Late that night, when the little throng below had been as nearly satisfied with information concerning the great event as three poor hours of steady talking from Courtoise could make them, Eleanore sat in her own room alone with the messenger, there to learn those intimate details of Gerault’s wooing, that none but her had right to know. She questioned Courtoise eagerly, earnestly, repeatedly, with such yearning in her eyes that the young squire’s heart smote him to see what her loneliness had been.

“Tell me again, Courtoise, yet once again! She is fair, this maid?”

“As fair as a rose, madame; her skin composed of pink and white, so cunningly mingled that none can judge which hath most play upon it. And her eyes are blue like a midsummer sky; and she hath clouds of hair that glisten like meshes of sun-threads, crowning her.”

“And she is small and delicately formed?”

“She is slender and fragile; yet is she in no way sickly of body.”

“And her name,” went on madame, musingly, “is Lenore! Is that not a strange thing, Courtoise? Is’t not strange that a second time this name should have entered so deeply into the life of thy lord? Was he glad that it so chanced, Courtoise; or did he hesitate to pronounce it again?”

“I know not if it troubled him at first, madame. But this I know: that he is happy in her.”

“Then the dear God be thanked! I ask no more. Ah! It seems that at last I can pray again with an open heart. ’Twill be the first time since—since—” Suddenly Eleanore began to tremble. “Courtoise,” she whispered, pale with dread, “hath thy lord heard—of—of Laure’s flight?”

Courtoise bent his head, answering in a strained voice: “My lord had news of—of the flight late in the month of March. Monseigneur de St. Nazaire sent us the word of it, and for many weeks my lord hunted the country over for a trace of her. And when he found her not, nor any word of her, he forbore, in his grief, to write to thee, dear lady, lest he should cause thy tears to flow again.”

“I thank the good God that he knows!” murmured Eleanore. “It had been more than I could bear that Gerault should come home to find his wedding feast blackened with a new-learned shame.”

“Yea, Lady Eleanore.”

“And so now, Courtoise, go thou to thy rest; for I have kept thee long, and thou’rt very weary. And on the morrow there must be a beginning of making the Castle bravely gay for the home-coming of its lord and its bride. Likewise, on the morrow thou must tell me more of the young Lenore, my daughter.”

Courtoise smiled wearily, and then, with proper obeisance, hurried off to his own room, a little triangular closet opening into Gerault’s old bedroom on the first floor. When the squire was gone, his liege lady also laid her down; and for the first time in many months sank easily to sleep. For happiness is the best of doctors, and this that had come to her was a greater happiness than Eleanore had thought ever to know again.

Through the next week the very dogs about the Castle caught the air of bustle and eager life that had laid hold of it. Never, since the days of the old lord and his crews of drinking barons, had Le CrÉpuscule shown such symptoms of gayety. Every scullion scampered about his pots and kettles as if an army of Brittany depended on him for nourishment. The henchmen hurried about, polishing their armor and their steel trappings till the keep glittered as with many mirrors, and they broke off from this labor now and then to see that the stable-boys were at work on the proper horses or to dissolve into thunderous roars of laughter at a neighbor’s jest. The young demoiselles were giddy with excitement. They pricked their fingers with spindles, they broke innumerable threads on the wheels, they stopped the loom to dance or sing in the middle of the morning; and while they were arranging the rooms where the train of the young bride were to lodge, they gossiped so ardently over possible future gayeties that their very tongues were like to drop off with weariness. As for the squires, all five of them, headed by Courtoise, were to ride out to CroitÔt on the Rennes road, as an additional escort for Seigneur Gerault. And the parade they made over this matter was more than Montfort had for his coronation at Rennes when the great war ended.

There were, however, three silent workers in the Castle who did more than all the rest together; and they were silent only because their hearts were too full for speech. These were madame, Alixe, and David the dwarf. While the little man worked at the decoration of the chapel, the women adorned the bridal chamber; and in all that week of preparation, not a soul save these two set foot over that sacred threshold. Madame had selected the room. It was not Gerault’s usual chamber, but one on the second floor, on the northwest corner of the Castle, separated from madame’s room only by the place in which Laure had slept of old, and which madame now kept closed to all save herself.

For the adornment of Gerault’s and Lenore’s apartment, madame brought out the old historic tapestries, embroideries, and precious silken hangings that had been for years stowed away in great chests in the spinning-room. The bed was hung with curtains in which were woven illustrations of the “Romant of the Rose,” a poem that had once been much recited in Le CrÉpuscule. On the walls were great squares of tapestry representing the battles of the family of Montfort. On the floor were two or three strips of precious brocade, brought out of the East a century before by some crusading lord. Finished, the room looked very rich, but very sombre; and, this being the fashion of the times, it was satisfactory to all that saw it. Eleanore only, with eyes new-opened by the thought of approaching happiness, feared the room a little dark, a little heavy for the reception of so delicate a creature as the young Lenore. But every one else in the Castle was in such delight over its appearance that she left it as it was. Meantime the lower hall was hung with banners and scarred pennants and gay streamers; and then the pillars were wreathed with greenery and flowers till the still, gray place was all transformed, and resembled a triumphal hall awaiting the coming of a conqueror.

Thus the week of waiting passed merrily and rapidly away, and the day of the departure of Courtoise and the squires for CroitÔt speedily arrived. With them also went a picked half-dozen men-at-arms, who were bursting with pride at this honor done their brilliant steel and smooth-flanked horses. After their going, when everything in the Castle was in readiness for the reception, a little wave of reaction set in among those left at home. Eleanore retired to commune with her own happy mind. David sought solitude in which to arrange a programme of welcome. And Alixe, seized with a sudden mood of misery, fled away to a certain cave in the base of the Castle cliff, and here wept and raged by herself, for some undefined reason, till her tears cleared the mists from her soul, and she was herself again. Still, as she returned to the Castle, she knew that there remained a bitterness in her heart. Eleanore, who had long ago come to mean mother to her, had, in the last month or two, for the first time given her almost a mother-love, that had fed Alixe’s hungry heart as the body of the Lord had never fed her soul. And now this love was to be taken away again. A real daughter was coming into the household, a daughter by the marriage of the Seigneur; and this, Alixe knew, must be a closer tie than any of time or custom. She must go back to her old place, the place she had held in the days of Laure; but she could never hope to find in the stranger the beautiful friendship that had existed between her and her foster-sister.

That evening was a quiet one in the Castle. Monseigneur of St. Nazaire had arrived in the afternoon; but he seemed wearier than his wont, and, out of consideration for him, Eleanore ordered the general retirement at an early hour.

The next day, the great day, dawned over Le CrÉpuscule, red and clear and intensely hot. Every one was up before the sun; and when fast had been broken and prayer said in the chapel, every one went forth to the meadow, some even down to the moor, half a mile below the moat, to gather flowers to be scattered in the courtyard for the coming of the bride. The party was expected to arrive by noon at latest; and, as the morning waned, Eleanore found herself uncontrollably nervous. Alixe and David both stood in the watch-tower, looking for the first sign of horses and banners on the edge of the forest at the foot of the long hill. Noon passed, and the earliest hour of afternoon, and the Castle was on tiptoe with excitement. At two o’clock came a cry from Alixe, in the tower. Down the hill, round the sweep in the road, was the flutter of a blue and white pennant, presently flanked by a longer one of gray. There was a pause of two or three moments. Then the trumpeters dashed out from the keep, ranged up before their captain, and blew a quick, triumphal, if somewhat jerky, fanfare. There was an outpouring of retainers into the courtyard, and presently, from far away, came the faint sounds of an answering blast from Gerault’s heralds. As this died away, a great shout of excitement and delight arose from the waiting company, now massed about the flower-strewn drawbridge, and only at this time Madame Eleanore came out of the Castle.

Many eyes were turned upon her as she crossed the courtyard, bearing herself as royally as a princess. She was garbed in flowing robes of damask, white, and olive green, silver-studded, and her head was dressed in those great horns so much in fashion at this time, but seldom affected by her, and now lending an unrivalled majesty to her appearance.

Madame took her place at the right of the drawbridge, and, like all the throng, strained her eyes toward the approaching cavalcade that contained the future of Le CrÉpuscule. Apparently madame was very calm. In reality her heart beat so that it was like to suffocate her, for now Gerault’s form took on distinct shape before her eyes. The sun shot serpents of light around his helmet and his steel-encased arms, while over his body-pieces he wore the silken surcoat of pale gray, embroidered with the arms of his Castle. Gerault’s lance, held in rest, fluttered a pennant of azure and white, the colors of his lady; and Courtoise, who rode just behind his master, carried the gray streamer of Le CrÉpuscule.

Amid a tumult of blaring trumpets, vigorous shouting, and eager choruses of welcome and greeting, the Lord of CrÉpuscule, with his bride on her white palfrey beside him, rode across the drawbridge of the Twilight Castle. Just inside the courtyard Gerault halted, leaped from his horse, and ran quickly to embrace his mother. When he had held her for a moment in his arms, he turned, lifted his lady from her horse, and, amid an embarrassing silence of curiosity, led the young girl up to madame.

“In the name of Le CrÉpuscule and of its lord, I bid thee welcome to this Castle, my daughter! Good people, give greeting to your lady!”

Men and maidens, serving-maids and henchmen, still gazing wide-eyed at the figure of the Seigneur’s wife, sent forth an inarticulate buzz of welcome and of admiration; and, when it had died away, Gerault took his bride by the hand, and, with Eleanore upon the other side, moved slowly across the courtyard toward the Castle doorway, where now stood the Bishop of St. Nazaire, waiting to add his welcome to the newly wed. Nor did the Bishop refrain from a little exclamation of pleasure at sight of the young wife, as she sank upon her knees before his mitre, to receive a blessing.

A few moments later the whole company crowded into the brilliantly decorated hall and moved about, each selecting a desired place at the great horseshoe table ready prepared for the feast. Gerault was standing in the middle of the room, looking about him in surprise and pleasure at the preparations made to do him honor. Presently, however, he turned to his mother, who stood close at his elbow, and said, after a second’s hesitation: “I do not see Alixe, madame. Is she not here in the Castle?”

Eleanore looked about her in some surprise. “Hast not seen her? Where hath she been? Ah, yes, there she stands, in yonder corner. Alixe! Hither!”

“Alixe!” echoed Gerault; and strode to where she stood, half concealed, between the staircase and the chapel door, her head drooping, her eyes cast down.

“Come, Alixe, and greet Lenore. She hath heard much of thee, and I would have you friends, for you are both young, and you must be good companions here together.” So he took her hand and kissed her, and led her out to where Eleanore and the young wife stood waiting.

“Lenore, this is my foster-sister. La Rieuse have we called her, and she is well named. Give her greeting—” Gerault came to rather a halting pause; for the attitude of the two women nonplussed him.

Lenore stood motionless, suddenly putting on a little dress of dignity, and looking steadfastly into the dark face of the other girl. Alixe, anything but laughing now, was absorbing, detail by detail, the delicate and exquisite personality of Gerault’s bride. More fairy-like than human she seemed, with her slender, beautifully curved child’s figure, her face neither white nor pink, but of a transparent, pearly tint indescribably ethereal, in which were set great eyes of violet hue, and all around which floated her hair,—that wonderful hair that was, indeed, a captive sun-ray. The curve of Lenore’s lips, the turn of her nostril, the poise of her head, and the delicacy of her hands and feet, all proclaimed her noble birth. The dress that she wore set off her beauty as pure gold makes a gem more brilliant. She wore a loosely fitting bliault of greenish blue, embroidered in long, silver vines, while her undersleeves and yoke were of frosty cloth of silver. Her head was crowned with a simple circlet of gold, far less lustrous than her hair; and from it, at the back, fell a veil of silver tissue that touched the hem of her robe. All this dress was disordered and dusty with long riding; but the carelessness of it seemed to become her the better. In the rich heat of the July sun she had seemed a little too colorless, a little too pale and misty, for beauty; but here, in the cool shadows of the great stone hall, she was brighter than any angel.

Alixe examined her long and carefully, to the confusion of the girl, whose feeling of strangeness and embarrassment continually increased. In the face of “La Rieuse” it was easy to read the struggle between jealousy and admiration. Alixe was, secretly, a worshipper of beauty; and beauty such as this of Lenore’s she had never seen before. In the end it triumphed. Alixe’s eyes grew brighter and brighter as she gazed; and presently, when the strain of silence was not much longer to be endured, there burst from her the involuntary exclamation,—

“God of dreams! How art thou fair!”

And from that moment the allegiance of Alixe was fixed. She was on her knees to Lenore, this fair usurper of her place, this Gerault’s bride.

Presently the moving company resolved itself into order, and each sought his place at the table, where the Seigneur and St. Nazaire now stood side by side, at the head, with Lenore upon Gerault’s left hand, madame on St. Nazaire’s right, and Alixe next madame and opposite Courtoise, who was placed beside the bride. There was a long Latin grace from the Bishop, and then the feast began. It was like all the feasts of the day, a matter of stuffing till one could hold no more, and then of drinking till one knew no more; for, to the commoner folk, and those below the salt, this was the greatest pleasure in life. To those for whom the feast was given, and to the rest of the little group at the head of the table, the whole business was sufficiently tedious: not to say, however, that monseigneur and even Gerault showed no symptoms of fondness for a morsel of peacock’s breast, or a calf’s head stuffed with the brains, pounded suet, and raisins, over which was poured a good brown gravy. Courtoise and Alixe also displayed healthy appetites. But madame and Lenore, whether from excitement or other causes, sat for the most part playing with what was put before them, and eating nothing.

After half an hour at the table Madame Eleanore found herself watching, with rather unexpected interest, the attitude of Gerault toward his wife. And she perceived, with a kind of dull surprise, that his attentions savored of perfunctoriness. The Seigneur failed in no way to do his lady courtesy; but that air of tender delight that the personality of the young girl would be expected to draw from a young husband, was not there. Whatever impression of indifference madame received, however, she admitted no such thing to herself. Her heart was too full of joy for Gerault, and for Le CrÉpuscule. For, great as had been her hopes of her son’s choice, her dreams had never pictured a being so rare and so lovely as this who was come to dwell at her side in the gray and ancient Castle.

As for Lenore herself, she seemed to see nothing but devotion in Gerault’s attitude toward her. She sat with a smile upon her face, playing daintily with what she had to eat, answering any question or remark put to her with a straightforwardness that had in it no taint of self-consciousness, even addressing a sentence or two of her own to Courtoise on her right; but at the same time holding all heart and soul for Gerault. The Seigneur did not speak much with his wife, but answered her modest glances with an air of mild indulgence, taking small notice of anything that went on round him save the keen looks now and then shot from the scintillating green eyes of Alixe. Of all the tableful, Alixe was the only one that found any food for thought in the situation before her; and, surprisingly enough, the key to her reflections lay in the curious behavior of Courtoise, who, as time went on, became so uneasy, so fidgety, so restless, that Gerault finally leaned over the table and asked him rather sharply if he were ill.

In the course of time, however, the last jack was emptied, the last song sung, the last questionable story told. Monseigneur de St. Nazaire rose and repeated the ending grace, and then the whole drowsy, witless company followed him into the glowing chapel, where a short mass was performed. Lenore and Gerault knelt side by side to the right of the altar, with Eleanore a little behind them, where she could watch the bright candle-rays vie with the radiance of Lenore’s golden hair, and see where the silvery bridal robe overlapped a little the edge of the gray surcoat of Le CrÉpuscule, that swept the floor beside it. The mother-eyes were all for the girlish form of the new daughter; and her heart went out again to Gerault, who had brought this fairy creature to Le CrÉpuscule, in place of her who had been so terribly mourned.

Lenore listened to the repetition of the mass with a reverent air, but without much thinking of the familiar form. Her mind was busy with thoughts of these new surroundings and the faces of the new vassals and companions. Gerault, her beloved, was at her side; the great silver crucifix that hung over the altar gave her a sense of comfort and protection, and she found a restful pleasure in the tones of the Bishop’s voice. The bright candle-light that shone into her eyes produced in her a semi-hypnotic state, and she seemed to have knelt there at the altar but three or four minutes when the words of the benediction fell upon her ears, and presently the whole company was trooping out into the great hall, whence all signs of the feast had been removed.

In the same dreamlike way, Lenore went with her husband and madame upstairs, to the room that had been prepared for her and Gerault. Here her two demoiselles were already unpacking the coffer which had come from Rennes with them. And here she removed her travel-stained garments, bathed the dust from her face and arms, was combed and perfumed like the great lady she had become, and lay down to rest for a little time in the twilight, with new ministers to her comfort all about her. Later, as it grew dark, she dressed again and descended to the great hall, where further merriment was in progress.

The demoiselles and squires of the Castle were now holding high revel, and their games caused the old stone walls to echo with laughter and shrieks of delight. In one corner of the room madame and the Bishop sat together over a game of chess. Gerault was near them, where he could watch the battle; but his eyes were often to be seen following the light figure of Lenore through the mazes of the dances and games in which she so eagerly joined. The sports in which these maidens and young men grown indulged, were commonly played by older folk throughout France, and have descended almost intact to the children of a more advanced and less light-hearted age. Lenore entered into the play with a pleasure too unconscious not to be genuine. She laughed and sang and chattered, and put herself at home with every one. She was soon the leading spirit of the company, as she had been wont to be in her own home. The games were innumerable: Pantouffle, Pince-MÉrille, Bric, Qui FÉry, Le Roi qui ne Ment pas, and a dozen others. And were there a forfeit to be paid in the shape of a kiss, she instantly deserted Courtoise and David, who, enraptured with her youth and gayety, kept close on either side of her, and delivered it with shy delight to Gerault, who scarcely appeared to appreciate the gifts he got.

In the course of time a “Ribbon Dance” was ordered, and madame and monseigneur actually left their game to lead it, drawing Gerault with them into the sport. Obediently he gave one hand to Lenore, the other to Alixe, and went through the dance with apathetic grace, bringing by his half unconscious manner the first chill upon Lenore’s happy evening. This was, however, the end of the amusement; and when the flushed and panting company finally halted, Gerault at once drew his wife to madame’s side, himself saluted his mother, and then followed Lenore up the torchlit stairs. In ten minutes the whole company had dispersed, and Eleanore remained alone in the great hall.

When she had extinguished all the lights below, madame passed up the stairs, putting out the smoking torches as she went, and, reaching the upper hall, went immediately to her own bedroom. Here she slipped off the heavy mantle and the modified “cote-hardi.” Then, clad only in a long, light, damask tunic, she went over to one of the wide-open west windows, and, leaning across its sill, looked out upon the vasty, murmurous, summer sea. Low on the horizon, among a group of faint clustering stars, swung the crescent moon, which was reflected in the smooth surface of a distant wave. A great, fresh, salt breath came up like a tonic through the wilted air. The voice of the sea was infinitely soothing. Eleanore listened to it eagerly, her lips parted, her eyes wandering along that distant wave-line; her thoughts almost as far away. Presently the door of her room opened, softly; and some one paused upon the threshold. Instinctively she knew who it was that entered. Half turning, she said gently,—

“Thou’rt come here, Gerault?”

Her son came forward slowly, halted a few steps away, and held out one hand to her. She went to him and took it, wondering a little at his manner, but not questioning him. Quietly she drew the young man to the window where she had been; and both stood there and looked out upon the scene. They were silent for a long time. It was intensely difficult for Gerault to speak; and madame knew not how to help him. At length, in a voice that sounded slightly strained, he asked: “Thou’rt pleased with her? Thou’rt satisfied, my mother?”

“Oh, Gerault! Gerault! She is so fair, so delicate, so like some faery child! I almost fear to see her beauty fade in the shadow of these gray walls.”

“And will she—Lenore—help thee, in a way, to forget thy grief in Laure?”

Eleanore gave a sudden, involuntary sob; for none had pronounced that name to her since the early spring. The sob was answer enough to Gerault’s question. But in a moment she said, in a voice that was perfectly controlled: “Methinks I love her, thy lady, already. Ah, my son, she is very sweet! Very, very sweet and fair!”