When the holidays were ended, Lovel set off to Holy Land, to be gone a twelvemonth and a day. Ginevra wept bitterly, but promised to keep true heart and constant mind till he should come home, never, day nor night, to leave her more.
The King’s son tarried and wooed her with words women love to hear; but she quietly said:
“I will wed my own true love, or die a nun.”
He prayed her to give him a favor, a scarf, a glove, a ring; but no; she spoke so firmly he saw it was useless to stay longer, and went away, swearing he would spring into the Thames or the depths of the sea, and drown himself.
Ginevra watched a splendid train escort him through the forest, and when it was out of sight, said:
“Ban, dost thou think he will kill himself? It would be a sad thing to lose our Crown Prince.”
Ban smiled grimly; he had been a wild one, but was tame enough now.
“Lady Ginevra,” he said, “ever since the world was made, men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love. Prince Edward’s heart is sound; he will marry in less than a twelvemonth and a day.”
And so he did.
Now there were many curious things about this castle which have not been mentioned. In the bell-tower, so high, it seemed to touch the sky, lived a crow, said to be a hundred years old, and an owl that hooted at night, and winked and blinked by day. There were lonesome cells where monks used to live; narrow corridors and winding ways easy to be lost in; and secret doors in odd places where you would never think of looking for a door; but Ginevra knew every dark corner from turret to foundation; in every black closet her bright eyes had peered, and under every hidden archway her fairy feet had glided along.