It was now long past the early supper hour, but neither of the women went downstairs. The thought of food did not occur to Eleanore. Alixe sat by the closed window, brooding deeply. Darkness had come over the sea, and with it clouds dispersed so that a few stars glimmered forth, and at times a moon showed through the ragged mists. Downstairs the young men and maidens had resorted to their usual evening amusements of games, but they played without spirit, and finally, one by one, heavy with unvoiced foreboding, crept off to rest. David the dwarf had not been among them at all to-night. Ever since the ending of supper he had sat outside the door of madame’s room, waiting, patiently, for some sound to come from within. Everything, however, was silent. From her bed the mother, tearless, bright-eyed, watched the broken moonlight creep along the floor, past the figure of Alixe. Her mind was filled with terrible things,—pictures of Laure, and of what the young girl was doubtless enduring. For a long time she contained herself under these thoughts, but finally, racked with unbearable misery, she started up, crying aloud,— “Alixe! Alixe! Methinks I shall go mad!” As she spoke, madame rose from the bed, stumbled across the floor, flung open one of the windows, and looked out upon the splendor of the tumbling, moonlit sea. After a moment or two she felt upon her arm a gentle touch, and she knew that Alixe was beside her. “Mad with thy thoughts, madame? Indeed, meseemeth Laure will not die. Doubtless the Sieur Trouvère loveth her—” She was interrupted by a long groan. “Madame?” she whispered, in soft deprecation. “Not die, Alixe? Not _die_? Dieu! It were now my one prayer for her that she might quickly die!” “Nay, what is there so terrible for her, save that she hath brought upon herself damnation an she die unrepentant? Wouldst thou not have her live to repent and be shriven?” Eleanore groaned again. “Thou art too young to understand, Alixe. Ah! her purity! her innocence! How she will suffer! There is no suffering like unto it.” Madame slipped to her knees, there by the window, and putting her arms upon the sill, buried her head in them, and drew two or three terrible breaths. Alixe, helpless, fighting to keep down her own secret woe in the face of this more bitter grief, felt herself useless. She remained perfectly still, looking out at the sea, but noting nothing of its beauty, till, all at once, madame began to speak again, in a muffled voice,—