Here Geta made as if she would speak; her mistress went on:
“But nothing like his master, who carried a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a silver bugle-horn.”
“It is young Lord Lovel!” He was silent a moment. “How old art thou, my daughter?”
“Sixteen, come Christmas.”
Then the Baron fell into a muse, and walked on, carrying her all the way.
After supper he sat beside her in the hall, playing idly with her hand, that was soft as the down on the dove’s breast; and at last he said:
“Sweet child, tell me, dost thou know aught of love—young love, I mean, not father’s love?”
“I have sung it in song, and heard it in story,” she answered timidly.
“Listen, then. Lord Lovel is thy betrothed. Thou wert promised to him in the cradle; but we fathers have kept the secret, and let true love find its own, as it is certain to do, and has done to-day. On thy sixteenth birthday we will have the betrothal feast. Now go to sleep and dreams that maidens often have ere they reach thy age.”
Ginevra’s chamber was a lofty room, with curtained bed so high it could be reached only by steps. Geta slept in a cot beside her. They usually fell asleep at dark, and awoke at daybreak, but that night there was no slumber in their eyelids, and the tall clock on the stairs struck midnight ere they ceased to talk of the winsome young lord, and his gallant little page, Alfred.