In the evening of the day of that momentous visit, after compline was over, and she was in her bed in her cell, Laure yielded herself up to sleep only after a rebellious struggle; she wished intensely to lie awake with her wonderful thoughts. Sleep prevailed, however, and was sound and dreamless; for she was physically tired out.

At two in the morning came the first boom of the church bell pulled by the sleep-laden sexton,—the beginning of the call to matins. The night was very black; and only after two or three minutes did Laure struggle up from her bed, trembling with that dead, numb feeling that results from being roused too suddenly from heavy unconsciousness. Mechanically the young girl felt about for her lantern and opened the door into the dimly lit corridor. There were half a dozen nuns and novices grouped about the stone lamp which burned all night on the wall, and from which the sisters were accustomed to light their cressets for matins. Laure waited her turn in a dazed manner, and when she had obtained the light, went back to her cell, left the door unclosed according to rule, and, placing the lantern on the small table, knelt at her priedieu.

So far her every move had been mechanical. Her brain was not yet awake. But, with the first words of the Agnus Dei, the full memory of yesterday suddenly flashed upon her. She had been at home, and had found there 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 presence till they are changed for their inhabitants beyond recognition. Strictly speaking, Laure was not thinking of the trouvÈre. Her thoughts refused to review him in the light of her knowledge of him. She would not think of his personality,—his face, eyes, form, or manner. Her heart shrank from anything so bold. She refused to question herself. Yet her mind was full of him, and the other subject in her thoughts was this: that in eleven days more, were God pitying to her, she should, perhaps—ever perhaps—see him again.

When matins and lauds were over, the sisters returned to bed till the hour for dressing, a quarter to five. Laure was accustomed to sleep soundly through this period. But to-day she refused to close her eyes. Nay, it was ecstasy to her to lie dreaming of many old, vague things that had scarce any connection with her new heart, and yet would have had no place at all with her had they not carried as an undercurrent the image of that same new god.

All day Laure went about with a song in her soul. Why she should have been glad, who can say? What possible hope for happiness there was for her, what idea of any finale save one of grief, resignation, or despair, she never thought to ask herself. She let her new happiness take possession of her without stopping to analyze it. And it was as well that she did no analyzing. For a logical process would inevitably have brought her to the beginning of these things, to the moment, the ineffable moment, when the hand of Flammecoeur had first rested on her own.

This first morning passed away. Dinner was eaten, and recreation time came. Now Eloise persistently sought Laure’s company; and Laure, with equal persistence and quite remarkable adroitness, avoided her. The young nun knew, from the face of Eloise, that there were a thousand silly thoughts ready to come out of her; and Laure could not bear to have her own delicate, rainbow dreams so crudely disturbed. And there was something more about the presence of Eloise that disturbed the daughter of Le CrÉpuscule; this was the understanding between them that they should not confess the real reason for their tardy arrival on the previous day. Laure had made up her mind, tacitly, to confess nothing—yet. But she did not like to be reminded of the fact.

That night Laure successfully resisted the dictates of sleep, with the result that, all next day, she felt dull and weak. When dinner and sext were over, and recreation came, she obtained ready permission to retire to her cell instead of going to the garden or the court or the library with the other nuns. Once alone and safe from the attacks of Eloise, who was becoming importunate, she lay down on her bed and sank, almost at once, to rest. While she slept, the sun came out upon the outer world, and poured its beams over the chill valley beyond the priory. The gray, lowering clouds were broken up. The heavens shone blue, and the ice-crust shimmered with myriad, sparkling diamonds. No sunlight could enter the cell of sleep; for it was afternoon, and the single little window looked toward the east. But after nearly an hour of shining stillness, there came a sound from the frozen vale that was more beautiful than sunlight. It reached Laure’s ears, and woke her. She rose up, hearkening incredulously for a moment, and then, with a smothered cry of delight, threw herself forward again on the bed, and laughed and moaned together into the cold sheets.

From below, just outside her window, rose a voice, a tenor voice, high and clear and mellow, singing a chanson of the south to the accompaniment of a six-stringed lute. After a few seconds Laure ventured to raise her head and listen. With a thrill of ecstasy she caught the words,—

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 Flammecoeur.

He was scanning closely the row of cell windows above him, hoping against hope for a sight of Laure’s face. Ignorant as he was of convent hours, he knew that he had but the barest chance of making her hear; and that there was less than this chance of seeing her. Thus when Laure’s face, framed in its soft white veil, looked out to him, Flammecoeur experienced a rush of emotion that was overpowering. She inspired him with a reverence that he had not known he could feel for any woman. Her face was so glorified in his eyes that she looked like an image of the Holy Virgin. Breaking off in the middle of the song, he fell upon his knees there in the snow, uttering incoherent and indistinguishable phrases of adoration.

Flammecoeur was theatrical enough; also he was hard, utterly unscrupulous, and a scoffer at holy things. His only idol was his love for beauty. This was his religion, and he had worshipped it consistently from boyhood. Now he had found its almost perfect embodiment in this girl, in whom innocence, purity, youth, and beauty were inextricably mingled. And Flammecoeur strove to adjust his rather callous spirit to hers, feeling that he would sooner breathe his last than shock her delicacy—till he had attained his end.

Now, in the dying sunlight, the two talked together; and in the light of his new reverence the young nun lost a little of her timidity and made open confession in her looks, though never in her words, of her delight in his presence.

“Tell me, O Maiden of Angels,” he said, addressing her in a term that at once brought them both a sense of familiarity and of pleasure, “tell me, is this thy regular hour of solitude? Could I—might I hope—to see thee often here—hold speech with thee—without endangering thy devotions?”

“Nay, verily!” whispered Laure, hastily. “Oh, thou must not come! Nay, I am supposed to be with the other sisters at this hour of recreation. Only to-day was I permitted—”

“And didst thou think of me? Hopest thou I would come? Didst think—”

“Monsieur!” Laure’s tone was reproachful and embarrassed.

“Forgive me! Though verily I know not how I have offended thee!”

Laure was about to utter her reproach when suddenly, around the corner of the wall, appeared the head of 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 CrÉpuscule!” she cried out, utterly forgetful of herself and of her position.

Instantly Flammecoeur 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 sudden revulsion of feeling, she was gone; the window above him was empty. He stayed where he was for some moments, meditating on what plea would be successful. Finally, deciding silence the surer part, he remounted his horse and turned slowly to the west, through the chill evening, doing battle with himself. He found that he was unable to cope with the flame that this pretty nun had kindled in his brain. His anger rose against her, to be once more overtopped by passion. And had he not been so occupied in trying to regain sufficient self-control to make some safe plan of action, he might have known himself for the knave he surely was.

In the priory three days went prayerfully by; and at the end of that time Laure found herself sick with misery. 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 innocent girl,—innocent even of any unshaped desire or longing. The force of her nature had always found relief in physical activity. In her home life all things had been clean and free before her. And in the convent the teaching that emotion was sin had been accepted by her without thought. Nevertheless, in her, all unwaked, there lay a broad, passionate nature that needed but a quickening touch to throw her into such depths as, were she taken unawares, would eventually drag her to her doom. Her ignorance was pitiable; and even now she had entered alone upon a dark stretch of road, the end of which she did not herself know, and which none could prophesy to her.

Three days of unhappiness, of battle with herself, and of longing for a sight of Flammecoeur, and then—he came. Again it was the recreation hour, and Laure was in the garden, walking in the cold with one or two of the sisters. Her thoughts had strayed from the general chatter, and her eyes, like her mind, looked afar off. Her companions, rather accustomed to Angelique’s vagaries, paid little attention to her, and she pursued her reverie uninterrupted. Suddenly, from out of the snowy stillness, a sound reached her ears. For an instant her heart ceased to beat; and she halted in her walk. Yes, 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 undecidedly. Then she halted.

“I had forgot,” she said quietly. “I must to my cell. I have five Aves to repeat for inattention at the reading of St. Elizabeth this morning.”

“Methought they were to be said in chapter,” observed one of her companions, indifferently.

“Nay; Reverend Mother gave permission,—in my cell,” answered Laure, rather weakly; for she saw that she should get into difficulty if any one mentioned this matter again. However, 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. Her night was filled with a tumult of dreams; and when day dawned again she was hot with the fever of unrest.

Days went by, and then weeks, and finally two months, and March was on the world. Hints of spring were borne down the breeze. The deeply frozen earth began slowly, slowly to throw off its weight of ice, and to open its breast to the warm touches of the sun. The black, bare branches of the forest trees waved about uncannily, like gaunt arms, beckoning to the distant summer. And in all this time the situation of the little nun of CrÉpuscule had not changed. The troubadour still lingered at the Chateau, a welcome guest. And still he haunted the priory, unknown to any one save her whom he continually sought. As yet he had done nothing, said not one word that betrayed his intentions. He had waited patiently till the time should be ripe; and now that time approached. Laure had endured a life of secret torture, but had not succeeded in throwing off the shackles she had voluntarily put on. Nay, she confessed now to herself that, without his occasional coming, she could not have lived. She chafed at their restricted intercourse. She longed to meet him where she could put her hands into his, where she could listen to the sound of his voice without the terror of discovery. All this Flammecoeur 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 CrÉpuscule to the priory. As they went, the spring sun sent its beams aslant across the road; and birds, newly arrived from the far south, were site-hunting among the black trees. The air was filled with the chilly sweetness that made one dizzy with dreams of coming summer; and both Laure and the trouvÈre grew slowly intoxicated as they rode side by side, so close that his knee touched her palfrey’s flank. Behind them, Yvain and Eloise were still discussing their love-notions. The afternoon was misty with approaching sunset. In the radiant golden light, Laure’s heart grew big with unshed tears of life; and before the sobs came, Flammecoeur, leaning far toward her, whispered thickly,—

“Thou must come to me alone! I must have thee alone. I must know thy lips. ’Fore God, refuse me not, thou greatly beloved!”

Laure drew a long, shivering breath and looked slowly into his face. Her eyes rested full upon his, and she did not speak, but he read her reply.

“Where shall I come to-night?” he asked.

“To-night!”

“Assuredly. To-night. Dieu! Thinkest thou that I can stand aloof from thee forever? Thinkest thou my blood is water in my veins? To-night!”

Laure mused a little, her eyes looking afar off, as if she dreamed. She brought them back to him with a start. “To-night—by starlight—in the convent garden. Canst thou climb the wall?”

“Ah! thou shalt see!”

Laure’s heart palpitated with the look he gave her, and she sat silent under it, while, bit by bit, all her training, all her year of precepts, all herself, her womanhood, her truth, her steadfastness to righteousness, slipped away from her under the spell of this most powerful of all emotions. And presently she turned to him again with such an expression of exaltation in her poor face, that his heart warmed to her with a tenderer feeling.

“At what hour?” he whispered.

“One hour after the last tolling of the bell at compline after confession.”

“Confession!” the word slipped from him before he thought. He saw Laure turn first scarlet and then very white; and her lips trembled.

“Ah, Laure, most beloved, heed it not! If there be any sin in loving as we love, lay it all on me. For on my soul, I would leave heaven itself gladly behind for thee! And since God created thee as lovely as thou art, wert thou not made to be beloved? Look, Laure! see the gray bird there among the trees! Behold, it is the bird of the Saint Esprit! It is an omen. It is our heavenly sign; therefore be not afraid.”

And as Laure promised him, so she did. She understood so well how the Flaming-heart wanted to be alone with her: did she not also long for solitude with him? And if they were alone for one hour, God was above. He saw and He knew all things. Why, then, should she be afraid?

Therefore Laure went to her cell that night with her soul unshriven, and a heavy weight upon it of mingled joy and pain. Lying fully dressed upon her bed, she heard the great bell boom out the close of another day of praise to God. And when the last vibration had died down the wind, and the sexton had wended her pious way to bed, Laure rose, and prepared herself to go out into the garden. All that she had to do was to wrap herself in her mantle and to cover her head with a hood and veil. But first, following an instinct of dormant conscience, she unwound the rosary from her waist and hung it on the rail of the priedieu, before which she had not prayed to-night. Then she sat down upon her bed and waited,—waited through centuries, through ages, till it seemed to her that dawn must be about to break. But she felt that should she reach the garden before the coming of 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 feet made no noise upon the stones, and she passed in safety through corridors and rooms till she reached the library, from which there was an open exit to the garden.

In the doorway she paused and looked out upon the pale moonlit scene. Her heart was beating quite steadily now, and she was able to consider almost with calmness the possibility that she was early. The light from the half-moon fell upon her where she stood, and suddenly she beheld a dark-cloaked figure run out of the shrubbery by the northwestern wall and come hurrying toward her. At the same moment she herself started forward, half fearfully. A moment later she was caught in Flammecoeur’s arms, and a rain of kisses beat down upon her face.

Gasping, crimson, horrified, she tore herself away from the embrace with the strength of one outraged.

“Stop! In God’s name, stop! Wouldst do me dishonor?” she cried out, in an anger that bordered upon tears.

“Dishonor! Mon Dieu! wherefore, prithee, camest thou into this garden, then? Was it to stand here in this doorway and permit me to scream my devotion at thee from yonder wall?”

In her nervousness Laure suddenly laughed. But she was forced back to gravity, as he went on with a sudden rush of passion,—

“Laure, Laure, is it thy intent to drive me mad? Faith, what man would forbear as I have forborne with thee? Thinkest thou any one would wait for weeks, nay, months, as I have waited, and feel thee at last free and in his arms, to be instantly thrust away again? Nay, by my soul! Thou art here, and thou art mine, and I have much to ask of thee. Christ! Thine eyes! Thy hair! Laure, I shall bear thee away from this prison-house. I will have thee for all mine own. Thou must leave thy cell by night, and come to me here. Outside the wall Yvain will wait with horses; and we will ride away—ride like hounds—out of this land of tears, southward, into the country of freedom and roses and love! There we shall dwell together, thou and I—thou and I—Laure, Laure, my sweet! And who in all God’s earth before hath known such joy as we shall know! Answer me, Laure, answer me! Say thou’lt come!”

Once again he took her in his arms, but more calmly now, the force of his passion having spent itself in words but half articulate. And now he perceived how she was all trembling and afraid; and so he soothed her with gentle phrases and tender caresses, for indeed 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, Flammecoeur demanded a reply to his plea. There was hesitation, doubting, evident desire, and very evident fear. Then, staking everything, he urged her thus,—

“Listen, Laure. I would not have thee decide all things now in thy mind. In one week I will be here, as to-night, at the same hour, in this place; and all things will be prepared for our flight. If thou come to me before the matins bell rings out, all will be well, and we shall go forth together into heaven. If thou come not,—why, I have tarried far too long in this Bretagne, and Yvain and I will go on together into the world, and thou shalt see me no more forever. Fair choice and honorable I give thee, for that I love thee better than myself. Now fare thee well, lady of my heart’s delight. God in His sweet mercy give thee into my keeping!”

With a final kiss he put her from him and saw her go; and then he threw himself over the wall, and set out on his return ride to the Castle by the sea.

Laure descended to prime next morning, trembling for fear of unknown possibilities. But no one in the church saw her muddy sandals; and her skirts and mantle were not more soiled round the bottom than was customary with those nuns that took their recreation in the garden. By the time the breaking of the fast occurred, she was reassured, and felt herself safe from the consequences of her night. Then, and only then, did she turn her mind to the choice that she must make during the ensuing sennight.

That week was one of terror by night and woe by day. Hourly she resolved to renounce forever all thoughts of the flesh, confess her sin, and remain true to the convent for life. For the first three days these renewals of faith made her strong and stronger. She wept and she prayed and she hoped for strength; and finally she began to believe that the Devil was beaten. And yet—and yet—she did not even now confess the story of her acquaintance with Flammecoeur. She said to herself that she would win this last fight alone; but she did not seek to find if there was self-deception in that excuse. No one but the girl Eloise had any idea that there existed such a person as the trouvÈre; and Eloise was unaware that Soeur Angelique had ever seen that gallant gentleman save when she and Yvain were present. Moreover, the stupid one was becoming alarmed lest the sudden devotional fervor of Demoiselle Angelique should lead to the cessation of those meetings for which her vague soul so impiously thirsted. The rest of the sisters perceived Laure’s extra prayers and rigorous fasting with admiration and approval, and put them down to one of those sudden rushes of fervor to which young nuns were peculiarly subject.

After three days of this devotional effort, the Devil widened his little wedge of temptation, and roused in her an overpowering desire to see her lover again. By now she had lost her shame at the first hot kiss ever laid upon her lips, and—alas, poor humanity!—was longing secretly for more. So long, however, as Flammecoeur was still in Le CrÉpuscule, she believed that she could endure everything. But she knew that after four days he would be there no more; and if she let her chance go, it was the last she should ever have. Then her mind strayed to the after-picture of her life here in the nunnery; and at the thought her heart grew numb and cold. Yet still she fought and prayed, trusting to no one her weight of temptation, keeping steadfastly to that self-deceptive determination to finish the battle alone.

The torturing week came slowly to an end. On the final night, after compline, she went to her cell feeling like a spirit condemned to eternal night. Once alone, face to face with her soul, she sat down upon a chair, bent her head upon her breast, and thought. She did not extinguish her light, neither did she make preparations for bed. Unconsciously she set herself to wait through the hour following compline, as if its finish would bring the end of her trial. The minutes were passing smoothly by, and there was a great, unuttered cry of terror in her heart. What should she do? Nay, at the last minute, what would she do? Here her mind broke. She could think no more. Her brain was a vacuum. Presently her muscles began to twitch. Her flesh became cold and damp, and the hot saliva poured into her mouth. Would that hour never end?

It ended. By now Flammecoeur was in the garden, three hundred feet away. Flammecoeur was waiting for her. Horses were there, and garments for her,—other garments than these of sickening white wool. How long would the trouvÈre wait? Till matins, he had said. But if that were not true? If he should go before—if he were going now!

Laure started to her feet, halted, hesitated, then sank slowly to her knees. The first words of a prayer came from her lips; but in the middle of the phrase she was silent. Prayer was suddenly nothing to her. She had prayed so much; she had prayed so long! The beauty of appeals to the Most High was lost just now. She felt all the weight of her never-satisfied religion upon her, and she revolted at it. For the moment love itself seemed desirable only in so much as it would get her away from this place of her hypocrisy. A sudden thought of her mother came to her. For one moment—two—five—she kept her mind fixed. Then she sobbed. Flammecoeur was below, calling to her with every fibre of his being. She knew that. She could see him waiting there, her cloak over his arm. With a low wail she stretched out her arms to the mental image. Afterwards, scarcely knowing what she did, she knelt down before the bright-painted picture of the Madonna on the wall of her cell, and kissed the stones of the floor below it.

Then she stood up, pressing her hands tightly to her throat to ease the pain there. She looked around her, and in that look saw everything in the little stone room that had for so long been her home. Then, removing from her head the coif, wimple, and veil, the symbols of her virginity, she extinguished her lantern, and walked, blindly and wearily, out of her cell. So she passed, without making any noise, through the convent, into the library, and out—out—out into the garden beyond.

Instantly Flammecoeur was at her side. “Laure!” cried he, half laughing in his triumph. “Laure! Now we shall go!”

Over his arm he carried a voluminous black mantle and a close, dark hood. These he put upon her, getting small assistance in the matter, for Laure’s movements were wooden, her hands like ice.

“Now—canst climb the wall with me?” he asked, gazing at her in her transformation, and noting how pure and white her skin showed in its dark frame.

She gasped and bent her head. Thereupon he seized her in his arms and carried her to the wall. There she surpassed his hopes; for her old, tomboyish skill suddenly came back to her, and she scrambled up the rough stones more agilely than he. Once in the road outside the garden, Flammecoeur gave a low whistle. Then, out of the shadow of the wood, on the north side of the road, came Yvain, riding one steed, and leading that of 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 unutterable heartbreak, how should she know, poor girl, whose only guide was God Inscrutable, working His mysterious way alone, in heaven on high?