She was alone. Of all women, she hated most to be followed by attendants and watched by inferiors when she chose solitude. Reliant on herself and unaffectedly courageous, she often wondered whether it were not a more pleasant thing to be a man than to be even the fairest of womankind, as she was. She stood still a moment in the vestibule, drawing the hood of her cloak over her head and half across her face. The outer door was half open; the single lamp, filled with olive-oil and hanging from the middle of the vault, cast its ray out into the night. As Eleanor stood arranging her headdress and almost unconsciously looking toward the darkness, a gleam of colour and steel flashed softly in the gloom. It disappeared and flashed again, for a man was waiting without and slowly walking up and down before the door. The Queen had chosen to come alone, but had no reason for concealing herself; she made two steps to the threshold and looked out, opening wide one half of the door. The man stood still and turned his head without haste as the fuller light fell upon him. It was Gilbert, and as his eyes turned to the Queen's face, dark against the brightness within, she started a little, as if she would have drawn back, and she spoke nervously, in a low voice, hardly knowing what she said. "What is it?" she asked. "Why did you come here?" "Because I knew your Grace was here," he answered quietly. "You knew that I was here? How?" "I saw you--I followed." Under her hood, the Queen felt the warm blood in her cheeks. Gilbert was very good to see as he stood just outside the door, in the bright lamplight. He was pale, but not wan like Bernard; he was thin with the leanness of vigorous youth, not with fasting and vigils; he was grave, not sad; energetic, not inspired; and his face was handsome rather than beautiful. Eleanor looked at him for a few moments before she spoke again. "You followed me. Why?" "To beg a word of your Grace's favour." "The question you asked today?" "Yes." "Is it so urgent?" The Queen laughed a little, and Gilbert started in surprise. "Your Grace wrote urgently," he said. "Then you are zealous only to obey me? I like that. You shall be rewarded! But I have changed my mind. If the letter were to be written again, I would not write it." "It was the letter of a friend. Would you take it back?" Gilbert's face showed the coming disappointment. In his anxiety he pressed nearer to her, resting his hand on the doorpost. The Queen drew back and smiled. "Was it so very friendly?" she asked. "I do not remember--but I did not mean it so." "Madam, what did you mean?" His voice was steady and rather cold. "Oh--I have quite forgotten!" She almost laughed again, shaking her hooded head. "If your Grace had need of me, I might understand. Beatrix is not here. I looked at each of your ladies to-day, through all their ranks--she was not among them. I asked where she was, but you would not answer and were angry--"