The sentinel on the bridge said he would rather fight the infidel all day than venture into the forest after sundown. Close to its edge, in the shade of giant oaks, was a fountain of marble, with water playing night and day, cold as ice, clear as glass. And here, one summer afternoon, Ginevra strayed with Geta. Her feet scarcely bent the daisies in her path; the breeze tossed her flossy locks, where the red rose shone like a jewel; and, as old Ban stalked behind her, like a tall black shadow, he thought he had never seen his Lady so lovely.
When they reached the fountain, Geta tried to tune the lute, but could not play till Ginevra brought the silver strings together; and, as she touched its chords, a fierce stag-hound sprang out of the forest so suddenly, she dropped the lute and screamed for fear.
Quick as lightning, Ban was before her, and in another moment would have split the dog’s skull, but a voice shouted:
“Stay! Stay! He will not harm any one!”
Ban stood still, but lowered not his lance. Presently, a youth, mounted on a milk-white steed, rode up, called the hound to his feet, gave his horse’s bridle to a page, who followed on a red roan, and then he knelt before Ginevra and quieted her fears.
I do not know how it came to pass, but these four were soon talking as if they had been friends all their days, and there was nothing in the wide world but their own innocent young hearts. They tried their fortune by dropping bay-leaves in the water. Then they sat on mossy roots, and Ginevra sang of the lady who was heartbroken and drowned herself in the fountain for her own true love; and how her spirit rises and floats in the air above it, like a mist at evening.
“Thy song is too sad, Lady,” said the youth. “Let me have the lute.”
With a free hand, he struck the strings, and sang of King Arthur and his bold knights, and of the daring deeds they did, whose like England has never seen since his time; no, nor never will, till Arthur comes again. Then he turned his eyes—steel-blue eyes, flashing like a sword-blade—toward Ginevra, and sang of love in such strain she thought the fountain stopped its splashing and the trees bent their heads to listen. When the last echo of his voice died away, Ban spoke out, and said:
“My Lady, an’ it please you, my lord, the Baron has forbidden us to stay outside the wall after nightfall.”
“But, Ban, he knows thou art between me and danger. Still, the forest’s shades grow dark, and I see thou art right. The sun is nearly set.”