Gottfried watched and suffered--each hour more suspicious and uneasy.
In the castle chapel of Montalme stood a narrow-chested saint with
peaked beard,--St. Sebaldus,--who bore on his wooden forefinger an
amethyst ring. With this ring was connected a legend,--viz.,--that
whoever would have the courage to draw it off the finger at midnight
and put it on his own--to him Heaven would grant the fulfilment of his
wish, even were it the most presumptuous in the world. But should the
one who took off the jewel let it fall from his linger ere returning it
on the following night, as in duty bound, to the saint, some terrible
misfortune would speedily overtake him.
It was midnight, and deathly stillness reigned; the moonlight played
about the pointed roof and glittered in the deeply set windows of the
old castle. Black and heavy, almost as a bier-cloth, the shadow of this
gigantic old building spread over the ground. In the garden below, the
nightingales sobbed their sweet songs in the flowering lindens,
sometimes interrupted by the weird screech of an owl. Then a slender
figure glided softly through the echoing corridors of the castle--the
figure of a love-sick girl. At times she paused and listened and laid
her hand upon her breast. A vague, ghostly fear chilled the blood in
her veins. Now she stepped through the high hall adjoining the chapel.
She opened the door heavily weighted with its ornamental iron bands and
rosettes. The moonlight glanced through the coloured windows and
painted fantastic images on the brown church pews. Two long, brilliant
streaks of light cut through the shadows which broadened out over the
marble floor.
Above the altar hung a Madonna with attenuated arms and too long a
neck, as the "Primitives" in their naive awkwardness like to picture
her. Blanche knelt before her and lisped an Ave and the Lord's Prayer;
then turning to the saint who, stiff and complacent, gazed down from
his pedestal, she drew the ring off his finger and put it on her own.
Just at this moment she heard a slight rustle outside, a confused
feeling of dread and fear suddenly came over her,--a vague, painful
fear of all the mysterious powers of night and darkness. Quite beside
herself, she was hurrying out of the chapel when, in her confusion, she
almost rushed into the arms of a man who stepped toward her in the
adjacent hall.
Although she had passed so softly through the house, one ear had
recognised her step,--Henri de Lancy,--by whose chamber she was obliged
to go in her way to the chapel.
And now he stood before her, and his blue eyes shone in the clear
moonlight, and he bent over her smiling. She started back, but did not
fly--only remained standing as if spellbound. When he seized her hand
and she tried to free herself, however, he held her fast, whispering,
"Stay only a little while, I pray you; I've so much to say to you!"
"Leave me! leave me!" she cried, timidly.
"Only a minute!" he begged of her. "You have always avoided me, I could
never say it to you, but indeed you must long have known how infinitely
I love you!"
He stooped over her--she trembled like a delicate rose-bud with which
the spring wind plays. She thought of the saint's ring which she had on
her finger for the purpose of conjuring Heaven to grant her Henri de
Lancy's love. Had the conjuration then worked so speedily? Oh,
measureless joy! Oh, never-anticipated blessedness!