The outer door was half open; the single lamp, filled with olive-oil
and hanging from the middle of the vault, cast its ray out into the
night. As Eleanor stood arranging her headdress and almost
unconsciously looking toward the darkness, a gleam of colour and steel
flashed softly in the gloom. It disappeared and flashed again, for a
man was waiting without and slowly walking up and down before the door.
The Queen had chosen to come alone, but had no reason for concealing
herself; she made two steps to the threshold and looked out, opening
wide one half of the door.
The man stood still and turned his head without haste as the fuller
light fell upon him. It was Gilbert, and as his eyes turned to the
Queen's face, dark against the brightness within, she started a little,
as if she would have drawn back, and she spoke nervously, in a low
voice, hardly knowing what she said.
"What is it?" she asked. "Why did you come here?"
"Because I knew your Grace was here," he answered quietly.
"You knew that I was here? How?"
"I saw you--I followed."
Under her hood, the Queen felt the warm blood in her cheeks. Gilbert
was very good to see as he stood just outside the door, in the bright
lamplight. He was pale, but not wan like Bernard; he was thin with the
leanness of vigorous youth, not with fasting and vigils; he was grave,
not sad; energetic, not inspired; and his face was handsome rather than
beautiful. Eleanor looked at him for a few moments before she spoke
again.
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