“The future?” she sighed, “what doth it hold?  Strife and bitter war for thee and a weary waiting for me, and should’st thou be slain—­Ah, Beltane, forgive these fears and vain imaginings.  Indeed, ’tis most unlike me to fear and tremble thus.  I was ever accounted brave until now—­is’t love, think you, doth make me coward?  ’Tis not death I fear—­ save for thy dear sake.  Death?  Nay, what have we to do with such, thou and I—­this is our wedding night, and yet—­I feel as if this night—­I were leading thee—­to thy—­death—.  O, am I mad, forsooth?  Hold me close, beloved, comfort me, Beltane, I—­I am afraid.”  Then Beltane lifted her in his arms and brought her to the hearth, and, setting her in the fireglow, kneeled there, seeking to comfort her.

And now he saw her very pale, sighing deep and oft and with eyes dilated and heavy.

“Beltane,” said she slowly, “I grow a-weary, ’tis—­the fire, methinks.”  And smiling faintly she closed her eyes, yet sighed and gazed upon him as one new waked.  “Did I sleep?” she questioned drowsily, “Beltane,” she sighed, speaking low and thick—­“I charge thee, whatsoe’er the future doth bring—­yet love me alway—­or I, methinks—­shall—­die!”

Awhile she lay against him breathing deep and slow, then started of a sudden, looking upon him vague-eyed.

“Beltane,” she murmured, “art there, beloved?  ’Tis dark, and my eyes—­ heavy.  Methinks I—­must sleep awhile.  Take me—­to my women.  I must sleep—­yet will I come to thee soon—­soon, beloved.”  So Beltane brought her to the door, but as he came thither the broidered curtain was lifted and he beheld Winfrida, who ran to her mistress, kissing her oft and sighing over her.

“Winfrida,” sighed the Duchess, slumberous of voice, “I grow a-weary—­I must sleep awhile—­”

“Aye, thou’rt overwrought, dear lady.  Come, rest you until the holy Angelo be come, so shalt be thine own sweet self anon.”

And when the Duchess was gone, Beltane sat and stared upon the fire and felt himself vaguely troubled, yet even so, as he watched the leaping flame, his head nodded and he slept, yet sleeping, dreamed he heard the Duchess calling him, and opening his eyes, found the fair Winfrida beside him: 

“My lord Beltane,” said she softly, “thy Duchess biddeth thee wait her in the chapel—­follow me, messire!” Now being yet heavy with sleep, Beltane arose and followed her through an opening in the arras near by, and down a narrow stair, stumbling often as he went and walking as one in a dream.  So by devious ways Winfrida brought him into a little chapel, where, upon the altar, was a crucifix with candles dim-burning in the gloom.