To Lenore, the holy week from Christmas to New Year’s was replete with interest; for in her own home, near Rennes, she had known nothing like it. Christmas morning saw all the peasantry of the estates of Crépuscule come to the Castle for mass; after which there was a great distribution of alms. From Christmas Day, throughout that week, according to ecclesiastic law, the Castle drawbridge was never raised; no watchers were posted on the battlements, and monk and knight, outlaw and criminal, high lord and lady, found welcome and food and shelter within the great gray walls. This open hospitality was made safe by the fact that, during this time, no matter what war might be in progress, or what family feud in height, no man was allowed to lift a hand against his neighbor, and the knight that dared to use his sword during those seven days was branded caitiff throughout his life. This law prevailed throughout the length and breadth of France; but its observance belonged more peculiarly to the far coast regions, where towns were scarce, and feudal fortresses offered the only hope of shelter to the traveller. And during this week there was scarcely an hour in the day that did not see its wanderer, of whatever degree, appealing for safe housing from the bitter cold. The week was the merriest and the busiest that Lenore had known since coming to the Castle; and the arrival of the Bishop of St. Nazaire, on the day before New Year’s, brought all Le Crépuscule to the highest state of satisfaction. For many years it had been monseigneur’s custom to spend St. Sylvester’s Day in the Castle,—formerly as the guest of the old Seigneur, latterly as that of Madame Eleanore; and though the Twilight Castle always delighted to honor his coming, on such occasions it was a double pleasure; for upon this one day he carried with him a spirit of bonhomie, of general, rollicking gayety, that roused every one to the same pitch of happiness, and made the Saint’s feast what it was. Since the last home-coming of Gerault, St. Nazaire had spent a good deal of time at the Castle, had played many a well-fought game of chess with Madame Eleanore, and had exerted himself to lift little Lenore, for whom he entertained almost a veneration, out of her quiet melancholy. None in the Castle, from Alixe to the scullions, but would have done him any service; and his arrival assured the feast of something of its one-time merriment. On this great day the time for midday meat was set forward two hours, it being just one o’clock when the company sat down at the immense horseshoe table, that nearly encircled the great hall; for the ordinary Castle retinue was increased by a rabble of peasants, and a dozen or more of travellers that had claimed their privilege of hospitality.