“Warm, my lord.”
“And light?”
“Light, my lord.”
“Her slippers by the fire?”
“Yes, my lord. She would find the bath and all ready, were she here this very minute.”
“I would to God she were here, Geta!”
Ah! bitter chill the night was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold. The wind raved and tore at the windows, and sleety snow whirled and hissed and drifted against them, and under the loose old casements. The Baron groaned in anguish; in this wild storm, where was his tender child the winds of heaven had never visited too roughly? Where? Oh! where?
At daybreak the companies straggled back. Not a word was spoken. The beloved was not found. They breakfasted on the cold meats of the wedding-feast, and every time a door opened, turned and looked as if to see her dancing home as she had danced away.
Without food or rest, Lord Lovel—oh, how changed!—hunted the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot, calling her by every dear name. “Come to me! Come, or thou art lost!” And the wind, moaning through black arch and freezing gallery, gave back the echo, Lost!