Slowly, slowly, days, weeks, and months, went by; and yet the Baron and Lovel searched the castle, now gloomy as a prison. They broke the ice and had the moat dragged; but there were found only the slimy things that swim in still water, and Ban went to the bottom of a deep well in the lowest cellar, and found nothing; nor, from that fatal hour, could anything be guessed, save that Ginevra was not.
Spring came, with birds across the sea; the home wind, the sweet breath of summer brought lilies and violets; the nightingale sang to the roses; but its song could not reach the ear of Ginevra. Lovel wore her picture in his bosom, painted as when last he saw her, laughing and looking back, her finger up, as though she said: “Beware!” The artist caught the very glance of her eye, so winning, yet so arch, it haunts me still, like some wild melody; for I have seen a copy of that self-same picture hanging in the old palace of the Orsini, at Modena.
Many a lady of the land would have walked barefooted to London to win a smile from Lord Lovel; but he never smiled again. His heart was empty as some lone nest clinging to wintry boughs, from which the green leaves have fallen and the singing birds have flown.
With haggard face and sunken eyes he hunted that wide and weary castle, and when a year had gone, he said: “There is no hope. I cannot rest here nor live elsewhere; and so I will throw my life away in battle with the Turk.”
The Baron gave him a silver shield and his own sword.
“Take it, my son,” said he. “Thou canst try the magic of its blade and strike for Holy Cross; as for me, I shall never mount horse again.” Then he leaned on Lovel’s neck, and wept sorrowing, knowing they would see each other on earth no more.
In front of battle, Lovel looked death in the face as if he loved it. He fell on the bloody sands of Holy Land, and amid the dead and dying, they buried him where he lay, wrapped in his cloak, his good sword by his side, the sweet picture of his lost love shining on his breast.
Geta and Alfred were married, and the voices of their children were heard as they played about the castle. At Christmas time, when snow whirled through the air, and wind moaned through the halls, they would huddle round the fire, saying to each other: “I hear my Lady’s footstep on the stairs;” or, “she is flying through the forest. I see her white robe in the trees. She is coming near, and will call us soon.”