attend it. She had excused herself on the plea of her ill-health; and he
was riding forth in no amiable mood, when an old gipsy woman, well known
in the neighbourhood, accosted him with the usual prayer for alms. He
was curtly dismissing her, when she mentioned her desire to pay her
respects to the young Duchess. It then occurred to him that the sight of
this ragged crone, and the chronicle of her woes, might be an excellent
medicine for his "froward," ungrateful wife, and teach her to know when
she was well off; and after speaking in confidence with the old woman,
he bade him who recounts the adventure escort her into the lady's
presence. The interview took place. The Duchess accompanied her visitor
to the castle gate, ordered her palfrey to be saddled, mounted it with
the gipsy behind her, and bounded away, never to return. The attendant
had watched and obeyed her as in a dream. She left in his hand, in
gratitude for what she knew he felt for her, a little plait of hair.

These are the real facts of the story. But we have also its ideal
possibilities, as reflected by the imagination of the narrator. He had
seen the gipsy metamorphosed as she received the Duke's command, from a
ragged, decrepit crone into a stately woman, whose clothing bore the
appearance of wealth; and as he mounted guard on the balcony which
commanded the Duchess's room, he saw the wonder grow. A sound as of
music first attracted his attention; and as he looked in at the window
he saw the Duchess sitting at the feet of a real gipsy-queen: her head
upturned--her whole being expanding--as the gipsy's hands waved over
her, and the gipsy's eyes, preternaturally dilated, poured their floods
of life into her own. Then the music broke up into words, and he knew
what hope and promise that fainting spirit was drinking in: for he heard
what the gipsy said. She was telling the young Duchess that she was one
of themselves--that she bore their mystic mark in the two veins which
met and parted on her brow--that after fiery trial she should return to