Florian followed her into a small apartment, with a window toward the east, a neat bed in one corner, a crucifix upon the wall, and a table, on which lay a missal of devotion.
The dame retired.
Florian stole noiselessly to the door, and drew the bolt. Then seating himself upon the bed, he covered his face with his hands, and the tears stole between the fair fingers, fast and bright, like drops of sunlit rain.
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
THE CASTLE GATE.
THE GROUP CLUSTERED BESIDE THE CASTLE GATE ARE STARTLED BY THE PEAL OF A STRANGE TRUMPET.[4]
“Well-a-day! It’s a sad thing to dwell in this lonely place, now that all of the ancient house are dead and gone!”
“‘Dead and gone,’ sir huntsman! Where didst learn to shape thy words? The Count Aldarin lives!”
“By my troth, he does, good Balvardo; and a right quiet time we peaceful folks have had for a day or so past. Here, have we no boisterous merriment; no sound of your squeaking pipe or tabret awakes the silence of these walls; no runlets of wine flow in the beaders of the banquet hall. All is quiet and still. Thanks to Our Lady for’t!”
“Such quiet and such stillness, i’ faith! Why, man, you cannot walk along the solitary corridors of the castle, without trembling at your own starved shadow. Didst ever see a place swept by the plague—all its living folk carried to the grave-yard, leaving old Death to take care of deserted chamber and lonely hall? Look around the court-yard of Albarone, and ask your heart—if heart you have—whether a plague has not swept this place? The saints defend me! it chills my soul to look upon these lonesome walls!”
“And I—look ye, gossips—I, Griseldea, tire-woman of my Ladye Annabel, have never damosel or dame, for two score long years—I am two score and six years, come next Mass o’ Christ, not an hour more, i’ faith—I have never, for two score long years, felt so dead in heart as I do now! In my Ladye’s bower lie her garments of price; the tunic of blue and gold which she wore in her happy days; the white plume that once drooped over her fair brow, the snow-white bridal dress—all, all are there! But where is my Ladye Annabel? Grammercy, but these are doleful days!”
“Blood o’ th’ Turk! Tell me, good folk, are ye paid to howl in chorus? Hugo, didst ever hear such growling?”