He lifted the long rope, and wound it round his daughter’s neck.
“They are fair, my darling,” said he, tenderly, “but thy throat is fairer.”
Ginevra looked dreamily at the jewel-case; then, turning her eyes inquiringly to her father’s, she suddenly asked:
“Was my mother happy?”
“Happy in that she died young,” answered the Baron, gloomily.
“Wouldst thou say that of me?” she asked, in wondering sadness.
“No, sweet child. Thou art dear to me as the blood-drops of my heart; and had I as many lives as thou hast hairs on thy head, I would give every one of them for thee, my precious pearl. But no more of this! See, here is thy wedding-ring, my gift to thy mother, engraved with the name of both—Ginevra. I had it from a Jew in Venice. He said it bore a charm, and always brought good fortune to the wearer. And so it has; it has brought me thee.”
Ginevra laid the jewels back on the violet velvet lining, and was soon chatting gayly with Geta; but the Baron was restless and uneasy. When he said good-night he strained her to his heart and kissed her again and again, as if it were a last parting; then he doubled the guards of the castle, walked the great hall, and made the grand rounds like one whose anxious thoughts will not let him rest.
Ginevra’s quick eye marked the movements of the Baron, and she waited till he rested a moment in his favorite seat by the chimney-corner, and, seating herself on the heavy arm of the oaken chair, she said:
“Is my father troubled to-night? Tell me what the trouble is, and I may chase it away.”