Eloise began a series of weak and rapid expostulations. Laure sat like a statue in her saddle. Nothing was done till the two young women came abreast of the troubadour and his boy. Then, with a rapid and adroit movement, young Yvain wheeled his horse between Laure and Eloise, and presently fell back with Eloise’s animal beside him, while Bertrand Flammecœur drew up beside Laure. The man was white with nervousness, and he bent toward her and said in a low voice: “Sister of angels, grant me pardon for this act!” Laure had gone all aflame. Her heart was beating tremulously and her dry throat contracted so that she could not speak. But looking, for one fleeting instant, into his face, she smiled. Flammecœur could have laughed for joy, for he saw that his cause was won. And the ease of this conquest did not make him contemptuous of it; for however little he understood it, there was that in this childlike nun that made him hold his breath with reverence before her. The hour that followed their second meeting was almost as new to him as to her, in the stretch of emotions. They spoke very little. From behind them came the continual, droll chatter of Yvain and the answering giggles of Eloise. But Laure could not have laughed, and the trouvère knew it. As they entered the forest, however, at no great distance from the priory, he leaned far over and laid one of his gloved hands upon the tunic that covered her knee. [Illustration: _The whole Castle had assembled to say God-speed to their departing lord.—Page 25_ ] “Let me have some gage,—some token of thee,” he said in a hoarse and unsteady tone. “I cannot! Oh, I cannot!” He did not urge, but resignedly drew his hand away; and as Laure’s body made the little, involuntary movement of following him, he contained his joy with an effort. Now the white priory was visible from afar, among the leafless trees; and so Laure, reining in her horse, turned to her companion: “Thou must leave us at once,” she whispered, trembling. He bent his head, and drew his horse to a standstill. At the same time Yvain and Eloise rode up, having just pledged themselves to eternal devotion. After a moment’s hesitation, Flammecœur leaned again toward Laure, asking, this time fearfully,— “Wilt thou tell me, lady, in what part of the convent is thy cell?” She looked at him, wondering, but answered what he wanted, and then waited, in silence, praying that he would ask another question. He sat, however, with his head bent over so that she could not see his face, and he said nothing more. Laure sighed, looked up into the wintry sky, looked down to the snow-covered earth, felt the pall of her frozen life closing around her once again, and then got a sudden, blind determination that that life should not smother the little, creeping flame that had to-day been lighted in her heart. Looking sidewise at Flammecœur, who sat bowed upon his horse, she whispered,— “Shall we—see—each other yet again?”