“What dost thou here, at this hour, alone, Lenore? Did aught frighten thee?”
“I could not sleep, and so, long since, I rose, to wander about till the noise of the storm should fall. I have sat here for but a moment—thinking. But thou, Alixe,—whither goest thou?”
“I? I also could not sleep. The storm is in my blood. I turned and tossed and strove to lose my thoughts. But they burn forever. Alas! I am seared by them. My eyes refuse to close.”
“What are those thoughts of thine, Alixe? Perchance they were of the same woof as mine.”
“Nay, nay, Lenore! Thou hast no ancient memories of this place.”
“That may be; yet my thoughts were of this place, and of a woman. Tell me, Alixe, hast thou known in thy life one of the same name as mine own: a maid whom—whom my lord knew well, and who hath gone far away?”
“Lenore! Mon Dieu! Who told thee of her?”
“It matters not. I know. Prithee, Alixe, talk to me of her, an thou wouldst still the torture of my soul!”
“What shall I tell thee, madame?” Alixe stared at the young woman with slow, questioning surprise. “Knowest thou of her life here among us?—or wouldst hear of her death?”
“Of all—of her life and death—tell me all!” Lenore drew her mantle close around her, for she was shivering with something that was not cold. She kept her head slightly bent, so that Alixe could not see the working of her face, as the two of them went together to the settle by the pillar.