Rough and poor as the material was, it became her well,
better perhaps than the richest furs could have done. Its folds fell
gracefully to her feet as she held the cloak closely about her, and the
unbroken neutral tint showed her height more plainly, and set off the
marvellous beauty of her skin with a better contrast than any brighter
colour.
Sigmundskron had been very desolate and lonely during the last two
days, since Hilda's mother had ridden away through the bitter night to
do her duty in the house of death. Of course both Hilda and the
faithful Berbel had their occupations as usual, and talked over them
when they were together, but the time had passed slowly and heavily.
Hilda could form no clear conception of what had taken place, from the
confused account of the groom who had brought the news. The idea that
her uncle Greifenstein and her aunt Clara were both dead, as well as
another unknown gentleman who had been with them, was very dreadful;
but Hilda knew so little of death, that the story seemed melancholy and
weird to her imagination rather than ghastly and vivid with realised
horror. By no effort of her mind could she fancy how the three looked,
for she had never seen any one dead in her whole life. She had read of
violent deeds in history, but they seemed more like ugly fairy stories
than realities, and the tragedy of Greifenstein struck her in a very
similar light. It was as though some strange evil genius had passed
through the forest, scarce twenty miles from her home, destroying all
that he found in his way.
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