There was he,—Gerault. There was he, scarcely whiter or more still than she had seen him many times in life; yet he was dead: transparent and pinched and ineffably still, and dead! The head was bare of any cap or helmet, and the black locks and beard were smoothly combed. The broad, fair brow was calm and unwrinkled. The mouth, scarce concealed by the mustache, was curved into an expression of great peace. Madame took the cover again, and drew it slowly down till the whole form lay before her. His armor had been removed, and he was clothed in silken vestments that hid all trace of his wound. The hands were folded fair across his breast; his feet were cased in long velvet shoes, fur-bordered. From the peacefulness of his attitude it was difficult to imagine the scene by which he had met his end: the great flashing and clashing of arms, the blare of trumpets, the shouting applause of thousands of fair onlookers, gayly clothed ladies, who, after their shouting, saw him fall. Long Eleanore stood there, looking upon him as he lay, untroubled now by any human thing. And as she looked, many world-thoughts rose up within her as to his life, his griefs, and the manner of his going. She had had him always: had borne, and reared, and watched, and loved him; and he had loved her, she knew, though he had seldom shown it, and had lived much within himself. She yearned—ah, _how_ she yearned!—to take him now into her arms again, and croon over him, and soothe him, as a mother soothes her children. Alas, that he did not need it of her! Her breast heaved twice or thrice, with deep, suppressed sobs. Then she fell upon her knees, and leaned her forehead over upon an edge of his robe while she prayed. And as she knelt there, twilight gathered over the sunset glow, and the chapel grew dim and gray with coming darkness. After a long while madame rose and turned to Alixe, who stood near, looking at her and weeping. And madame said gently: “Alixe, let her be summoned—little Lenore—his wife. She should be here.” Alixe bowed silently, and went away out of the room. Eleanore remained in her place, and the demoiselles still knelt under the crucifix. Then came footboys, with tapers, to light the candles. Presently the bier was haloed with yellow flames, and the marble altar blazed with lights. The hour for the mass was near, and the people of the Castle, and a few country folk, clothed in their best, began to come softly into the chapel, by twos and threes. All, after bowing to the cross and pausing for a few seconds to look upon Gerault, passed over to the far side of the room, and knelt there, absorbed in prayer. The little room was more than half filled, when Courtoise, pale and wide-eyed, appeared upon the threshold, and, holding up his hand, whispered to the throng,— “Madame Lenore is here! Peace, and be still! Madame Lenore comes in!”