Laure had gone all aflame. Her heart was beating tremulously and her dry throat contracted so that she could not speak. But looking, for one fleeting instant, into his face, she smiled.
Flammecœur could have laughed for joy, for he saw that his cause was won. And the ease of this conquest did not make him contemptuous of it; for however little he understood it, there was that in this childlike nun that made him hold his breath with reverence before her. The hour that followed their second meeting was almost as new to him as to her, in the stretch of emotions. They spoke very little. From behind them came the continual, droll chatter of Yvain and the answering giggles of Eloise. But Laure could not have laughed, and the trouvère knew it. As they entered the forest, however, at no great distance from the priory, he leaned far over and laid one of his gloved hands upon the tunic that covered her knee.
The whole Castle had assembled to say
God-speed to their departing lord.—Page [25]
“Let me have some gage,—some token of thee,” he said in a hoarse and unsteady tone.
“I cannot! Oh, I cannot!”
He did not urge, but resignedly drew his hand away; and as Laure’s body made the little, involuntary movement of following him, he contained his joy with an effort.
Now the white priory was visible from afar, among the leafless trees; and so Laure, reining in her horse, turned to her companion: “Thou must leave us at once,” she whispered, trembling.
He bent his head, and drew his horse to a standstill. At the same time Yvain and Eloise rode up, having just pledged themselves to eternal devotion. After a moment’s hesitation, Flammecœur leaned again toward Laure, asking, this time fearfully,—
“Wilt thou tell me, lady, in what part of the convent is thy cell?”