The Greylock | Page 5

her; but a
gentle tinkling through the palace betrayed her presence, and when that
ceased, the grey lock on the infant's temple was always found to have
twisted itself into a curl.
At the end of five hundred years, Wendelin XV. was carried to his
grave. No Greylock had ever possessed a more luxuriant grey curl than
his, and yet he had died young. The wise men of the land said that even
to the most favoured only a fixed measure of happiness and good luck
was granted, and that Wendelin XV. had enjoyed his full share in the
space of thirty years.
Certain it is that from childhood everything had prospered with this
duke. His people had expected great things of him when he was only
crown prince, and he did not disappoint them when he came to the
throne. Every one had loved him. Under his leadership the army had
marched from one victory to another. While he held the sceptre one
abundant harvest followed another, and he had married the most
beautiful and most virtuous daughter of the mightiest prince in the
kingdom.
In the midst of a hot conflict, and at the moment that his own army sent
up a shout of victory, he met his death. Everything that the heart of man
could desire had been accorded to him, except the one joy of possessing
a son and heir. But he had left the world in the hope that that wish, too,
would be fulfilled.
Black banners floated from the battlements of the castle, the columns at
its entrance were wreathed in crape, the gold state-coaches were
painted black, and the manes and tails of the duke's horses bound with
ribbons of the same sombre hue. The master of the hunt had the
gaily-colored birds in the park dyed, the schoolmaster had the
copy-books of the boys covered with black, the merry minstrels in the

land sang only sad strains, and every subject wore mourning. When the
ruby-red nose of the guardian of the Court cellar gradually changed to a
bluish tint during this time, the Court marshal thought it only natural.
Even the babies were swaddled in black bands. And besides all this
outward show, the hearts too were sad, and saddest of all was that of
the young widowed duchess. She also had laid aside all bright colours,
and went about in deepest mourning, only her eyes, despite the Court
orders in regard to sombre hues, were bright red from weeping.
She would have wished to die that she might not be separated from her
husband, save for a sweet, all-powerful hope which held her to this
world; and the prospect of holy duties, like faint rays of sunshine, threw
their light over her future, which would otherwise have seemed as dark
as the habits of the Court about her.
Thus five long months passed. On the first morning of the sixth month
cannon thundered from the citadel of the capital. One salvo followed
another, making the air tremble, but the firing did not waken the
citizens, for not one of them had closed an eye the foregoing night,
which, according to the oldest inhabitants, had been unprecedented.
From the rocky district on the north shore of the lake, where Misdral
lived, a fearful thunder-storm had arisen, and spread over the city and
ducal palace. There was a rolling and rumbling of thunder and howling
of wind, such as might have heralded the Day of judgment. The
lightning had not, as usual, rent the darkness with long, jagged flashes,
but had fallen to the ground as great fiery balls which, however, had set
nothing aflame. The watchmen on the towers asserted that above the
black clouds a silver- white mist had floated, like a stream of milk over
dark wool, and that in the midst of the rumbling and crashing of the
thunder they had heard the sweet tones of harps. Many of the burghers
said that they too had heard it, and the ducal Maker of Musical
Instruments declared that the notes sounded as if they had come from a
fine harpsichord--though not from one of the best--which some one had
played between heaven and earth.
As soon as the firing of cannon began, all the people ran into the streets,
and the street-cleaners, who were sweeping up the tiles and broken bits
of slate that the storm had torn from the roofs, leaned on their brooms
and listened. The Constable was using a great deal of powder; the time
seemed long to the men and women who were counting the number of

reports, and there seemed no end to the noise. Sixty guns meant a
princess, one hundred and one meant a prince. When the sixty- first
was heard, there was great rejoicing,