Where ghosts walk : the haunts of familiar characters in history and literature . in love with one man,was married to another by the will of herpatrician father. He preferred Fran-cesco Agolanti to Antonio Rondinelli,because he—Agolanti—was of noblefamily, says Boccaccio. Also, that Gi-nevra could never be reconciled to themarriage that was arranged for her. Shehad been the wife of Agolanti several years,when she fell ill, and, sinking into a sortof cataleptic trance, was pronounced deadby the physicians. The hasty intermentcustomary at that day in Italy took placewithin twenty-four hours; the
Where ghosts walk : the haunts of familiar characters in history and literature . in love with one man,was married to another by the will of herpatrician father. He preferred Fran-cesco Agolanti to Antonio Rondinelli,because he—Agolanti—was of noblefamily, says Boccaccio. Also, that Gi-nevra could never be reconciled to themarriage that was arranged for her. Shehad been the wife of Agolanti several years,when she fell ill, and, sinking into a sortof cataleptic trance, was pronounced deadby the physicians. The hasty intermentcustomary at that day in Italy took placewithin twenty-four hours; the stone waslowered to its place over the mouth of thecrypt, and the mourners went their waysto their homes. It was midnight when Ginevra lay in an open niche, dressed in grave-clothes ; her wrists were bound firmly inthe form of a cross upon her breast, andshe knew the stifling blackness of the placeto be that of the charnel-house. As soonas the horror of the truth let her use hersenses, she untied the ribbon from herwrists, groped her way to the steps lead- ir^ i. The Ginevra Tale 153 ing to the upper world, and exerted all herstrength to raise the stone laid over theentrance to the vault, succeeding finallyin sliding it far enough aside to allow thepassage of her body. Her only garmentwas her shroud ; her feet were bare. Put-ting out her hands in the obscurity, shecould feel on one side the cold stones ofthe Cathedral, on the other the marblesof the Campanile, and guided her courseby these into the unlighted streets. Stillfeeling her way past the headquarters ofthe Misericordia,—and, we may hope,gleaning courage from the thought of thelove and mercy of man to his sufferingfellows, typified by the Order,—she en-tered the narrow way that now commem-orates her sorrowful wanderings, andemerged into the street on which stoodher home. The husband, who believed himself awidower, was sleeping—we charitably sup-pose— for sorrow. Awakened by theirregular knocking u
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