With an effort that seemed to her to be superhuman, Alixe struggled to her feet. He held her dripping skirts away from her, so that she could walk as little hampered as possible; and though she staggered and reeled at every step, they still made progress, and were halfway up the cliff before she collapsed again, utterly exhausted. Happily, at that moment, David spied the figure of Laure at the top of the cliff, and he cried to her with all the strength that was left him to come down. In a moment she was beside them, staring in silent astonishment at their plight.
“The demoiselle Alixe had a fancy for bathing. She hath bathed,” observed David.
Alixe did not speak. But suddenly her eyes met Laure’s, and she burst into hysterical laughter. Laure, being a woman, realized that she was strained to the point of collapse. So she bade David go on before them and take all precautions to recover from his bath; and then, as soon as Alixe signified her ability to go on again, Laure put one of her strong, young arms about the dripping body, and, sustaining more than half her weight, succeeded in getting her to the Castle. Alixe demurred faintly about going in, for she dreaded questions. But it was that hour of the day when the open rooms of the Castle were deserted, when all the world was asleep or at play, and, as the two crossed the courtyard and went through the lower hall, they met no one but a pair of henchmen who were too respectful of Laure to voice their curiosity. As the young women went through the upper hall, on their way to Alixe’s room, there came, from behind Lenore’s closed door, the gurgling crow of the baby. At this sound Alixe shuddered, and through her heart shot a pang of horrified remorse at the crime she had so nearly committed.
A few moments later the exhausted girl lay in her bed, wrapped round with blankets, her dripping garments stripped away, and her body glowing again with the warmth of vigorous friction, while her wet hair was fastened high on her head, away from her face. When Laure had removed, as far as possible, every evidence of the escapade, she bent for a moment over the pillow of her foster-sister, and then stole quietly away. Alixe made no sign at her departure. She lay back in the bed, her eyes closed, her face set like marble, her mind wandering vaguely over the events of the afternoon. Gradually her world grew full of misty, creeping shadows, and she was on the borderland of sleep, when some one again bent over her, and the fragrant breath of hot wine came to her nostrils. With an effort she shook her eyes open, to find Laure’s kindly face above her, and Laure’s hand holding out to her a silver cup.
“Drink, Alixe. ’Twill give thee strength.”
Obediently, Alixe drank; and the posset sent a new glow of warmth through her body.
“Now, if thou canst, thou must sleep.”
Alixe sent a thoughtful glance into her companion’s eyes, and there was something in her look that caused Laure to take both of the trembling hands in her own, and to wait for Alixe to speak.
“Nay, Laure, nay; I cannot sleep till I have told thee. Some one I must tell,—some one that will understand. Let me confess to thee.”
Laure seated herself on the edge of the bed, Alixe still retaining her hands. And Laure’s sad eyes looked down upon the drawn face of her foster-sister, while she spoke. “Alixe,” she said softly, “methinks I know thy confession. Thou hast tried to leave Le Crépuscule. Is it not so?”