Followed by her ladies, who cast parting and anxious glances at the forest, the Duchess hastened inside, ascended the steep, winding stairs, and entered the large reception hall, brilliantly illuminated by torches, where the remaining inmates of the castle assembled, among them the chaplain in his black vestments. Uttering the greeting, “Peace be with you,” he took his place near the Duchess, the others arranging themselves in a circle around the walls. The warder, with his heavy bunch of keys in his leathern girdle, went out to the courtyard, prepared to open the outer gate, which was protected by the drawbridge, when the hunting-party arrived. At that instant the horn signal was sounded; but what a mournful tone they heard! All were astonished, and anxiously looked at the Duchess, who advanced toward the door with pallid face. Once again the horn sounded a piercingly mournful call, and through the outer gate, which the warder had opened, they saw the party advancing. A squire was in the advance, leading the Duke’s horse by the bridle. When she saw the horse was riderless, the Duchess pressed her hand to her heart but retained her composure; for, if her husband was injured and needed her care, she must be courageous. The next to enter the courtyard were the Duke’s followers. With slow and measured step they carried a covered bier, and silently placed it in the entrance to the hall. Behind them pressed knights and hunters, on foot and horse, and much confusion prevailed. Constance seemed to pay no heed to them. She went to the bier and lifted the covering. There she saw Geoffrey, her husband—dead![3] The handsome, noble features in their setting of luxuriant blond hair, so lately lit up with life and animation, were now rigid in the chill of death. Long Constance stood immovable, with the edge of the covering in her uplifted hand, and gazed with horror-stricken eyes, as if transformed to stone. The chaplain tenderly approached her. “Gracious Princess, permit us to conduct you to your apartments.” His words broke the silence. She uttered an exclamation of despair and with a shriek fell fainting into the arms of her ladies. The chaplain had her quickly removed to her chamber and cared for, and then returned to the hall. The knights had given over their weapons and horses to their servants, and were assembled there. A low murmur of hushed voices, mingled with sounds of mourning, filled the great room. “Speak, Sir Knight,” the chaplain implored of Höel of Mordant, Geoffrey’s oldest vassal and friend, who stood by the bier with bowed head, leaning upon his sword. “I know not yet how this dreadful tragedy occurred. I only realize that the Duke, whom we saw but a few hours ago in the flower of his health and strength, is dead.”