrsr~g^g-- 
 
 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 illu 
 sion about that other, the new Lenore' s head 
 drooped, and she sighed. How full of the 
 dead maiden was every member of this Twi 
 light Castle ! But again, shaking off the mo 
 mentary 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 pitia 
 bly alike, learned, in this one long glance, to 
 know each other. Into Laure's deeply burn 
 ing 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 ? " 
 [317]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 be 
 fore 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 ques 
 tioning with her eyes, a suggestion of fear be 
 ginning 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 Sep 
 tember, 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 
 [318]
 
 LAURE 
 
 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, look 
 ing 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 mer 
 cifully 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 con 
 tact; 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 poig 
 nant as were these moments of fresh grief, 
 [319]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 there was in them also a great consolation, 
 the consolation of companionship. And when 
 finally madame raised her head, there was writ 
 ten 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 ! " 
 [320]
 
 LAURE 
 
 The last sentence flew out in answer to 
 madame's secret fears ; and she did not real 
 ize 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, Elea- 
 nore 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 apprehen- 
 siveness, 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 
 [ 21 ] [ 321 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 prie- 
 dieu, were just where they had always stood. 
 The wooden shutters were open, and the half- 
 transparent glass was all aflame with the reflec 
 tion of sunlight on the sea; for the cold, clear 
 morning was advancing. Across a narrow set 
 tle, 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 
 [322]
 
 LAURE 
 
 ^^g^>e-~e^>c^g'sy5>g-S'^<^^?><^^<^^ 
 
 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 sale; 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 re 
 lieved 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 mur 
 mured 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 c ma- 
 [323]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 dame.' 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 'It 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. Hun 
 gry 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 mem 
 bers of the Castle company save three women 
 since her home-coming? Why was she forced 
 thus to eat alone ? Above all, why should the 
 [324]
 
 LAURE 
 
 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, 
 
 [325]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 what 
 ever 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 ex 
 pression brought the assurance that he had 
 lost nothing of his old-time sympathy with 
 human nature. His first question was un 
 hesitatingly direct. 
 
 " Laure," he said very quietly, " art thou 
 bound by the marriage tie to this Bertrand 
 Flammecoeur ? " 
 
 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 
 [326]
 
 LAURE 
 
 voice, and then answered huskily : " Until 
 two months past." 
 
 " And in that two months ? " 
 
 cc I have begged my way from where we 
 were hither." 
 
 " Thou hast in this time known none but 
 the man Flammecceur ? " 
 
 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 vol 
 untary 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. 
 [327]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 " 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 un 
 endurable 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 
 [328]
 
 LAURE 
 
 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 Crepuscule ? 
 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." 
 
 [329]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 " Eleanore ! " The Bishop spoke sharply, 
 and his face grew severe. " Eleanore, deceive 
 not thyself. Nor yet thou, thou child of wil- 
 fulness ! 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 Made 
 leine, 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 mag- 
 [330]
 
 LAURE 
 
 nitude 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 hold- 
 eth over us whithersoever we may go. But see 
 that in thy lonely hours thou find true repent 
 ance 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 Mere Piteuse, if thy heart ac- 
 cepteth 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, leav 
 ing Laure alone again, to dread the ordeal that 
 was before her, the facing of the assemblage 
 [331]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 th-at she had to spend after 
 her return to Le Crepuscule. On the follow 
 ing 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. 
 Mere 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 
 [332]
 
 LAURE 
 
 ^SSS^S^C3S^S5 
 
 company of nuns in the great church ; and 
 thus Laure did not see at all her former com 
 panion and abettor, Sceur Eloise, a meeting 
 with whom she had dreaded more than any 
 thing 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, 
 [333]
 
 .THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 " Be not so sad, dear child. When thou think- 
 est of the fair, pure, loving life that lies before 
 us, in this Castle of thy youth, surely fourteen lit 
 tle 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 imprison 
 ment 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 burn- 
 [334]
 
 LAURE 
 
 ^s^rg-ss-g^ga 
 
 ing 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, ex 
 tinguished 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 
 [335]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 what the hour might be, she thought that pos 
 sibly 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. 
 
 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 
 [336]
 
 * * 
 
 ~5 S: 
 <u 
 
 g 
 
 s? 
 8
 
 LAURE 
 
 S22=SXS=S3 
 
 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 de 
 spair ; Bertrand Flam mecoeur, the troubadour, 
 in his matchless, irresponsible untrustworthi- 
 ness, his incomparable beauty, his fiery en 
 thusiasm. 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 de 
 light, 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 
 [M] [331]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 king 
 dom, the two had passed their summer. To 
 Laure it was a summer of fairyland. Flamme- 
 coeur 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 trouveres from 
 Provence were Persian nightingales to the 
 England of that day. And after his first in 
 troduction 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 man 
 ner of life sometimes weighed on her and 
 brought her something of remorse, she found 
 her consolation in the fact that Flammecceur 
 never wavered in his fidelity. For the time 
 [338]
 
 LAURE 
 
 S5^^SaS3 
 
 being he was thoroughly infatuated with her; 
 and in their stolen hours of golden solitude 
 both of them found their reward for the oft- 
 times wearisome round of pleasures that, with 
 them, constituted work. 
 
 Now, alone, in her solitary prison-room, 
 Laure of Le Crepuscule reviewed her high and 
 holy noon of love, forgetting its subsequence, 
 brooding only over its supreme forgetful ness, 
 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 Flammecoeur 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 com 
 munion 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. 
 
 [339]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 peni 
 tential 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 overwishing, came 
 a change. Up to this time, in her new flood 
 of grief for the separation from Flammecoeur, 
 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 Flammecoeur'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. 
 [340]
 
 LAURE 
 
 C^SSSS=SSESSSSSSS^S3SS=SSS^?a 
 
 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, refus 
 ing 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 Crepuscule. 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
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 kneel 
 ing 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 
 [342]
 
 LAURE 
 
 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 lis 
 tened 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 oid 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 soli 
 tude 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. 
 [343]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 She still thought of Flammecoeur, 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 soli 
 tude 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 ; 
 [344]
 
 LAURE 
 
 ?SiS:SiSCiS^SD: 
 
 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 count 
 ing 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, de 
 scending, passed at once into the lighted chapel. 
 
 Of all the ceremonies that had been per 
 formed in that little room since it was built, 
 more than two centuries before, the one that 
 now took place was perhaps the most impres 
 sive, certainly the most unique. Laure, in her 
 penitential garb, presented a curious contrast 
 to the gayly robed Castle company, and to St. 
 [345]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 prob 
 ably never again would he hear such a confes 
 sion 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 gen 
 eral 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. 
 
 [346]
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 LENORE 
 
 N the morning of the sixteenth 
 of January, Laure went into 
 the spinning-room with the 
 c other women, to begin the old, 
 familiar work. The sight of 
 that room brought back to her 
 a peculiar sensation. Long-forgotten memo 
 ries 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 tam 
 bour-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 
 
 r
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 
 Flammecoeur 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 sale. 
 Madame, at the head of the room, was em 
 broidering 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. 
 [348]
 
 LENORE 
 
 Possibly this scene might have held out 
 promise of reward to the thinker, the psycholo 
 gist, or the humanitarian. Of all these quiet, 
 busy women, was there one whose dull, pas 
 sionless 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 sor 
 row through which Lenore had passed. Nor 
 had the early life of Eleanore, with its doubt 
 ful 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 
 [349]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 
 [350]
 
 LENORE 
 
 effect against her pallor was startling. Gradu 
 ally Lenore's hands moved more slowly. She 
 would pause for a moment, and then, with a 
 slight start, return to her work with so con 
 scious an effort that Laure was more than once 
 on the point of crying to her to stop. Pres 
 ently, 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 start 
 ling 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 ! 
 [351]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 how without hope her life ! Laure lost her 
 self completely in a revery of Lenore's sorrows, 
 and forgot, for the time, how weary she her 
 self 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 
 
 [352]
 
 LENORE 
 
 gg*^r-^p<yrgr>'grr~^r > -^' 
 
 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 re 
 mained 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 'It surely 
 [M] [ 353 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 unfathom 
 able 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 melan 
 choly voice, " how is it that thou canst en 
 dure this life of thine, thou, young and 
 bright and gay and all unused to this dim 
 dwelling ; how hath such existence not al 
 ready killed thee ? Tell me, how hast thou 
 fared since Gerault went ? " 
 [354]
 
 LENORE 
 
 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 Crepuscule. 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 expres 
 sion 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 " 
 
 [355]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 " 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 
 Crepuscule." 
 
 "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 't was 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 ? " 
 
 [356J
 
 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 suffer 
 ing, 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 my 
 self? Life and love and the world are hidden 
 [357]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 
 Flammecoeur, the trouvere ? " 
 
 At sound of the name, Laure flushed scarlet, 
 and then turned pale again. " Flammecoeur ! 
 Flammecceur ! " 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 
 [358]
 
 LENORE 
 
 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 for 
 gotten 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 per 
 ceived 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 
 [359]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 together left the room, Laure in the throes 
 of a painful reaction from strong feeling, and 
 with a sense, moreover, that Lenore was re 
 lieved 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 na 
 ture 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 
 [360]
 
 LENORE 
 
 hall, was Courtoise, seated in Gerault's old 
 place, before a reading-desk, with an illumi 
 nated parchment before him. It was part of 
 "The Romant de la Rose," and he was reading 
 the passage descriptive of the garden of Deduit. 
 Although nothing, perhaps, could be found 
 in the literature of that day better fitted to 
 appeal to a dweller of Le Crepuscule, 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 reck 
 lessly 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 
 [ 361 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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." 
 
 " Ahime, 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, 
 [362]
 
 LENORE 
 
 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, 't is 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 Cre- 
 puscule 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 an 
 swered : " What time and thought I have are 
 [363]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 thine, Alixe. But thou must show me thy 
 need of sympathy." 
 
 " Why, let it be just for dwelling in Le Cre- 
 puscule. 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 Crepuscule 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 explana 
 tion and protests and insistence, and finally of 
 farewell, with the dwellers here. Rather, I 
 would just steal away, some night, nor re 
 turn again hither evermore. What say you, 
 Courtoise ? Think you that that wish is all 
 ingratitude ? " 
 
 [364]
 
 LENORE 
 
 g?S^^^S^^^g^^^ 
 
 It was some moments before Courtoise re 
 plied. 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, in 
 deed, I have sometimes thought that Madame 
 Eleanore showed something of ingratitude tow 
 ard thee ; for thou wast a daughter to her in 
 her sorrow ; and since the return of mademoi 
 selle, 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, de 
 part 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 'It help me ? Wilt thou, Cour 
 toise ? Wilt thou tell madame when I am 
 gone wherefore it was I went ? Wilt thou 
 give her messages of faithful love ? Wilt " 
 [365]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 " 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 'It 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 in 
 deed she hath been my very saint. I have wor 
 shipped 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 
 [366]
 
 LENORE 
 
 Essssfisssas 
 
 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. There 
 fore 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 
 
 [367]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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." 
 
 [368]
 
 LENORE 
 
 S352SS=SaS=SiS 
 
 Laure stamped angrily on the floor. " Some 
 thing, 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 
 [M] [269]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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, how 
 ever, 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 Crepuscule that winter, one feels no grati 
 tude to Time ; but rather a resentment that his 
 immortality should be so dead-alive. Yet win 
 ter 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 
 [370]
 
 LENORE 
 
 rs!S=Sis^^g^r>Fy^<=sa5^S's^sas^^ 
 
 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 ten 
 der 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 fish 
 eries ; 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 
 
 [371]
 
 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 hor 
 rified 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 irre 
 sponsible, 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 par 
 oxysm 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 moodi- 
 ness, her nights in tossing feverishly about the 
 bed. She seemed to take no notice of the 
 little attentions so tenderly showered upon her 
 [372]
 
 LENORE 
 
 by every one ; except that she was pleased to 
 see the little spring flowers, tender pink bells 
 and anemones, that David and Gourtoise 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 Brit 
 tany before May. Courtoise brooded for two 
 days over his inability to supply her want, and 
 every one condoled her. Indeed, her own con 
 dition 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 Crepuscule. 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 under 
 stood to pertain to " the little lord." 
 
 At last there came an April twilight when 
 the glow of the sunset was growing dim be 
 neath the lowering veil of night. Lenore had 
 [373]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Crepuscule ? That 
 is what I believe." 
 
 " God forbid ! " exclaimed Eleanore, invol 
 untarily. 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 
 
 [374]
 
 LENORE 
 
 ivrgjws^fn-gr-s'g 
 
 of spring blew softly in from off the sea. 
 Finally, one by one, the jewels of night be 
 gan 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, know 
 ing that her agony had begun. 
 
 No one in Le Crepuscule 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 clus 
 tered there in the torchlight, whispering nerv 
 ously together, and listening with strained ears 
 for any sounds coming from Madame Lenore's 
 bedchamber. In the hall below were a com 
 pany 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 play 
 ing 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, pac 
 ing up and down the hall, his hands clenched 
 behind him, and the beads of sweat rolling off 
 [375]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 rust 
 ling 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. 
 
 [376]
 
 LENORE 
 
 " 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 Crepuscule." 
 
 [377]
 
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 ELEANORS 
 
 HEN 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, say 
 ing not a word to one of them, shut herself 
 into her own chamber. Once there, she dis 
 robed with speed, but when she had crept 
 into her bed and pulled the coverings up 
 above her, she found that sleep was an im 
 possibility. There was a dull weight at her 
 heart, which for the moment she could not 
 [378]
 
 ELEANORE 
 
 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 Crepuscule ! 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 wilder 
 ness, companionless, without hope of escape ! 
 Thus, dully, inarticulately, every one in Le 
 Crepuscule 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 health 
 fully 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- 
 [379]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 morning to her. " Come thou in," she whis 
 pered. " 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 mys 
 terious 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, burn 
 ing 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, flutter 
 ing 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 
 [380]
 
 ELEANORE 
 
 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 be 
 fore in her young life, she started toward the 
 door, glancing as she went at Laure, who fol 
 lowed 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 Crepuscule." 
 
 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 
 
 [381]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 happi 
 ness, presently succumbed to the atmosphere, 
 and began to reflect that the last hope of the 
 Castle was gone, that the line of Crepuscule 
 had died forever. And neither she nor any 
 one else paused to think that, if the little Twi 
 light baby asleep upstairs had understood the 
 true nature of her welcome into the world, 
 she might readily have been persuaded to es 
 cape again, as rapidly as possible, into her blue 
 ether, where pain and unwelcome were things 
 unknown. 
 
 [382]
 
 ELEANORE 
 
 When AHxe had eaten, she returned to the 
 sick-room and, madame being still asleep, in 
 sisted 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, philoso 
 phized over the sad stories of those in the Cas 
 tle, and the prospect of a real history that 
 there might be for her when she should leave 
 Le Crepuscule ; and it was in the midst of 
 this reverie that the door from Laure's room 
 opened softly, and madame came in. 
 [383]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 Near the threshold she paused, looking in 
 tently 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, be 
 cause 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 hard 
 ness. 
 
 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. 
 
 [384]
 
 ELEANORE 
 
 Eleanore nodded, and Alixe wondered un 
 easily 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 'It 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 Crepuscule ? " And it was with a 
 kind of groan that madame moved slowly 
 across to the bedside. When Alixe left the 
 [25 ] [ 385 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 dis 
 appointment of the Castle ; so that he was 
 prepared for what he found. He read Elea- 
 nore's mind from her face, and was not sur 
 prised 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 ; 
 [386]
 
 ELEANORE 
 
 and in her unexpected joy the Bishop found 
 some consolation for the cloud of misery that 
 shrouded madame. Indeed, he watched Le- 
 nore with unaffected delight, seeing with amaze 
 ment 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 melan 
 choly, 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 oldtime inward rebellion that hath been 
 so long asleep that I had hoped it dead." 
 
 Madame looked at him with something of 
 [387]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 im 
 petuosity. " 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 clos 
 ing 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 
 [388]
 
 ELEANORE 
 
 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 griev 
 ous 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 
 cpming as I would. Yet the thought that an 
 [389]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 heir might be born to Crepuscule, the thought 
 that the line might yet be carried on to some 
 thing 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 be 
 lief, 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 ? " 
 
 [390]
 
 ELEANORE 
 
 ESi^SSS^S 
 
 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 wan 
 dering 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 can 
 not 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 
 Crepuscule may fall into other hands than 
 [391]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 those of thy race? Thinkest thou thou wilt 
 be here to see it ? For sh'ame, 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 visi 
 ble 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, creep 
 ing 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
 
 ELEANORE 
 
 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 fol 
 lowed 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- 
 [393]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 Crepuscule were wont to con 
 gregate. 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 any 
 thing in the room. Her passage had become 
 complicated, and, at the same time, interest 
 ing, when Lenore's voice suddenly broke in 
 upon her, 
 
 "Alixe, 'tis long time now since I saw 
 [394]
 
 ELEANORE 
 
 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 down 
 stairs, 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 
 [395]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 g^g^'^^xs>g^r-q^-^5-^r5g-g~<^-r?g^^^ *iT'--r-fi-S?S?S-S-'giS'SS8 
 
 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 sud 
 denly 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 
 [396]
 
 ELEANORE 
 
 he realized vaguely that Alixe had left the 
 room, and that he was alone with Lenore. 
 
 " 'T is 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 speak 
 ing 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 
 [397]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 ~fc~sr v s~s~ c Tvr'''Tr < rr^ir < T'*r~ g ^" ; * ? ' >a ^" g ~ <; ^^ 
 
 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 Cour 
 toise to take an unwilling part in the reminis 
 cences. 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 re 
 turned 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 
 [398]
 
 ELEANORE 
 
 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; 
 [ 399 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 and, as time passed, and thoughts began ade 
 quately 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. 
 
 [ 400 ]
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 THE RISING TIDE 
 
 UMMER was on the world 
 again, and with its coming, 
 melancholy was banished for 
 a season from Le Crepuscule. 
 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 amaze 
 ment, 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 Crepuscule was as 
 beautiful in summer as it was desolate in win- 
 [ 26 ] [ 401 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 ter; 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 Cre- 
 puscule 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 
 [402]
 
 THE RISING TIDE 
 
 S^s^s^^re^g^g>g^S s ^ss^s^g^<7?l^r^^v-?i 
 
 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 Crepuscule, 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 Crepuscule 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 Crepuscule the 
 demoiselles whom Lenore had brought with 
 [403]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 ma- 
 dame, 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 Cour- 
 toise taught them the articles of knight 
 hood, 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 Crepuscule. 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 Crepuscule. 
 She was filled with unrest ; but her plans 
 [404]
 
 THE RISING TIDE 
 
 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 Crepuscule. Still she la 
 bored 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 Crepuscule, 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 out 
 side Le Crepuscule 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 oldtime 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 
 [405]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 1 9th 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 black 
 ness. A spoken word directed toward the 
 inner passage-way would reverberate along 
 that mysterious interior till one could not but 
 [406]
 
 THE RISING TIDE 
 
 ^^^V^TMnrS^Sas;S?S>grs?g?g>ivSi?<i?Si 
 
 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, how 
 ever, had long been held to possess some 
 uncanny power over the people of the super 
 natural 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 de 
 voutly believed in, and so devoutly dreaded. 
 
 To-day, certainly, there was no suggestion 
 of the uncanny about her as she lay upon her 
 [407]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 pil 
 lowed 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 sup 
 posed to anger or distress her. For the mo 
 ment 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 
 [408]
 
 THE RISING TIDE 
 
 thee in thy retreat, or thou that hast invaded 
 mine ? " 
 
 " Ohe, David, thou'st startled me! Me- 
 seemeth I all but slept." 
 
 " 'T is a day for sleep, but this is not the 
 place. Is there room there on the ledge ? Wilt 
 let me up ? 'T is 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 be 
 side her, his light body seeming but a feather 
 in weight. She made room beside her, and he 
 sat down there, cocking one particolored 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 'It 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 whim 
 sical earnestness. Alixe made no immediate 
 reply to his speech, and so, to entertain him- 
 [ 409 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 self, 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 ab 
 sently. 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 in 
 exorable 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. 
 [410]
 
 THE RISING TIDE 
 
 "Is it our end? David, David! Shall I 
 not leave Le Crepuscule, 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 
 [411]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 ! 
 [412]
 
 THE RISING TIDE 
 
 I will steady thee. Come, thou 'It 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 't would 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 
 
 [413]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 can 
 not 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 be 
 side 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. 
 [414]
 
 THE RISING TIDE 
 
 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 in 
 toxication 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 be 
 held 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 
 [415]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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." 
 
 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 beat 
 ing 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 
 [416]
 
 J~ TAND in band, by the murmur- 
 JL J. ous sea, they walked. Page 42?
 
 THE RISING TIDE 
 
 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, gasp 
 ing in sea-water with every terrified breath, and 
 unable to get her limbs free from their bind 
 ing, 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 re 
 gained 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 
 
 M 27 ] [ 417 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 there, and here thou 'It 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 1 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 laugh 
 ter. 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 
 [418]
 
 THE RISING TIDE 
 
 S>S^v^gg;^7>i^g?g^gr>g>sr><^>fi7^>s^g^i 
 
 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 curi 
 osity. 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 vigor 
 ous 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 
 [419]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 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 wan 
 dering vaguely over the events of the afternoon. 
 Gradually her world grew full of misty, creep 
 ing 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. 'T will 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 
 
 [420]
 
 THE RISING TIDE 
 
 sad eyes looked down upon the drawn face of 
 her foster-sister, while she spoke. " Alixe," 
 she said softly, " methinks I know thy confes 
 sion. Thou hast tried to leave Le Crepuscule. 
 Is it not so ? " 
 
 Alixe's eyes suddenly filled with tears. " It 
 is so. I tried to leave Le Crepuscule." 
 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 hap 
 piness 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 Le- 
 nore, 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 
 [421 ]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 =SSSS3S3e==S=SS=S^SS=S^=aS=ffi=^iS^=^^i^iE=S:^^ 
 
 me ! Shall we not, thou and I, go back again 
 into our childhood, and dream of naught better 
 than dwelling here forever m this place ? Both 
 of us have sinned. And now we are come 
 home into the shadow of the Castle of Twi 
 light, for forgiveness' sake." 
 
 [422]
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 THE MIDDLE OF THE VALLEY 
 
 had faith enough in 
 David to believe that he would 
 keep silent about the affair of 
 that afternoon, and her confi 
 dence 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 adven 
 ture. 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 sum 
 mer, however, neither of them ventured again 
 into the Goblin's Cave ; and, from Alixe's 
 [423]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 r ^p^~g->g r ~e^y ? ^-^^->r-tr-gr-sg<^r>r^^ 
 
 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 Crepuscule must be her home forever, came 
 to have no bitterness in it ; for she had learned 
 in a strange way how Le Crepuscule 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 gener 
 ally 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 ab 
 stracted thought. And these things had stolen 
 upon them so unawares that none was con 
 scious of it in any other, and least of all in 
 herself. It was a singularly beautiful atmos 
 phere 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
 
 THE MIDDLE OF THE VALLEY 
 
 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 content 
 ment, 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 
 [425]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 all had reached it, and was glad that it was so. 
 To St. Nazaire, who was now her only con 
 nection 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 understand 
 ing 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 tran 
 scends 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, 
 [426]
 
 THE MIDDLE OF THE VALLEY 
 
 it was that time when, Nature having reached 
 the full measure of her maturity, she was turn 
 ing 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 Cre- 
 puscule, 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 involun 
 tarily 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 un 
 consciously 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 
 [427]
 
 THE CASTLE OF TWILIGHT 
 
 stillness. Nature knelt before the great mar 
 riage of the sun and sea. The altar of the 
 west was hung with golden and purple tapes 
 tries ; 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 shim 
 mering veil of the beautiful bride ; and there 
 after 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 
 [ 428]
 
 THE MIDDLE OF THE VALLEY 
 
 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
 
 MISS POTTER'S FIRST SUCCESS 
 
 U ncanonize d 
 
 BY MARGARET HORTON POTTER 
 
 Autbor of "Me Castle of twilight" 
 
 H STORY of English monastic life in the thir 
 teenth 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 inter 
 pretation 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 con 
 fidence. 
 
 One of the most powerful historical romances that has ever 
 appeared over the name of an American writer. PHILADEL 
 PHIA 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. 
 
 SIXTH EDITION 
 WITH FRONTISPIECE. i 2 mo. $1.50 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers
 
 UNIFORM WITH "THE THRALL OF LEIF THE LUCKY" 
 
 The Ward of King Canute 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE DANISH CONQUEST 
 
 BY OTTILIE A. LILJENCRANTZ 
 
 GHIS book is for those who are weary of conven 
 tional 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 unhack 
 neyed, and has a mediaeval 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, un 
 adorned 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 illustra 
 tions 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 prim 
 itive human passions. PHILADELPHIA LEDGER. 
 
 THIRD EDITION 
 
 WITH SIX FULL-PAGE PICTURES IN COLOR AND 
 OTHER DECORATIONS BY THE KINNEYS. #1.50 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS
 
 A BOOK OF GREAT BEAUTY 
 
 "The 'Thrall of Leif the Lucky 
 
 A STORY OF VIKING DAYS 
 
 BY OTTILIE A. LILJENCRANTZ 
 
 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 ap 
 pearance 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 pub 
 lished 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. 
 
 SIXTH EDITION 
 
 WITH SIX FULL-PAGE PICTURES IN COLOR, AND 
 OTHER DECORATIONS BY THE KINNEYS. 1.50 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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