Chapter V: Conclusion

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.”

Some said Ginevra was spirited away in the storm; some, that a robber from the forest stole her. Many thought her so pure and good the angels had carried her to heaven without dying. But these were idle tales. Where she went none ever knew, nor was she heard of more.

The Baron never rested from his search. All day the old man, wrinkled and bent, groped his way through doleful chambers, and even into the dreadful dungeon, hunting his darling child; and often, at dead of night, his torch flamed through the windows of some far tower, or along the merlons of the dizzy battlements. One day he was found lying on the staircase, her little slippers, yellow and faded, held tightly in his hand. The dull, deep pain was over; the aching feet at rest; his search was ended, never again to begin. They laid him in the vault, among the crumbling bones of his fathers, where he sleeps well.

Years and years and years went by, and the castle stood empty. It gave no sign of life. The owl and crow were dead, the pavements grown with moss, the rose-garden a waste of weeds. Hangings dropped in rags from black and moldy walls; the drawbridge rotted in the green and stagnant waters of the moat; the flagstaff fell and went to dust upon the roof; and over all hung a cloud of fear and dread. So it was told something ailed the place--that it was haunted. Nothing stirred the old shadows; they lay like death, year after year; and there were no whisperings of warrior or maiden. They were with the still sleepers who dream no dreams.

When a hundred years had passed, the castle was bought by strangers; and one day workmen, repairing the grand staircase, saw a gap in the wall. A secret door had rusted from its hinges, and fallen into a room that looked dark as a grave.

There stood an old oak chest, worm-eaten and mildewed, its iron bands coated with rust, and a light-hearted girl, young and thoughtless as Ginevra, said: “Let us take it from this place, and see what it holds.”

The workmen slowly dragged it toward the light, but on the way it fell, it burst; and lo, a skeleton! Around its head, to which the golden hair yet clung, a coronet of pearls; here and there an emerald stone in a clasp holding shreds of gold, and in the dust that once had been a hand, a wedding-ring engraved--“GINEVRA.”

“There, then, had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy,
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down forever!”

ANOTHER VERSION IN POETRY OF GINEVRA.

THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.

The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,
The holly bright shone on the old oak wall,
The Baron’s retainers were blithe and gay,
While keeping their Christmas holiday.
The Baron beheld with a father’s pride
His beautiful child, young Lovel’s bride;
And she, with her bright eye, seemed to be
The star of that goodly companie.
O the mistletoe bough! O the mistletoe bough!

“I’m weary of dancing, now,” she cried,
“Here tarry a moment, I’ll hide, I’ll hide;
And, Lovel, be sure thou art first to trace
The clue to my secret lurking-place.”
Away she ran, and her friends began
Each tower to search, each nook to scan;
And young Lovel cried, “O where dost thou hide?
I’m lonesome without thee, my own dear bride.”
O the mistletoe bough! O the mistletoe bough!

They sought her that night, they sought her next day,
They sought her in vain till a week passed away;
The highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot,
Young Lovel sought wildly, but found her not.
And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past.
When Lovel appeared the children cried,
“See the old man weeps for his fairy bride.”
O the mistletoe bough! O the mistletoe bough!

At length an old chest, which had long lain hid,
Was found in the castle; they raised the lid.
The skeleton form lay mouldering there,
In the bridal wreath of the lady fair.
O sad was her fate when in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest;
It closed with a spring, and her bridal bloom
Lay withering there in a lonely tomb.
O the mistletoe bough! O the mistletoe bough!

THE FAMOUS POEM GINEVRA

BY

SAMUEL ROGERS.

GINEVRA.

BY SAMUEL ROGERS.

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance
To MODENA, where still religiously
Among her ancient trophies is preserved
BOLOGNA’S bucket (in its chain it hangs
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),
Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the ORSINI.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; thro’ their arched walks,
Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
And lovers, such as in heroic song,
Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
Who in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
Venturing together on a tale of love,
Read only part that day.[A]----A summer-sun
Sets ere one half is seen; but ere thou go,
Enter the house--prythee, forget it not--
And look awhile upon a picture there.
’Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth,
The very last of that illustrious race,
Done by ZAMPIERI[B]--but by whom I care not.
He who observes it--ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up when far away.
She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half-open and her finger up,
As tho’ she said “Beware!” Her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,
An emerald-stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart--
It haunts me still, tho’ many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!
Alone it hangs
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by ANTONY of Trent
With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ;
A chest that came from VENICE, and had held
The ducal robes of some old Ancestor.
That, by the way--it may be true or false--
But don’t forget the picture; and thou wilt not,
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child; from infancy
The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire.
Her Mother dying of the gift she gave,
That precious gift, what else remained to him?
The young GINEVRA was his all in life,
Still as she grew, forever in his sight;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, FRANCESCO DORIA,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety;
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour:
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to FRANCESCO.
Great was the joy; but at the Bridal feast,
When all sat down, the Bride was wanting there.
Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried,
“’Tis but to make a trial of our love!”
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
’Twas but that instant she had left FRANCESCO,
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas, she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,
But that she was not!
Weary of his life,
FRANCESCO flew to VENICE, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
ORSINI lived; and long might’st thou have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find--he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless--then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
When on an idle day, a day of search
’Mid the old lumber in the Gallery,
That mouldering chest was noticed; and ’twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as GINEVRA,
“Why not remove it from its lurking-place?”
’Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished--save a nuptial ring,
And a small seal, her mother’s legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both--
“GINEVRA.”
There then had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down forever!

[A] Inferno. V.

[B] Commonly called DOMENICHINO.

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left unbalanced.

Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned between paragraphs and outside quotations.