“I do not my country so much despite to say its men are all like me,” returned the Flame-hearted, smoothly, in an inward rage. “Yet I could tell thee tales of thy cold Normandy that are not all of ice. Methinks this cheerless Breton coast is the mother of melancholy; for shine the sun never so brightly, it cannot melt the soul that hath been frozen under its past winter’s sky. But, Demoiselle Alixe,”—Flammecœur dropped his anger, and took on a sudden tone of exceeding interest,—“Demoiselle Alixe, I hold in my heart a great curiosity concerning thee. I see thee here living as a daughter of the house; yet art thou called Rieuse. Now, wast thou born in Crépuscule?” Alixe regarded him with half-closed eyes. Never had she resented anything in him half so much as this question. Yet she replied to him in a tone as smooth as his own: “Yea, truly I am of Le Crépuscule, by heart and love. But I am not of the Twilight blood. I was born on the Castle lands. I am the foster-sister of the Demoiselle Laure.” “Laure?” “Sooth, hast thou not heard of Laure, the daughter of madame?” “Nay. Is she dead, this maid?” “She is a nun.” “Ah! ’Tis the same.” “Not for us here. Thou must know she is but newly consecrated; and she is to be permitted to come home, here, to the Castle, once in a fortnight, to see madame her mother. On the morrow she will come for the first time since her novitiate began, nine months agone.” “Sang Dieu! Now know I why the Castle breathes with prayer. Madame would make all things holy enough to receive her. She cannot be old, this Laure, sith she is thy foster-sister?” “I am older than she. Also, an I remain longer from the tapestry, I shall be caused to make you do half my daily task as a punishment for keeping me tardy. Give ye God-den, fair sir, and pleasant prayers!” And with a flutter and an unholy laugh, Alixe had whirled past him and was gone out of the chapel.