Such a life of never-ending adulation, of universal admiration, was a paradise to the troubadour, in whom inordinate vanity was the strongest and most carefully concealed characteristic. So long as he should be the centre of interest, he was never bored. But when he was not the central object, there were just two people in all the Castle that did not bore him unendurably. One of these was Madame Eleanore, in liking whom he betrayed exceptional taste; the other was Alixe, who had piqued him into attention. His admiration for madame was not wholly unnatural; for Bertrand Flammecœur, love-child as he was, and filled with unholy passions, was, nevertheless, as his singing showed, a man of refinement and gentle blood. His feeling for Alixe was keen, because it was unsatisfactory. She was at no pains to conceal her dislike for him, and it was her greatest pleasure to whip a pretty speech of his to rags with irony. He plied her with every art he knew, tried every mood upon her, and to Alixe’s glory be it said, she never betrayed, by look or word, that she had anything for him more than, at best, contemptuous indifference. And after a week of effort the minstrel was obliged to confess to himself that never before, in all his adventures, had he met with so complete a rebuff from any woman. He did not, even then, entirely relax his efforts. One morning, ten days after his arrival, he was passing the chapel, a small octagonal room opening off the great hall just beside the stairs, when he perceived Alixe within. She was alone; and as he turned into the doorway she was just rising from her knees. Unconscious of his presence, she remained standing before the altar looking upon the crucifix, her hands fervently clasped before her. After watching her for a moment in silence, Flammecœur began to move noiselessly across the little room, and was at her very shoulder before he said softly,— “A fair good morn to thee, my demoiselle.” Alixe wheeled about. “A prayerful one to thee, Sir Minstrel!” she said sharply, and would have left him but that, smiling, he held her back. “Nay, ma mie, nay, be pleased to remain for a moment’s love-look.” Alixe merely shrugged at his teasing mockery, whereupon he became serious. “Listen, mademoiselle, and explain this matter to me. Is all this Castle under a vow of unceasing prayer? Piety beseems a damsel well enow; yet never have I seen a household so devout. Madame Châtelaine repeats her prayers five times a day; and the step before the altar here is ever weighted by some ardent maid or squire. Ohé! Love in the south; prayer in the north. Rose of Langue d’Oc,—snows of Langue d’Oïl. Tell me, Dame Alixe, which likes thy heart the most, customs of my land or of thine?” “This is all the land I know. And as for thee—well, if thou’rt a true man of the south, methinks I would remain here,” she retorted discourteously, giving him eye for eye.