When Gerault left her to go to his mother’s room, on that first evening in the Castle that was to be her home, Lenore was still fully dressed. As soon as she was alone, however, she made herself ready for the night; and then, wrapping herself about in her long day-mantle, went to a window overlooking the sea, and sat there waiting for her lord’s return. Now that the excitement of the day, of the arrival, of meeting so many new people, all eager to make her welcome, was over, Lenore began to feel herself very weary, a little homesick, a little wistful, and tremulously eager for Gerault’s speedy return. She clung to the thought of him and her newly risen love, with pathetic anxiety. Was it not lawful and right that she should love him? Was it not equally lawful and therefore equally certain that he must love her? She knew little enough of love and of men, young Lenore; yet this idea came to her instinctively, and it seemed impossible that it could be otherwise. It was so recently that she had been a little girl in all her thoughts and pleasures and habits, that this sudden transition to the dignified estate of wifehood had left her singularly helpless, singularly dependent on the man whom she had married out of duty and fallen in love with afterwards, on the way from Rennes. Gerault helped her, in his way. He was kind, he was gentle, was solicitous for her comfort, and required of her nothing but a quiet demeanor. But that he failed in some way to give her what was her due, the young girl rather felt than knew.

While she waited here alone, looking out upon the lonely sea, that was so new and so wonderful a sight to her, the Lady Lenore bitterly regretted and took herself to task for her gayety of the evening. The silly games that she had once so loved to play—alas! he had not joined in them, doubtless thought them trivial and unbecoming in a woman grown and married! She had made herself a fool before him! He was older than she, and wiser, and a gallant knight. Lenore’s cheeks flushed with pride as she remembered how he could joust and tilt at the ring. She remembered when she had first seen him, from the gallery of the list at Rennes, when he unseated the Seigneur Geoffrey Cartel. This lordly sport was as simple to him as her games to her. Little wonder that she had exhausted his patience! And yet—if he would but come to her now! She was so sadly weary; and it grew so late. Her little body ached, her temples throbbed, her eyes burned with the past glare of the sun on the white dust, and the recent flickering light of the torches. If he would but come back, and forgive her her childishness, and kiss her before she slept, she would be very happy.

In point of fact Gerault did come soon. Knowing that Lenore must be weary, he remained but a short time with his mother, and returned immediately to his wife. The moment that he entered the room, Lenore rose from her place, and ran to him with a faint cry of delight.

“At last thou art come! Thou art come!” she said indistinctly, not wanting him to hear the words, yet unable to keep from saying them.

“And didst thou sit up for me, child, and thou so weary? I went but to give my mother good-night, for thou knowest ’tis long since I saw her last. She sent thee her blessing and sweet rest; and my wish is fellow to hers. Come now, child.”

Gerault lifted her up in his arms, and, carrying her to the bed, laid her down in it, mantle and all. In the carrying, Lenore had leaned her head upon his shoulder, and her two tired arms folded themselves around his neck. How it was that Gerault felt no thrill at this touch; that it was almost a relief to him when the hold loosened; and how, though he slept at her side that night, his dreams, freer replica of his day-thoughts, were filled with vague trouble, he himself could scarce have told; and yet it was so.

Next morning, however, Gerault watched her waken, looking as rosy and fresh as a child, and smiling a child’s delighted welcome at the new day. Unquestionably she was a pleasure to him at such times. Before her marriage he had liked, in thinking of her, to accentuate her fairy-like ways, because through them he had brought himself to marry her. And now his treatment of her resembled most, perhaps, the treatment of something very fine and fair, something very rare and delicate and generally to be prized, but not really belonging to him, not essentially valued by him, or near at all to his human heart.

When they were ready for the day, the two of them, Lenore and Gerault, did not linger together in their room, but descended immediately to the chapel, where morning prayers were just beginning. Every eye was turned upon them as they entered the holy room; and it was as sunshine greeting sunshine when Lenore faced the open window, through which poured the golden light of July. Madame’s heart swelled and beat fast, and that of Alixe all but stopped, as each beheld the morning’s bride; and they perceived, with a kind of dull surprise, that Gerault’s face was as dark-browed, as reserved, as melancholy as ever. It seemed impossible that he should not be moved to new life by the presence and possession of so fair a thing as this Lenore. Yet when the devotions were at an end, and the Castle household rose and moved out to where the tables were spread for the breaking of the fast, no one noted how the young girl’s blue eyes glanced once or twice a little wistfully, a little forlornly, up into the unmoved face of her husband, and that she got therefrom no answering smile.

In celebration of the Seigneur’s wedding, a week’s holiday had been declared for every one in the Castle; and so, when the first meal of the day was at an end, the demoiselles, in high glee at escaping from the morning’s toil in the hot spinning-room, gayly proposed to their attendant squires that they repair at once to the open meadows, where there was glorious opportunity for games and caroles. Lenore’s eyes lighted with pleasure at this proposal; but she looked instinctively at Gerault, to see if his face approved the plan. She found his eyes upon her; and, as he caught her glance, he motioned her to his side, and drew her with him a little apart from the general group. Then he said to her kindly,—

“Beloved, I shall see thee at noon meat. Courtoise and I go forth this morning together to try two of the new falcons that Alixe hath trained. Thou’lt fare gently here with all the demoiselles and the young squires; and see that thou weary not thyself at play in the heat. Till noon, my little one!”

He bent and touched his lips to her hair,—that sunlit hair,—and then, as he strode away, followed, but half willingly, by Courtoise, Lenore’s head bent forward, and her eyes, that for one instant had brimmed full, were shut tight till the unbidden drops went back again. When she looked up once more, Alixe was at her side, and the expression on the face of La Rieuse was full of unlooked-for tenderness. Lenore, however, was too proud for pity, and in a moment she smiled, and said bravely:

“My lord is going a-hawking with his squire. Shall we to the fields? Said they not that we should go to weave garlands in the fields?”

“Yes! To the fields! To the fields! Hola, David! We are commanded to the fields by our Queen of Delight!” called Alixe, loudly, waving her hands above her head, and striving in every way to gain the attention of the company. But in spite of her efforts, Gerault’s departure was seen, and there was a general outcry of protest, which did not, however, reach the ears of the Seigneur. Then Lenore was forced to bear the comments of the company: their loudly expressed disappointment, and the unspoken but infinitely more painful astonishment plainly indicated in every glance. Nevertheless the young girl had in her the instincts of a fine race, and she bore everything with a heroic unconcern that won Alixe’s admiration, and so far deceived the thoughtless throng as to bring her a new accusation of indifference to Gerault’s absence.

To the girl-bride that morning passed—somehow. It was perhaps the bitterest three hours she had ever endured; yet she would not confess her disappointment even to herself. Besides, was not Gerault coming home again? Had he not said that he would be back at noon? Had he not called her “beloved”? Her heart thrilled at the thought; and she forgot the fact that Gerault knew that she could ride with hawk on wrist and tell a fair quarry when she saw it. She forgot that at such times as this even hawking will generally give way to love; and that he is a sorry bridegroom that loves his horse better than his bride. Yet she forgave him for the time, and regained her smiles until the shadow of a new dread fell upon her. She could endure the morning; but the afternoon? Would he remain with her through the afternoon? Alas, here was the terrible pity of it! She could not tell.

However, this last dread proved to be groundless. Gerault made no move to leave the Castle again that day. Perhaps he even felt a little guilty of neglect; or perhaps her greeting on his return betrayed to him how she had suffered through the morning. However it was, as soon as the long dinner was at an end, the Seigneur and his lady were observed to wander away into the armory, and they sat there together, on the same settle, until the shadows grew long in the courtyard and the afternoon was nearly worn away. What they said to one another, or how Gerault entertained his maid, no one knew; for, oddly enough, Courtoise had put himself on guard at the armory door, and would permit none to venture so much as a peep into the room on which his own back was religiously turned. So for that afternoon demoiselles and squires chose King and Queen of their revels from among their own number, and perhaps enjoyed their games the better for that fact.

When the sun was leaning far toward the broad breast of the sea, all the Castle, mindful of their souls, repaired to the chapel for vespers, a service held only when the Bishop was at Le CrÉpuscule. Gerault and Lenore were the last to appear, and while the Seigneur’s expression was rather thoughtful than happy, it had in it, nevertheless, a suggestion of Lenore’s repressed joy, so that madame, seeing him, was satisfied for the first time since his home-coming.

But alas for the thoughts and hopes that this afternoon had raised in the observing ones of Le CrÉpuscule, Lenore and her husband were not seen again to spend a single hour alone together. Gerault remained for the most part with the general company of the Castle, not seeking to escape to solitude with Courtoise, but holding his lady from him at arm’s length. His attitude toward her was uneasy. He did not avoid her, but, were they by chance left alone together for ten minutes, his manner changed till it was like that of a man guilty of some dishonorable thing. Oftentimes, when they were with a number of others, Gerault would be seen to watch Lenore closely, and his eyes would light with momentary pleasure at some one of her unconscious graces. But the light never stayed. Quickly his black brows would darken, the shadows re-cover his face, and he would be more unapproachable than before.

In the course of a few days, Lenore began to grow morbidly sensitive over her husband’s attitude; and, out of sheer misery, she began to avoid him persistently. This brought a still more bitter blow to her, for she discovered that he was glad to be avoided. Lenore was desperate; but still she was brave, still she held to herself; and if at times she sought refuge with madame and Alixe, those two kindly and pitying souls met her with outstretched arms of silent sympathy, and never betrayed to her by so much as a glance how much they had observed of Gerault’s incomprehensible neglect.

The holiday week passed, and with its end came a spirit of relief that it was over. Next morning the usual occupations were begun, and Lenore went up to the spinning-room with the rest of the women. This work-room was on the second floor, and ran almost the whole length of the south side of the Castle: a long, narrow room, with many windows looking out upon the courtyard, and only a sideways view of the hazy, turquoise sea. Here was every known mechanical contrivance for the making of cloth and tapestry, and their development out of the raw wool. The loom, just now half filled with a warp of pale green, stood at the east end of the room; the fixed combs, the half-dozen spinning-wheels, the tambour-frames for embroidery, and the great tapestry-border frame, were ranged in an orderly line down the remaining length, and each of the maidens had her particular task of the summer in some stage of completion. Since Lenore’s arrival a spinning-wheel had been set up here for her, and she sat down to it at once, while her demoiselles were directed by madame to begin work on the tapestry border, at which four could apply the needle at the same time. As the roomful settled quickly to work, under the general guidance of madame, Lenore began to tread her wheel and draw out thread with a hand practised enough to win the approval even of Eleanore. And as the morning wore along, Lenore found herself unaccountably soothed and comforted by her task and the kindly atmosphere of perseverance and attention to duty surrounding her.

Nevertheless, it was not a comfortable day for such work. The heat was intense. Fingers grew constantly damp with sweat. Thread knotted and broke, silk drew, and little exclamations of anger and disgust were frequently to be heard. However, the labor was continued as usual for three hours, till eleven o’clock, the dinner hour, came, and the little company willingly left the spinning-room to another afternoon of silence, and went downstairs to meat. At the foot of the stairs stood Gerault, waiting for Lenore; and when she reached him he kissed her upon the brow before leading her to table. In that moment the girl’s heart sang, and she felt that her day had been fittingly crowned.

In the early afternoon Lenore found that there were new occupations for all the Castle. The demoiselles were despatched to the long room on the first floor, which, though not dignified by the name of library, yet took that place, for instruction in certain things, mental and moral, by the friar-steward, Father Anselm. The young men were at sword practice in the keep. And Lenore, who could write her name and read a little from parchment manuscripts in both Latin and French, and whose education was therefore finished, was summoned by madame and taken over the whole Castle, receiving, at various stages, instruction in domestic duties and the management of the great building. She saw everything, from the linen-presses upstairs to the wine-cellars underground; and everywhere the hand of madame was visible in the scrupulous exactness and neatness with which the Castle was kept. Then in her heart Lenore determined that in time she would learn madame’s habits, and, if it could be done in no other way, win Gerault’s respect by her abilities as a housekeeper.

The hours of late afternoon and early evening were devoted to recreation, which was entered into with new zest by every one. To be sure, Gerault sat all evening with his mother, playing draughts. But his eyes occasionally strayed to the figure of his wife; and later, when the Castle was still, and Lenore, in the great curtained bed, was wandering on the borderland of sleep, she felt that this day was the happiest she had yet spent in Le CrÉpuscule; and she knew in her heart that work and work only could now bring her peace. And thereafter, poor little dreamer, a smile hovered upon her face as she slept!

On the tenth day of the new regime in Le CrÉpuscule, squire Courtoise sat in the armory, polishing the design engraved on his lord’s breastplate. Courtoise was moody. Ordinarily his cheerfulness in the face of insuperable dulness was something to be proud of. But latterly his faith, the one great faith in his heart,—not religion, but utter devotion to his lord—had been receiving a series of shocks that had shaken it to its foundation. Courtoise was by nature as gentle, genial, and kindly a fellow as ever held a lance; and in his heart he had for years blindly worshipped Gerault. His creed of devotion, indeed, had embraced the whole family of Le CrÉpuscule, because Gerault was its head. Till the time of their last going to Rennes, there had been for him no woman like madame, no such maid as Laure, and no man anywhere comparable to his master. Poor Laure had dealt him a grievous blow when she followed Flammecoeur from the priory. But from the day of Gerault’s betrothal to little Lenore, the daughter of the Iron Chateau had held his heart in her hand, and might have done with it as she would. Loving the two of them as he did, and seeing each day fresh proof of Lenore’s affection for her lord and his, Courtoise naturally looked for a fitting return of this from the Seigneur. And here, all in a night, Courtoise’s first great doubt had entered in. They had been married three days, they were barely at Le CrÉpuscule, before Courtoise saw what made him sick with uneasiness. If the Seigneur had wedded this exquisite maiden with the sunlit hair, must he not love her? And yet—and yet—and yet—Courtoise sat in the armory and polished freely at the steel, and swore to himself under his breath, recklessly incurring whatever penance Anselm should see fit to give. For here it was mid-afternoon, and his little lady just freed from her hours of toil; and there was Gerault gone off by himself, without even his squire, forsooth, to hawk with the Iron-Beak over the moor!

Courtoise had been indulging himself in ire for some time, when a shadow stole past the doorway of the armory. He looked up. The shadow had gone; but presently it returned and halted: “Courtoise!”

The young fellow leaped to his feet, and the breastplate clattered to the floor. Lenore, looking very transparently pale, very humbly wistful, and having just a suspicion of red around her eyes, was regarding him tentatively from the doorway.

“Ma dame, what service dost thou ask?”

“None, Courtoise,” the voice sounded rather faint and tired. “None, save to tell me if thou hast lately seen my lord.”

The expression on her face was so pathetic that Courtoise was suddenly struck to the heart, and he bit his tongue before he could reply quietly enough: “Ma Dame Lenore, Seigneur Gerault rode out long time since a-hawking; and methinks he will shortly now return. The hour for evening meat approaches. I—I—” he broke off, stammering; and Lenore without speaking bowed her head, and patiently turned away.

Courtoise sat down again when she left him, and remained motionless, the steel on his knees, his hands idle, staring into space. Suddenly he leaped to his feet and hurled the breastplate to the floor with a smothered oath. “Gray of St. Gray!” he cried, “what devil hath seized the man I loved? Gerault, my lord, rides out and leaves this angel to weep after him! Gray of St. Gray! what desires he more fair than this his Lenore? What—what—what—” the muttered words died into thoughts as Courtoise clapped a cap on his head and strode away from the armory and out of the Castle.

In the courtyard the first object that met his eyes was Gerault’s horse, standing in front of the keep, with a stable-boy holding him by the bridle. Gerault himself was in the doorway of the empty falcon-house, holding a hagard on his wrist, while two dead pigeons swung from his girdle.

“Courtoise! Behold our spoils! Hath not Talon-Fer done Alixe’s training honor?” cried Gerault, the note of pleasure keener than usual in his voice.

Courtoise, flushed with rising anger, went over to him. “My lord, the Lady Lenore asks for thee!” he said a little hoarsely, paying no attention to the dead pigeons or the young falcon.

Gerault very slightly raised his brows, more at Courtoise’s tone, perhaps, than at the words he spoke. “The Lady Lenore,” he said.

“Even so—the Lady Lenore—thy wife!”

“I understand thee, good Courtoise.”

The veins in the younger man’s neck and temples stood out under the strain of repression. “Comes my lord?” he asked slowly.

“In good time, Courtoise. The hagard must be fed.” Gerault would have turned away, but Courtoise, with a burst of irritation, exclaimed,—

“I will feed the creature!”

Now Gerault turned to him again: “Hast thou some strange malady or frenzy, that thou shouldst use such tones to me, boy?”

“Tones—tones, and yet again tones! Gerault—thou churl! Ay, I that have been faithful squire to thee these many years, I say it. Thou churl and worse, to have wedded with the sweetest lady ever sun shone upon, to bring her, a stranger, home to thy Castle, and then leave her there, day following day, while thou ridest over the moors to dally with some bird! All the Castle stares at the cruelty of thy neglect. Daily the demoiselles whisper together, wondering what distemper thy lady hath that thou seest her not by day—”

“Hush, boy—hush! Thou’rt surely mad!” cried out Gerault, with a note in his voice that gave Courtoise pause.

Then there fell between them a silence, heavy, and so binding that Courtoise could not move. He stood staring into his master’s face, watching the color grow from white to red and back again, and the expression change from angry amazement to something softer, something strange, something that Courtoise did not know in his lord’s face. And Gerault gnawed his lip, and bent low his head, and presently spoke, in a voice that was not his own, but was rather curiously muffled and unnatural.

“Thou sayest well, Courtoise. ’Tis true I have neglected her, poor, frail, pretty child! Ah! I had never thought how I have neglected her”; and Gerault sat suddenly down upon the step of the falcon-house and laid his head in his hands, in an attitude of such dejection that Courtoise experienced a swift rush of repentance.

For some time there was again silence between them. Courtoise, thoroughly mystified by the whole situation, had nothing whatever to say. Finally the Seigneur stood up, this time with his head high, and his self-control returned. He put the falcon, screaming, into his squire’s hands, and took the bodies of the pigeons from his belt.

“So, Courtoise, I leave them all with you. Where is the Lady Lenore?”

“Sooth, I know not; yet methinks when she left the armory where she had spoken to me, she passed into the chapel.”

“I go to her. And I thank thee, Courtoise, for thy rebuke.”

“My lord, my lord, forgive me!” Courtoise choked with a sudden new rush of devotion for his master. He would have fallen on his knees there on the courtyard stones, but that the Seigneur, with a faint smile at him, was gone, carrying alone the burden of his inexplicable sorrow.

The Lady Lenore was in the chapel, half kneeling, half lying upon the altar-step. In the dim light of the shadowy place her golden hair and amber-colored garments glimmered faintly. She was not praying, yet neither was she weeping, now. The long, hot loneliness of the afternoon had thrown her into a state of apathy, in which she wished for nothing, and in which she refused to think. She had no desire for company; but had any one come—David, or Alixe, or Madame—she should not have cared. It was only Gerault that she would not have see her in this place and attitude. The thought of Gerault was continually with her, as something omnipresent; but at this especial hour she felt no wish to see the man himself. Yet now he came. She heard a tread on the stones that sent a tremor through her whole body. Then some one was kneeling beside her, and a quiet voice said gently in her ear,—

“Lenore!—My child!—Why art thou lying here?”

Lenore tried hard to speak; but her throat contracted convulsively, and she made no answer.

“Child, art thou sick for thy home? Thou hast found sorrow here, and loneliness, in this new abode. Perhaps thou wouldst have had me oftener at thy side. Is it so, Lenore?”

The girl’s golden head burrowed down into her arms, and she seemed to shake it, but she did not speak.

Gerault looked about him a little helplessly. Then, taking new resolution, he put one arm about her, and, drawing her slight form close to him, he said in a halting and broken way: “Come, my wife—come with me for a little time. Let us walk out together to the cliff by the sea. The sun draws near the water—the afternoon grows rich with gold.—And thou and I will talk together.—Lenore, much might I tell thee of myself, whereby thou couldst understand many things that trouble thee now. Knowing them, and with them, me, thou shalt more justly judge me. Come, little one,—rise up!” He drew her to her feet beside him, and then, with his arms still around her, he stood and put his lips to her half-averted cheek. Under that kiss she grew cold and tremulous, but still preserved her silence. Then the two moved, side by side, out of the Castle, through the courtyard, and on to the outer terrace that ran along the very edge of the precipitous cliff against which, far below, the summer sea gently broke and plashed.

Here, hand in hand, the Seigneur and his lady walked, looking off together at the glory of the mighty waters. The crimson sky was veiled in light clouds that caught a more and more splendid reflection of the fiery ball behind them; while the moving waves below were stained with pink and mellow gold. Lenore kept her eyes fixed fast upon this sight, while she listened to what Gerault was saying to her. He talked, in a fitful, chaotic way, of many things: of his boyhood here, of Laure his sister, and Alixe, and of “one other that was not as any of us,—our cousin, a daughter of Laval, whose dead mother had put her in the keeping of mine.”

So much mention of this girl Gerault made, and then went on to other things, jumbling together many incidents and scenes of his boyhood and his youth, never guessing that Lenore, who continued so quietly to look off upon the sea, had seized upon this one little thing that he had said, and realized, with a woman’s intuition, that the story of his heart lay here. As Gerault rambled on, he came gradually to feel that he had lost her attention, and so, little by little, as the sunset light died away, he ceased to speak, and there crept in upon them, over them, through them, that terrible silence that both of them knew: the all-pervading, ghostly silence that haunted this spot; the silence that had brought the name upon the Castle,—the Chateau du CrÉpuscule. Lenore grew slowly cold with miserable foreboding, while Gerault, rebelling against himself, was struggling to break the bonds of his own nature.

“Well named is this home of ours, Lenore,” he said sadly.

“Yea, it is well named,” was the reply.

“Wilt thou—be—lonely forever here? Art thou lonely now? Hast thou a sickness for thy home and for thy people?”

For an instant Lenore hesitated. At Gerault’s words her heart had leaped up with a great cry of “Yes”; and yet now there was something in her that withheld her from saying it. When at last she answered him, her words were unaccountable to herself, yet she spoke them feelingly: “Nay, Gerault. Thou hast taken me to be one with thee. Thou hast brought me here to thy home, and it is also mine.”

A light of pleasure came into Gerault’s face, and he took her into his arms with a freer and more open warmth than he had ever shown her before. “Indeed, thou art my wife—one with me—my sweet one—my sweet child Lenore! And this my home is also thine,—Chateau du CrÉpuscule!”

Suddenly Lenore shivered in his clasp. That word “CrÉpuscule” sounded like a knell in her ears, and as she looked upon the gray walls looming out of the twilight mists, the very blood in her veins stood still. Whether Gerault felt her dread she did not know, but he did not loose his hold upon her for a long time. They stood, close-clasped, on the edge of the cliff, looking off upon the darkening sea, till, over the eastern horizon line, the great pink moon slipped up, giving promise of glory to the night. The cool evening breeze came off the waters. They heard the creaking and grating of the drawbridge, as it was raised. Then a flock of sea gulls floated up from the water below, and veered southward, along the shore, toward their home. Finally, in the deepening west, the evening star came out, hanging there like a diamond on an invisible thread. Then Gerault whispered in the ear of Lenore,—

“Sweet child, it is late. The hour of evening meat is now long past. Let us go into the Castle.”

Lenore yielded at once to the pressure of Gerault’s arm, and let herself be drawn away. But she carried forever after the memory of that quiet half-hour, in which the mighty hand of nature had been lifted over her to give her blessing.

Courtoise the faithful had kept the two from a summons at the hour of supper; and on their return they found food left upon the table for them; but, what was unusual at this time, the great room was empty. Only Courtoise, who was again at work in the armory, knew how long they sat and ate and talked together, and only he saw them when they rose from table, passed immediately to the stairs, and ascended, side by side. Then the young squire knew that they would come down no more that night; and he guessed what was really true: that on that evening Lenore’s cup of happiness seemed full; for, as never before, Gerault claimed and took to himself the unselfish devotion that she was so ready to give. When she slept, a smile yet lingered round her lips; nor, in that sleep, did she feel the change that came upon her lord.

Not many hours after she had sunk to rest, Lenore woke slowly, to find herself alone in the canopied bed. Gerault was not there. She put out her hand to him, and found his place empty. Opening her eyes with a little effort, she pushed the curtains back from the edge of the bed, and looked about her. It could not be more than twelve o’clock. The room was flooded with moonlight, till it looked like a fairy place. The three windows were wide open to the breath of the sea; and beside one of them knelt Gerault. He was wrapped in a full mantle that hid the lines of his figure; and Lenore could see only that his brow rested on the window-sill, that his shoulders were bent, and his hands clasped tight on the ledge beyond his head. Unutterable pain was expressed in the attitude.

What was he doing there? Of what were his thoughts? Why had he left her side? Above all, what was his secret trouble? These questions passed quickly through Lenore’s brain, and her first impulse was to rise and go to him. Had she not the right to know his heart? Had he not given it to her this very night? She looked at him again, asking herself if he were really in pain; if he were not rather simply looking out upon the moonlit sea, and was now, perhaps, engaged in prayer, to which the beauty of the scene had lifted him. She would go to him and learn.

She sat up in bed, pushed her golden hair out of her neck and back from her face. Then she drew the curtains still farther aside, preparatory to stepping out, when suddenly she saw Gerault lift his head as if he listened for something far away; and then she caught the whispered word, “Lenore!”

For some reason, she could not have told why, Lenore did not move, but sat quite still, staring at him. She heard him say again, more loudly, “Lenore!” but he did not turn toward her bed. Rather, he was looking out, out of the window, and down the line of rocky shore that stretched away to the north.

“Lenore! I hear thee! I hear thy voice!” he whispered, to himself, fearfully. “I hear thee speaking to me.—Oh, my God! My God! When wilt Thou remove this torture from my brain?” He rose to his feet and lifted his arms as if in supplication. “It is a curse upon me! It is a madness, that I cannot love this other maiden. Thou spirit of my lost Lenore!—Lenore!—Lenore!—Thou callest to me from the sea by day and night!—Only and forever beloved, come thou back to me, out of the sea!—Come back to me!—Come back!” His hands were clenched under such a stress of emotion as his girl-wife had never dreamed him capable of. Now he stood there without speaking, his breath coming in sobbing gasps that shook his whole frame. The beating of his heart seemed as if it would suffocate him, and his body swayed back and forward, under the force of his mental anguish. For the first time in all his years of silent grief, he gave way unreservedly to himself; let all the pent-up agony come forth as it would from him, as he stood there, looking off upon that wonderful, inscrutable, shimmering ocean, that had played such havoc with his changeless heart.

From the bed where she sat, Lenore watched him, silent, motionless, afraid almost to breathe lest he should discover that she was awake. But Gerault wist nothing of her presence. He had known no joy in her, in the hallowed hours of the early night; else he could not now stand there at the window, calling, in tones of unutterable agony and tenderness, upon his dead,—

“Lenore! Lenore! Come back!—O sea—thou mighty, cruel sea, deliver her up for one moment to my arms! Let me have but one look, a touch, a kiss.—Oh, my God!—Come back to me at last, or else I die!”

He fell to his knees again, faint with the power of his emotion; and Lenore, the other, the unloved Lenore, sat behind him, in the great bed, watching.

The moonlight crept slowly from that room, and passed, like a wraith, off the sea, and beyond, into the east. The stars shone brighter for the passing of the moon. There was no sound in the great stillness, save the rustling murmur of the outflowing tide. In the chilly darkness before the break of dawn, Gerault of the Twilight Castle crept back to the bed he had left, looking fixedly, through the gloom, at the white, passive face of his wife, who lay back, with closed eyes, on her pillow. And when at last he slept again, she did not move; yet she was not asleep. In that hour her youth was passing from her, and she, a woman at last, entered alone into that dim and quiet vale where those that lived about her had wandered so long, so patiently, and, at last, so wearily, alone.