CHAPTER XI.

How Sir Folko spoke with a strange man in a churchyard.

This year the snow had begun earlier than usual to cover the mountains, and made the road through them, if not impassable, at least dangerous; so that Blanchefleur and Gabrielle found themselves obliged to spend the winter in Milan, a necessity, however, to which they might indeed submit without a murmur; for in that happy country the face of nature is always clothed in smiles; and, besides, there was in a town so rich and prosperous no want of entertainments worthy to be noticed even by such high-born damsels.

It came to pass, however, that Gabrielle and Sir Folko had their days of pleasure and jollity interchanged by others of melancholy and apprehension. For though in that eventful night at the emir’s castle Gabrielle had been surprised into a confession of her love, yet, during her sea-voyage afterwards, her beautiful lips had been sealed up, partly from shame at having spoken so rashly, partly because she feared the mockery of Theobaldo and the Count Vinciguerra, who were then always present. Thereby Sir Folko and Gabrielle had become in outward demeanour as if estranged from each other; in their hearts, however, they had all the while grown more and more indissolubly united; so that the knight would have felt himself truly happy, had it not been, that one terrible thought still lay upon his mind; he had betrayed the confidence of his noble friend, Sir Otto von Trautwangen. Therefore, in the chevalier’s heart, scarce even the buds of inward joy could sprout forth, far less spread into full luxuriance; and oftentimes, as they sat together in Milan, his eyes would wander from the beautiful countenance of Gabrielle to the marble monuments of a neighbouring churchyard. There he felt better and more tranquil in mind; for he found that death reconciled all differences, and that even the injured Sir Otto could not be angry with him, when all that remained was but a skeleton mouldering in the earth, and above it a marble monument, with the inscription, “=Cy git Messire le tres haut et tres puissant Chevalier de Montfaucon=.”

Thus, when he was one day wandering amid the turf mounds of the churchyard, he found sitting on one of them, which was overgrown with weeds and rank grass, a man in the extremity of old age, whose very eye-brows were snow-white, his eyes far sunk and dim, and with a long hoary beard that reached down to his middle. Besides, the stranger seemed thoughtful and stern of mood, so that he might even have inspired fear and suspicion, had it not been for the deep shades of melancholy and misfortune that also lay on his features.

Sir Folko stood gazing respectfully at the old man, when the latter suddenly drew from his bosom somewhat that shone and sparkled, though the knight could not distinguish properly what it was; and, thereupon, raising his arm, began to describe strange figures in the dusky evening air. As he continued thus as it were to write upon the fields of empty space, Sir Folko reflected, shuddering, whether the old man had not just then become the victim of madness, when, behold! there entered at the north gate of the churchyard, a tall figure, magnificently attired as a warlike knight. It seemed to the chevalier that this figure had been already known to him, and he was about to draw nearer; but the strange knight had a severe and woebegone countenance; moreover, he seemed almost as old as the other who sat upon the grave, before whom he walked up and down two or three times, and then vanished behind some tall monuments that stood hard by. “’Tis well,” said the old man, for the first time breaking silence; “now thou hast shewn thyself in thy proper shape, and I shall not fail to know thee again.”--Then, turning towards the grave, he added, “But as for thee,--sleep thou in peace;--the sacrifice that is due to thy just revenge shall not be wanting, even if I should pledge mine own soul’s weal on the venture.” Hereupon it seemed almost as if a low sound of weeping and lamentation was heard from the grave. “Then,” said the grey-haired man, “full well, dearest mother, do I know what thou would’st have. Thou art indeed too kind-hearted, and thou art grieved for the punishment that awaits him;--but my just vengeance must be wreaked. Besides, wherefore else should I be in possession of the ring?”

Watching all these occurrences, the Knight of Montfaucon felt an irresistible chilness and horror steal upon his heart; but, as it often happens to noble minds, instead of being thereby repulsed, he was the more determined to inquire into this mystery. Therefore he went up sternly to the old man and said, “What seek’st thou in this holy ground, thou wicked enchanter, and wherefore would’st thou disturb the peace of the grave?” “She who sleeps here,” said the old man, lifting up his melancholy eyes, “has been laid too soon into her dark and narrow bed. Those who are thus forced, ere they were weary of life, into the house of rest, seldom find sleep therein; therefore it is not my presence that can disturb her. But I pray you leave me in peace, and let me deal with the dead according as I deem it fitting; for, to say the truth, your visit here is unwelcome.” De Montfaucon stood irresolute, not knowing whether he should obey that strange warning, or whether it were not his duty to oppose here some vile schemes of enchantment, such as those by which he had been tormented by Theobaldo. “Was then the sleeper in this grave so well known to you?” said he to the old man. “How should I not know her?” answered the stranger; “she was to me a kind and affectionate mother.” “And for her sake you would now wreak vengeance, old man?” said Sir Folko; “or perchance I had not understood your words; for whoever has committed acts of injustice against the parent of one so old as you are, must long since have been numbered with the dead; and to wreak vengeance on children for the sins of those from whom they derived their birth is an act of stern justice, which it belongs only to the Almighty to fulfil, whose decrees are to mankind unsearchable.” “That crime, however, is not so long past as you suppose,” answered the stranger; “for the guilty man yet lives, and will indeed continue to live until my arm has reached him. To me that meeting cannot be less unwelcome than to him, but many a one creates for himself his own punishment; and did not the noble Roman of old put to death even his own father in the capitol? For thee, sir knight, thy presence here to-day is both useless and troublesome, and should’st thou not think fit to retire from my presence, I then shall retreat from thine.”

Thereupon, with unexpected rapidity, he rose and strode away to the gate of the churchyard, and it suddenly occurred to Sir Folko, that this must be Theobaldo in one of his magical transformations; nay, he thought that when the stranger waved his hand as he scornfully retreated, there shone on his finger the wonder-working ring of Gabrielle.