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.
Courtoise sat down again when she left him, and remained motionless, the steel on his knees, his hands idle, staring into space. Suddenly he leaped to his feet and hurled the breastplate to the floor with a smothered oath. “Gray of St. Gray!” he cried, “what devil hath seized the man I loved? Gerault, my lord, rides out and leaves this angel to weep after him! Gray of St. Gray! what desires he more fair than this his Lenore? What—what—what—” the muttered words died into thoughts as Courtoise clapped a cap on his head and strode away from the armory and out of the Castle.
In the courtyard the first object that met his eyes was Gerault’s horse, standing in front of the keep, with a stable-boy holding him by the bridle. Gerault himself was in the doorway of the empty falcon-house, holding a hagard on his wrist, while two dead pigeons swung from his girdle.
“Courtoise! Behold our spoils! Hath not Talon-Fer done Alixe’s training honor?” cried Gerault, the note of pleasure keener than usual in his voice.
Courtoise, flushed with rising anger, went over to him. “My lord, the Lady Lenore asks for thee!” he said a little hoarsely, paying no attention to the dead pigeons or the young falcon.
Gerault very slightly raised his brows, more at Courtoise’s tone, perhaps, than at the words he spoke. “The Lady Lenore,” he said.