Her musing was deepest when, suddenly, she was startled by the sound of light footsteps in the hall above. Some one came to the staircase; some one came gliding sinuously down. Lenore half rose, and looked up, cold with fear. Then she saw that it was Alixe, and, strangely enough, her fear did not lessen; for never had she seen Alixe like this. Lenore looked at her long before she was noticed; and the strangeness of the peasant-born’s appearance did not lessen on close examination. She was dressed in garments of pale green. And in these, and in her floating hair, her greenish eyes, her arms, her neck, Lenore fancied that she saw twists and coils and lissome curves and the green and golden fire of innumerable snakes. In the shadowy light everything was indistinct; but there seemed to be a phosphorescent glow about Alixe’s garments that illumined her, till she stood out, the brightest thing in the surrounding darkness. Striving bravely to ward off her sense of creeping fear, Lenore raised her lantern high, and looked at the other, who had now reached the foot of the stairs. Yes—no—_was_ this Alixe? Lenore took two or three frightened steps backward, and instantly Alixe turned toward her. “Lenore! Thou!” she cried. “Alixe!” Lenore stared, wondering at herself. Surely she had suffered a hallucination. Alixe was as ever, save that her eyes were a little wider, her skin a little paler, than usual. “What dost thou here, at this hour, alone, Lenore? Did aught frighten thee?” “I could not sleep, and so, long since, I rose, to wander about till the noise of the storm should fall. I have sat here for but a moment—thinking. But thou, Alixe,—whither goest thou?” “I? I also could not sleep. The storm is in my blood. I turned and tossed and strove to lose my thoughts. But they burn forever. Alas! I am seared by them. My eyes refuse to close.” “What are those thoughts of thine, Alixe? Perchance they were of the same woof as mine.” “Nay, nay, Lenore! Thou hast no ancient memories of this place.” “That may be; yet my thoughts were of this place, and of a woman. Tell me, Alixe, hast thou known in thy life one of the same name as mine own: a maid whom—whom my lord knew well, and who hath gone far away?” “Lenore! Mon Dieu! Who told thee of her?” “It matters not. I know. Prithee, Alixe, talk to me of her, an thou wouldst still the torture of my soul!” “What shall I tell thee, madame?” Alixe stared at the young woman with slow, questioning surprise. “Knowest thou of her life here among us?—or wouldst hear of her death?” “Of all—of her life and death—tell me all!” Lenore drew her mantle close around her, for she was shivering with something that was not cold. She kept her head slightly bent, so that Alixe could not see the working of her face, as the two of them went together to the settle by the pillar.