On the night of the seventh of July the Castle sat unusually late at meat, for the Bishop had arrived unexpectedly, and, being in a merry mood, deigned to entertain the whole Castle with tales and jests. Just in the middle of a story of Church militant in the war of the three Jeannes, there came the grating noise of the lowering drawbridge, a faint echo of shouts from the men-at-arms in the watch-tower, and the clatter of swift hoofs over the courtyard stones. Half a dozen henchmen ran to open the great door, while Eleanore rose with difficulty to her feet. Her heart had suddenly come into her throat, and she had turned deathly white with an unexpressed hope and an inarticulate fear. There was a little pause. The new-comer was dismounting. Then, after what had seemed a year of waiting, Courtoise walked into the hall, advanced to his liege lady, and bent the knee. “Courtoise!” gasped Eleanore, faintly. “Courtoise—thy message!” “Madame,” he cried, “I bring joyful tidings from my lord! He sends thee health, greeting, and duty, and prays you to prepare the Castle for a great feast; for in a week’s time he brings home his bride from Rennes!” [Illustration] _CHAPTER SIX_ A LOVE-STRAIN [Illustration] Late that night, when the little throng below had been as nearly satisfied with information concerning the great event as three poor hours of steady talking from Courtoise could make them, Eleanore sat in her own room alone with the messenger, there to learn those intimate details of Gerault’s wooing, that none but her had right to know. She questioned Courtoise eagerly, earnestly, repeatedly, with such yearning in her eyes that the young squire’s heart smote him to see what her loneliness had been. “Tell me again, Courtoise, yet once again! She is fair, this maid?” “As fair as a rose, madame; her skin composed of pink and white, so cunningly mingled that none can judge which hath most play upon it. And her eyes are blue like a midsummer sky; and she hath clouds of hair that glisten like meshes of sun-threads, crowning her.” “And she is small and delicately formed?” “She is slender and fragile; yet is she in no way sickly of body.” “And her name,” went on madame, musingly, “is Lenore! Is that not a strange thing, Courtoise? Is’t not strange that a second time this name should have entered so deeply into the life of thy lord? Was he glad that it so chanced, Courtoise; or did he hesitate to pronounce it again?” “I know not if it troubled him at first, madame. But this I know: that he is happy in her.” “Then the dear God be thanked! I ask no more. Ah! It seems that at last I can pray again with an open heart. ’Twill be the first time since—since—” Suddenly Eleanore began to tremble. “Courtoise,” she whispered, pale with dread, “hath thy lord heard—of—of Laure’s flight?”