Another morning dawned, in tender primrose tints, and saluted the sea through a low-clinging September haze. The Castle rose at the usual hour, and dressed, and descended to the morning meal, scarce able to understand that there was any change in the usual quiet existence. It was impossible, indeed, to realize that, in two little days of sun and storm, the life of the Castle had died, its mainstay had broken, and that henceforth it must exist only in memories. On this day two of the squires made their adieux to madame, and hied them forth to seek a lord by whom to be trained yet more thoroughly for knighthood; and mayhap to get themselves a little more familiar with its third article.[3] But Courtoise, all heart-broken as he was, and Roland de St. Bertaux, and Guy le Trouvé, being all of gentle blood, but without other home to seek, came to their lady and kissed her hand, and swore her eternal allegiance and service. And the demoiselles, who had, indeed, no need of a lord in the Castle, renewed their duty to their mistress, and also tried to give her what little comfort they knew, in the shape of certain of Anselm’s Latin texts, and a few less pithy but warmer phrases of their own making. The six knights that had brought Gerault home, rode off again, sadly bearing with them Eleanore’s brave messages of loyalty and thanks to Duke Jean in Rennes. The Bishop of St. Nazaire sent his assistant priest home; but he himself elected to remain for a day or two, knowing that, should Lenore become seriously ill, he would be a stay for Madame Eleanore. Of Eleanore herself there were no fears. She was too strong to cause any one anxiety for her health. Indeed, it was generally thought that she had put Gerault too much away. How that may be is not certain; but there was nothing now in the Castle to speak of him. The chapel was empty; the mouth of the great vault had closed once more, this time to hide under its grim weight the last of the line of Crépuscule. Footnote 3: “He shall uphold the rights of the weaker, such as orphans, damsels, and widows.” On the second day after the funeral, Eleanore, knowing by bitter experience how excellent a cure for melancholy is hard work, betook herself and the demoiselles up to the spinning-room as usual. Lenore only, of the company, was missing. She, by madame’s own bidding, still kept her bed,—lying there silent, patient, asking no attendance from any one; listening hour by hour to the soft sound of the sea as it broke upon the cliffs far below her window. Of what was in her heart, what things she saw in her day dreams, neither Alixe nor madame sought to learn. But there was something in her face, thin, wan, transparent as it had grown, that sent a great fear to Eleanore’s heart, and caused her to watch over Lenore with deep anxiety; and it seemed as if the effort of walking would break the last vestige of strength in that frail body.