The trees were shedding their leaves, the bracken and the heather on the
moors were brown, and winds that swept across the Carter Bar and down
from the Cheviots had a winter nip in them; but indoors there was warmth
enough, and all the gorgeousness and feasting and merrymaking that the
most exacting of guests could desire for the marriage of a great king.
The banquet after the wedding was followed by a masque. Musicians
ushered into the banqueting hall of the castle a gorgeously attired
procession of dancers, many of them armed men. It was a radiant scene
for the bright eyes of Queen Yolande. Lights flashed on swords and on
armour, and on the sumptuous trappings and brilliant-coloured attire of
lords and of ladies, for courts in those days looked like hedges of
sweet-peas in the summer sun. The musicians played their best, the
guests mingled gaily with the dancing mummers, and then, suddenly, above
all the sounds of music and of revel, there arose a cry, a woman's cry,
shrill and full of fear. What was that grisly figure that appeared
amongst the dancers?--a grinning skeleton--a dancing Death. No masquer
this, but a grim messenger from the Shades, bringing dire warning to
one, at least, of that gay company. As it had come, so it vanished, but
all the gaiety had gone from the merry throng.
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