Since the last home-coming of Gerault, St. Nazaire had spent a good deal of time at the Castle, had played many a well-fought game of chess with Madame Eleanore, and had exerted himself to lift little Lenore, for whom he entertained almost a veneration, out of her quiet melancholy. None in the Castle, from Alixe to the scullions, but would have done him any service; and his arrival assured the feast of something of its one-time merriment.
On this great day the time for midday meat was set forward two hours, it being just one o’clock when the company sat down at the immense horseshoe table, that nearly encircled the great hall; for the ordinary Castle retinue was increased by a rabble of peasants, and a dozen or more of travellers that had claimed their privilege of hospitality.
As Madame Eleanore, handed by the Bishop, took her place at the head of the table, the band of musicians in the stone gallery overhead sent out a noisy blast of trumpets, and everybody sought a place. Beside madame, supported by Courtoise, came Lenore; and again by her were Alixe, with Anselm the steward. When these were all standing behind their tabourets, monseigneur repeated the grace, in Latin. Immediately upon the amen, the trumpets rang out again, and there was a great rustling as everybody sat down and, in the same breath, began to talk. After a wait of not less than ten seconds, there appeared four pages, bearing high in their hands four huge platters, on each of which reposed a stuffed boar’s head, steaming fragrantly. Two more boys followed these first, carrying immense baskets of bread,—white to go above the salt, black for those below. Then came Grichot, the cellarer, rolling into the room a cask of beer, which was set up in the space between the two ends of the curved table, and tapped. Instantly this was surrounded by a throng of struggling henchmen, friars, and peasants, each with his horn in his hand, eager to be among the first to drink allegiance to their lady. Madame and her little party in the centre of the table were served with wine of every description known to the north; besides mead or punches for whosoever should call for them.
Lenore was seated between Courtoise and monseigneur; and for her alone of all the company, apparently, the feast held less of merriment than of sadness. When every one was seated, and the clatter of tongues had begun, she looked about her, vaguely wondering how many times she should, by this feast, measure a year passed in the grim Castle. Looking along the table either way, at the double rows of men and women, Lenore saw every mouth working greedily upon food already served, and every hand outstretched for more, as rapidly as the various dishes could be brought in. She saw burly men, roaring with the laughter of animal satisfaction, drinking down flagon after flagon of bitter beer. She caught echoes and fragments of coarse jokes and coarser suggestions; and her delicate nature revolted at the scene. She turned to look toward the mistress of the Castle, wondering how madame, who was of a fibre as fine as her own, could endure such sights and sounds. Eleanore sat calmly listening to monseigneur, her eyes lifted a little above the level of the scene, her lips smiling, her air pleasantly animated, though she was scarcely eating, and only a cup of milk stood before her place. As for the Bishop, he was unfeignedly enjoying himself. A generous portion of roast peacock was on his plate, and a bottle of red wine stood close at his elbow. His wit was at its best, and he was entertaining all his immediate neighborhood with such stories and reminiscences as he alone could relate. Lenore found relief in the sight of him and madame, and, pulling herself together, turned to the young squire on her right hand, and began to talk to him gently. Roland listened to her with the reverent adoration entertained for her by every man about the Castle; but his replies were a little inadequate, and presently Lenore was again sitting silent, her burning eyes staring straight in front of her, her white face, framed in its shining hair, looking very set, her white robes gleaming frostily in the candle-light, her whole bearing stiffly unapproachable. She was nervous and uneasy, and she longed intensely to escape to her own quiet room. But there was madame talking serenely on, apparently unconscious of the gluttony around her; there was Alixe the Scornful, merrily jesting with Anselm, who had forgotten his frowns and his Latin together. Here was a great company of varied people, variously making merry, among whom there was not one that could have understood or excused her displeasure with the scene. Therefore she was fain to sit on, disconsolate, enduring as best she might her weariness and her contempt.
“En passant!” cried the Bishop, presently, “where is David le petit? Is the dwarf lying sick?”
“Why, indeed, I do not know,” answered Eleanore, looking around her. “David! Is David not among us?” she cried.
At this moment there was a commotion at one end of the room, and presently the table began to shake. Dishes and flagons clattered together, and a little ripple of laughter rose and flowed along from mouth to mouth, following the progress of David himself, who was darting rapidly down the table, picking his way easily between clumps of holly and tall candles, and dishes and plates and flagons, as he moved around toward Madame Eleanore and her little party. His costume added materially to the effect of his appearance, for he was dressed like an elf, in scarlet hose, pointed brown shoes, tight jerkin of brown slashed with red, and peaked, parti-colored cap. In this garb his tiny figure showed off straight and slender, and his ruddy face and glittering eyes gave him proper animation for the role he had chosen to play.
Flying down the table till he came to a halt in front of madame and the Bishop, he jerked the cap from his head, whirled lightly round on his toes, twice or thrice, and then, with a quaint gesture of introduction, he sang, in a sing-song tone, these verses:—
“From elf-land I—
Gnome or troll—