Four days and nights were wasted thus. Then they met in the hall, and, in a hoarse, changed voice, the Baron spoke:
“Thanks, my friends, every one. Be it remembered, he who bringeth me trace of the Lady Ginevra, or clew to her finding, shall have what he may ask, were it half my barony.”
Deep lines in his face showed how he had suffered, and his hair, that yesterday was streaked with gray, was white as wool. The wedding guests turned to go, and then the great bell in the tower struck one. There was silence deep as death. Hark! two, three, four; it rang to seventeen. What could it be?
No one inhabited the bell-tower, and, except under orders, the ropes were never touched. That sound, so dread, so solemn, struck on every ear, like a voice from heights beyond the living earth; the cry of some desolate soul passing through cloudy spaces, the dim region between two worlds. Could it be fairy hands tolling the passing bell for the soul of Ginevra? Was it a ring from heaven that her presence was lost from the abodes of the living, that she must now be numbered with the dead? These questions have not been answered, and will not be answered till the great day comes which ends all question and brings each hidden thing to light.
Till this time the Baron had not shed a tear. When the last sad tone moaned and trembled through the air, he hid his face in his hands, and big drops ran through his fingers, like fast rushing rain.
Children clung to their mothers; women sobbed together in a crowd; and warlike men, too brave to be ashamed of tears, fell into each other’s arms and cried aloud.
Never were wedding guests like those who that day passed the icy fountain and through the hushing snow of the leafless forest, where the wind was wailing farewell forever, and forever farewell.
From the lonesome hemlocks, loaded with snow, Lovel went back alone to Ginevra’s chamber. Garlanded with roses, it was light and warm; the tiny slippers were before the fire; her lute, her birds, her needlework, were there; but the Rose of the World was missing; missing the little feet that nevermore would lightly run to meet him, nevermore would lightly follow.
