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heard poor Giulia sob without,?As, slowly creaking, he went down the stair.?Were they afraid that I should be afraid??I, who had died once and been laid in tomb??They need not.
Little one, look not so pale.?I am not raving. Ah! you never heard?The story. Climb up there upon the bed:?Sit close, and listen. After this one day?I shall not tell you stories any more.
How old are you, my rose? What! almost twelve??Almost a woman? Scarcely more than that?Was your fair mother when she bore her bud;?And scarcely more was I when, long years since,?I left my father's house, a bride in May.?You know the house, beside St. Andrea's church,?Gloomy and rich, which stands, and seems to frown?On the Mercato, humming at its base;?And hold on high, out of the common reach,?The lilies and carved shields above its door;?And, higher yet, to catch and woo the sun,?A little loggia set against the sky??That was my play-place ever as a child;?And with me used to play a kinsman's son,?Antonio Rondinelli. Ah, dear days!?Two happy things we were, with none to chide?Or hint that life was anything but play.
Sudden the play-time ended. All at once?"You must be wed," they told me. "What is wed?"?I asked; but with the word I bent my brow,?Let them put on the garland, smiled to see?The glancing jewels tied about my neck;?And so, half-pleased, half-puzzled, was led forth?By my grave husband, older than my sire.
O the long years that followed! It would seem?That the sun never shone in all those years,?Or only with a sudden, troubled glint?Flashed on Antonio's curls, as he went by?Doffing his cap, with eyes of wistful love?Raised to my face,--my conscious, woful face.?Were we so much to blame? Our lives had twined?Together, none forbidding, for so long.?They let our childish fingers drop the seed,?Unhindered, which should ripen to tall grain;?They let the firm, small roots tangle and grow,?Then rent them, careless that it hurt the plant.?I loved Antonio, and he loved me.
Life was all shadow, but it was not sin!?I loved Antonio, but I kept me pure,?Not for my husband's sake, but for the sake?Of him, my first-born child, my little child,?Mine for a few short weeks, whose touch, whose look?Thrilled all my soul and thrills it to this day.?I loved; but, hear me swear, I kept me pure!?(Remember that, Madonna, when I come?Before thy throne to-morrow. Be not stern,?Or gaze upon me with reproachful look,?Making my little angel hide his face?And weep, while all the others turn glad eyes?Rejoicing on their mothers.)
It was hard?To sit in darkness while the rest had light,?To move to discords when the rest had song,?To be so young and never to have lived.?I bore, as women bear, until one day?Soul said to flesh, "This I endure no more,"?And with the word uprose, tore clay apart,?And what was blank before grew blanker still.
It was a fever, so the leeches said.?I had been dead so long, I did not know?The difference, or heed. Oil on my breast,?The garments of the grave about me wrapped,?They bore me forth, and laid me in the tomb.?The rich and beautiful and dreadful tomb,?Where all the buried Amteris lie,?Beneath the Duomo's black and towering shade.
Open the curtain, child. Yes, it is night.?It was night then, when I awoke to feel?That deadly chill, and see by ghostly gleams?Of moonlight, creeping through the grated door,?The coffins of my fathers all about.?Strange, hollow clamors rang and echoed back,?As, struggling out of mine, I dropped and fell.?With frantic strength I beat upon the grate.?It yielded to my touch. Some careless hand?Had left the bolt half-slipped. My father swore?Afterward, with a curse, he would make sure?Next time. NEXT TIME. That hurts me even now!
Dead or alive I issued, scarce sure which.?High overhead Giotto's tower soared;?Behind, the Duomo rose all white and black;?Then pealed a sudden jargoning of bells,?And down the darkling street I wildly fled,?Led by a little, cold, and wandering moon,?Which seemed as lonely and as lost as I.?I had no aim, save to reach warmth and light?And human touch; but still my witless steps?Led to my husband's door, and there I stopped,?By instinct, knocked, and called.
A window oped.?A voice--t'was his--demanded: "Who is there?"?"Tis I, Ginevra." Then I heard the tone?Change into horror, and he prayed aloud?And called upon the saints, the while I urged,?"O, let me in, Francesco; let me in!?I am so cold, so frightened, let me in!"?Then, with a crash, the window was shut fast;?And, though I cried and beat upon the door?And wailed aloud, no other answer came.
Weeping, I turned away, and feebly strove?Down the hard distance towards my father's house.?"They will have pity and will let me in,"?I thought. "They loved me and will let me in."?Cowards! At the high window overhead?They stood and trembled, while I plead and prayed:?"I am your child, Ginevra. Let