This was the first feast in many years at which the Bishop of St. Nazaire had not been present; but he had not come to Le Crépuscule since Laure’s consecration, and madame had given up hoping for his arrival. Darkness had fallen some time since, and the hour was growing late. This could be told from the increased noise at the table. Puddings and crumcakes had been finished, and the men of the company were turning their attention exclusively to the liquor—beer and wine—which had been brought up to the hall in great casks, from which each might help himself. David le petit, the jester, ran up and down on the table, waving a black wand and shouting verses at the company. There was a universal clamor and howling of laughter and song, which madame heard with ever-increasing weariness and displeasure, though the demoiselles showed no such signs of fatigue. Suddenly, through the tumult, madame caught a sound that made her lift her head and half rise from her chair, listening intently. There had been a sound of horses’ hoofs on the courtyard stones. “’Tis St. Nazaire at last,” she whispered to Alixe. “Now we shall hear of—Go thou thyself, Alixe, and fetch hither fresh meat and a pasty and a flagon of the best wine. Monseigneur must be weary. He shall sit here at my side—” Alixe rose obediently and hurried away on her errand; and while she was gone there came a clamor at the door. A burly henchman sprang up and lurched forward to open it, peering out into the darkness. Those in the room heard a little ejaculation, and then there entered a new-comer with some one else beside him. Neither was the Bishop of St. Nazaire. Both of them were young,—one, indeed, no more than a boy, wearing an esquire’s jerkin, hosen, cap, and mantle, and carrying only a short dirk in his belt. The other, who came forward into the full light of the lamps and torches, was a young man of six and twenty or thereabouts, lean and tall and graceful, clad in half armor, but clean-shaved, like a woman. His face had the look of the South in it, his eyes were piercingly dark, and his waving hair as black as the night. In their first glance at the new-comer, most in the room took notice that his spurs were not gilt; but soon a maid spied out that the little squire carried on his back a lute, strung on a ribbon, and then the stranger’s profession was plain. This general examination lasted but the matter of a few seconds. Then Madame Eleanore rose, and the stranger saluted her with a grace that became him well, and began to speak in a mellow voice,—