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 perfectly 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. Courtoise and Gerault ceased their conversation when Alixe went up to this bird and addressed it in a curious jargon of Latin and Breton-French. Courtoise betrayed an admiring 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 expectant 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 _pât_ from your hand?” Alixe merely nodded. To all appearances, she was wholly engrossed with the bird, which she continued to handle. Gerault and Courtoise had come close to her side, though the falcon betrayed its displeasure at their approach. All three of them had been silent for some seconds, when Alixe turned her green eyes upon the Seigneur, and, looking at him with a glance that carried discomfort with it, said in a very precise and cutting tone: “So you leave Le Crépuscule to-morrow, Gerault? And for how long?” “That I cannot tell,” answered Gerault, exhibiting no annoyance. “For as long a time as Duke Jean will accept my services.” “Ah! then there will be fighting. 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.