Gerault was silent till the young people had gone. Then he turned to Alixe, but, before he had time to speak, she broke in hastily:
“Let me go with you to the falcons. You must see Bec-Hardi sit upon my wrist, and attack his pât on the rope.”
“Diable!—Bec-Hardi!—Thou hast a genius with the birds, Alixe. The hagard will not move for me.” Gerault was all attention to her now.
Alixe did not answer his praise, but started quickly forward toward the gate through which she had just come, beyond which was the strip of turf where the falcons lived in summer. Gerault and Courtoise followed her at a slower pace, and she caught some disjointed words spoken by the Seigneur behind her:—“Rennes”—“to-morrow”—“horses.”
As these came to her ears, Alixe’s steps grew laggard, for she had put the thoughts together, and instantly her mood changed from golden irresponsibility to dull and dreary melancholy. For a long time she had concealed in her heart the deep sorrow that she felt at the prospective loss of her life-playmate, Laure, now actually gone, and gone forever. She had resigned herself to the thought of solitary adventures on moor and cliff, and lonely sails on the breezy, treacherous bay, in a more than treacherous boat,—such wild and risky amusements as she and the daughter of Le Crépuscule had loved to indulge together. Laure was gone, and she had kept herself from tears. But now—now, at these words of Gerault’s, there suddenly rose before her a vivid picture of life in the Castle without either brother or sister. Toward Gerault she had no such feeling as that which she had held for Laure. He was a man to her, and the fact made a vast difference. At times she entertained for him a violent enthusiasm; at other times she treated him with infinite scorn. But till now she had never confessed, even to herself, how much interest he had added to the monotonous Castle life. Considering her wayward nature, it was certainly anomalous that, in her first rush of displeasure, there came to her the thought of Eleanore, the mother now doubly bereft. And for madame she felt a sympathy that was entirely new.
Gerault and his squire reached the outdoor falconry before Alixe, whom they perceived to have fallen into one of her sudden reveries. Accustomed to her rapid changes of mood, neither man took much heed of her slow steps and bent head. And when she reached the falconry and saw the birds, her interest in them brought over her again a wave of animation.
The outdoor falconry was a long strip of turf that lay between the flower-terrace and the kitchen-garden. Into this turf had been driven about twenty heavy stakes, to which were nailed wooden cross-pieces. On nearly every one of these a falcon perched, and a strong cord, tied about one leg, fastened each to his own stake. At sight of their master, whom they knew perfectly well, all the birds set up a peculiar, harsh cry, at the same time eagerly flapping their wings, appealing, as best they could, for an hour or two of freedom. Alixe ran at once down to the end of the second row of stakes, where sat a half-grown bird, striking viciously at his perch with his iron beak.
Courtoise and Gerault ceased their conversation when Alixe went up to this bird and addressed it in a curious jargon of Latin and Breton-French. Courtoise betrayed an admiring interest when she stooped to lay her hand on the bird’s feathers; and Gerault called involuntarily,—
“Have a care, Alixe!”
The girl, however, had her way with the creature. At sound of her voice it became attentive. At the touch of her hand it half raised its wings, the motion indicating expectant delight. In a moment more it had hopped upon the girl’s wrist, and sat there, swaying and preening contentedly.