But Ginevra had a kind of spirit with her, empowered to give constant strength and comfort, to gladden daylight and embalm darkness; the best of the good genii that guard humanity curtained her with his wings, and canopied her head with his bending form.

By True Love was Ginevra followed: never could she be alone.

Was she insensible to this presence?
It seemed to me impossible: I could not realize such deadness.

I imagined her grateful in secret, loving now with reserve; but purposing one day to show how much she loved: I pictured her faithful hero half conscious of her coy fondness, and comforted by that consciousness: I conceived an electric chord of sympathy between them, a fine chain of mutual understanding, sustaining union through a separation of a hundred leagues--carrying, across mound and hollow, communication by prayer and wish.

Ginevra gradually became with me a sort of heroine.