Many years ago there lived in an ancient castle in England a proud Baron, who had one child, Ginevra, a little girl named for her mother, who died the night her baby was born. The servants used to say the Baroness had led a wretched life; that her lord was harsh and stern at home, as he was fierce and cruel in war; but this I do not truly know. He dearly loved his little daughter, and hours at a time would carry her in his arms and walk up and down the hall before the blazing fires in winter. It was a fair sight to see the Baron with the baby, in her long white dress, lying on his shoulder, her light hair against his rough beard, or to see him dandle her in his hand, hard almost as the steel gloves he wore to battle, as if she were no more than a feather’s weight. The castle was gloomy and strong, with towers guarded by sentinels, and was enclosed by a high wall of stone, beyond which was a deep moat filled with water, that could be crossed by only one drawbridge. Once, when there was war in the land, the King called on all good men for help; and the Baron, ready for battle, gathered his people in the courtyard to hear his last orders. He held up his sword, dinted by many a blow in bloody fight, showed the cross on its hilt, and spoke in a loud voice: “Swear by this blessed sign, whatever befall, you will defend Lady Ginevra to the death!” And every man lifted his right hand, knelt where he stood, and swore by the Holy Cross he would defend the Lady Ginevra to the death. He then mounted his coal-black steed, took the baby from her nurse, and lifted her in sight of all the crowd. She clapped her hands and laughed to see the flashing armor and flags embroidered with red roses, and the air rung with the shout: “Long live the Lady Ginevra!”