As they walked off Marguerite was mechanically counting the great men whom history has made famous for their inclination toward dullness--the heroes of romance likewise indicated--Porthos and Athos--and Charlemagne--and Barbarossa--and Ferdinand II. of Austria--and Bayard himself, despite all the glamour of his faith, his courage, and his purity. The monk Abélard (who--but she did not know that--had his excuses, of course), Wilfred of Ivanhoe, and many, many others, lovable, admirable, classic--and classified according to their merits. She stole a glance toward the splendid man striding beside her, and wondered why marriage, even unhappy marriage, had wrought such a change in him. He had never been lively even in the past, but since that memorable day when Laurence had appeared on the scene at Plenhöel he had appeared to be another being, triumphant and frozen, glorified and stupefied in turn; at first too visibly happy to be taken seriously, afterward sliding gradually into a half-tinted mood that lost him all power to show himself as he really was. And now had he really any heart left? she asked herself in amaze. His outward appearance was reassuring. He looked, as a matter of fact, younger than he had when she had last seen him--his forehead quite smooth, his finely cut features a hint more masterful than ever, his eyes dear and direct, and there was just a touch of haughtiness in his bearing she had not yet seen there, as though he were challenging the universe to come and pity him. “Dilly, Dilly, come and be killed!” rang, she fancied, in the very sound of his foot on the gravel. A foot of admirable shape and comparative narrowness, although a bit heroic--_ex-pede-Herculem_! Everything has an end--_nur die Wurst hat zwei_ (as our graceful friends the Germans have a knack of putting it)--and that charming long walk round to the Castle inclosure, machicolated and betowered and bekeeped, came at last to its conclusion. Not another word had been spoken. At the base of the turret where Basil had always had his rooms the couple came to a stand. It was a very proud, historic turret, coiffed with a pointed octagonal slate _poivrière_ agreeably topped by a gray vane, and entered by one of those mullioned pointed doorways that are the delight of artists, with their intricate sculpturings, dainty _rainceaux_ and wonderful stone tendrils engarlanding the royal _fleur-de-lys_. “Now, _please_,” said Basil--“please don’t awaken any one for me, Marguerite. I’d sooner be alone at first, just for a little while at least.” “Can’t I call Garrassime?” she pleaded, prettily, her mouth drooping at the corners in a tiny _moue_ that made him pull himself together with a mental jerk. “Ah, yes! to be sure, Garrassime is here,” he remarked; “but I would rather you didn’t call him. I am used to shifting for myself now whenever it’s necessary; often I prefer it, even.”