On the tenth day of the new regime in Le Crépuscule, squire Courtoise sat in the armory, polishing the design engraved on his lord’s breastplate. Courtoise was moody. Ordinarily his cheerfulness in the face of insuperable dulness was something to be proud of. But latterly his faith, the one great faith in his heart,—not religion, but utter devotion to his lord—had been receiving a series of shocks that had shaken it to its foundation. Courtoise was by nature as gentle, genial, and kindly a fellow as ever held a lance; and in his heart he had for years blindly worshipped Gerault. His creed of devotion, indeed, had embraced the whole family of Le Crépuscule, because Gerault was its head. Till the time of their last going to Rennes, there had been for him no woman like madame, no such maid as Laure, and no man anywhere comparable to his master. Poor Laure had dealt him a grievous blow when she followed Flammecœur from the priory. But from the day of Gerault’s betrothal to little Lenore, the daughter of the Iron Chateau had held his heart in her hand, and might have done with it as she would. Loving the two of them as he did, and seeing each day fresh proof of Lenore’s affection for her lord and his, Courtoise naturally looked for a fitting return of this from the Seigneur. And here, all in a night, Courtoise’s first great doubt had entered in. They had been married three days, they were barely at Le Crépuscule, before Courtoise saw what made him sick with uneasiness. If the Seigneur had wedded this exquisite maiden with the sunlit hair, must he not love her? And yet—and yet—and yet—Courtoise sat in the armory and polished freely at the steel, and swore to himself under his breath, recklessly incurring whatever penance Anselm should see fit to give. For here it was mid-afternoon, and his little lady just freed from her hours of toil; and there was Gerault gone off by himself, without even his squire, forsooth, to hawk with the Iron-Beak over the moor! Courtoise had been indulging himself in ire for some time, when a shadow stole past the doorway of the armory. He looked up. The shadow had gone; but presently it returned and halted: “Courtoise!” The young fellow leaped to his feet, and the breastplate clattered to the floor. Lenore, looking very transparently pale, very humbly wistful, and having just a suspicion of red around her eyes, was regarding him tentatively from the doorway. “Ma dame, what service dost thou ask?” “None, Courtoise,” the voice sounded rather faint and tired. “None, save to tell me if thou hast lately seen my lord.” The expression on her face was so pathetic that Courtoise was suddenly struck to the heart, and he bit his tongue before he could reply quietly enough: “Ma Dame Lenore, Seigneur Gerault rode out long time since a-hawking; and methinks he will shortly now return. The hour for evening meat approaches. I—I—” he broke off, stammering; and Lenore without speaking bowed her head, and patiently turned away.