The truce of God: A tale of the eleventh century

by George H. Miles

CHAPTER V

Fierce he broke forth: "And darest thou then
To beard the lion in his den?
The Douglas in his hall?
And hopest thou hence unscathed to got
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!
Up drawbridge, grooms!—ho! warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall!"

MARMION

For three weeks the Lady Margaret had expected the duke and her brother; for three weeks Gilbert had impatiently awaited his father's return.

Toward the close of September, a group of young children might be seen clustering around an old man, at the edge of the forest, within a stone's throw of the Church of the Nativity. They were listening eagerly and delightedly to the patriarch they had surrounded, in whom we recognize Father Omehr. The faces of the infant band were bright with innocence and that happy alchemy which turns the merest toy to a costly treasure. There was a tender piety on the features of those children that moved the heart. Devotion lies upon the face of youth with a peculiar fitness. As we see it dwelling in that unsullied abode, we remember how the cheek of the Madonna is pressed against the infant in her arms. Their instructor seemed to have caught a portion of their light-heartedness. Sad recollections and gloomy anticipations were forgotten. The throes of the empire and dangers of the Church intruded not; for a moment, the aged missionary felt the elasticity of childhood, and, as his heart was as pure, his face became as bright as theirs.

"Perhaps you have thought, my children," the priest was saying, while his hand rested lightly upon the head of the nearest boy, "perhaps you have thought at times, that had you been little children at Jerusalem when our Saviour entered the city in triumph, and the people went forth to meet Him with palm-branches, you too would have run to welcome Him, and laid fruits and pretty flowers at His feet. Perhaps you have thought that you would have offered Him some refreshing drink as He tottered under His cross up the hill of Calvary; that you would have embraced Him and wept most piteously when He fainted away in agony. How delightful would it have been to receive a smile from your suffering Lord! You have still the very same opportunity, my children, you would have had at Jerusalem. You can still run to meet your Redeemer! He loves the flowers of a pure heart better than those which make the green fields as beautiful as the blue sky with its stars; and He values the tears we shed for our sins more than the pain we should have felt to see Him suffer. Still continue to bring the fruits and flowers of piety and obedience to your parents to Jesus, and you will be permitted to wait upon Him in heaven for all eternity.

"Go, now, and play! And when the bell rings, come quietly to the church."

Not until his little flock had dispersed did Father Omehr perceive that the Lady Margaret was standing almost at his side.

The Lady Margaret has changed since we saw her return the parting salute of Rodolph and Henry. Her cheek has grown brighter, but her brow is smoother and paler. Her face is sweeter than ever, though still more melancholy. It may have been the balminess of the afternoon, solicitude for her brother's return, or a transient feeling, that controlled the expression of the maiden's face, but it seemed to have still less of earth in its exquisite proportions, and her eye was softer and deeper.

It was Monday afternoon; and on this day every week, the missionary instructed the children of the neighborhood and prepared them for Communion. There still remained an hour before the time for evening service, and Father Omehr proposed to the Lady Margaret a walk along the shady avenue at the border of the forest. Disengaging herself from the children, who loved her and were clustering about her, she readily assented.

"Father," began the maiden, as they walked together, "when may we expect the duke?"

"Before long, I hope," replied the missionary; "the conventicle at Worms will decide at once which of his barons are for and which against him. I should not be surprised to see them returning at any moment."

"Are they in no danger from ill-disposed chieftains?" asked the lady.

"The duke will pass through a friendly country, and is too much loved and feared to be assailed in his own dominions. Your father, I presume, is not anxious about their safety?"

"Oh, no! He talks as if they were invulnerable."

"At least," returned the priest, "you should rest content with praying for them, and not distress yourself with idle fears."

A pause of some minutes ensued here, during which Margaret's mind seemed actively and painfully employed. She broke the silence by exclaiming, in a low but earnest tone:

"I have always been too much influenced by idle fears—my whole life has been a tissue of timidity."

"Do not accuse yourself unjustly, my child," said her companion; "we must beware, even in reproaching ourselves, that we do not despise the favors of God, and lose the grace of perseverance in virtue."

The fair girl was again silent, but she suddenly exclaimed, with much emotion:

"Year after year I felt a strong impulse to join the convent at Cologne, founded by the sainted Anno, but was withheld by a fear of my own weakness; I resolved to seek the cloister and forget the garb and customs of the world, but I feared that I might thus confirm my father in his indifference to religion and my brother in his antipathy to the house of Hers. The months kept gliding by, and still I was irresolute. I have prayed, with all the ardor I could command, for light to see my vocation; and if God have mercifully granted it, I wilfully remain blind. This self-made uncertainty and irresolution cost me many a pang; nor have I even the merit of patiently and cheerfully enduring what they inflict."

Margaret was violently agitated as she spoke, but was not entirely subdued by her excited heart, though more than one big tear went down her cheeks.

"Margaret!" said her venerable companion, stopping short and speaking so impressively that the maiden looked up through her tears.

"Margaret!" he repeated, as their eyes met, "you have done much to soften your father's anger and your brother's impetuosity, and your mediation has perhaps endeared you to heaven—but you can do more! Devote your life to the extinction of the feud between the houses of Stramen and Hers—look to the duty that stares you in the face, and fulfil that vocation before you seek another! Make peace between these houses the first object of your prayers, and the aim of all your efforts, and God will soon determine whether the cloister or the castle requires your presence in the accomplishment of your noble end!"

As Father Omehr concluded, the Lady Margaret, yielding to the impulse she had till then controlled, wept like a child. Yet it was not deeper dejection that made her sob as though her heart would break, but rather a sense of relief, and a sweet consolation that banished all spiritual dryness. Her instructor had often before suggested her obligation to consecrate herself to the task of healing the feud; but never had he so solemnly warned her, and never had she seen her duty so clearly.

"Be calm, my child," continued the missionary; "you can compose yourself in the church, while I prepare for the service. Prostrate yourself before the infinite majesty and goodness of God, and invoke His assistance, with a determination to accept with resignation whatever trial He may send. And forget not to supplicate the intercession of the Blessed Mary. Open your heart to her; beg her to discover and obtain its pious wants. She whom Jesus obeyed on earth, will not ask in vain in His eternal kingdom: God, who made her the medium of salvation to man while she remained a poor Jewish virgin, cannot deem her unworthy of being the channel of His choicest graces to us, now that she stands beatified in heaven!"

The Lady Margaret passed into the church and knelt before the altar. There she remained until the psalms were sung and the evening hymn was over. When she rose, her face was calm, and even joyous. There was no exultation in her look, but it was full of meek serenity. As she left the church, she met Father Omehr. She greeted him with a smile that told what a load was taken off her heart. There was gratitude, esteem, and a holy joy in that smile—it was full of tender and indescribable sweetness—it was an expression of the happiness and purity of her soul.

It was not the bright smile of youth, or the warm smile of affection; it had none of the witchery of woman, but much of the devotion of the Saint: beautiful as she was, and still more beautiful as it made her, it suggested the Creator, not the creature.

"We shall expect you to-night, Father," she said, pausing but a moment.

Father Omehr nodded, and dismissed the children, who had come for a parting blessing, while the maiden turned her palfrey toward the castle. She rode swiftly, for dark clouds were climbing up the knew the extent of his infatuation, he was revolving the feasibility of revealing his attachment. At last he had determined to embrace the first chance of declaring a love now past concealment.

At the same time that the Lady Margaret was speeding to Stramen Castle, Gilbert was standing on the top of a steep hill that rose abruptly some distance to the north of that on which the towers of his fathers were built. He found a pleasure in surveying the majestic masses of thick dark clouds, that slowly overspread the West and swallowed up the sun. There seemed to be a mysterious sympathy between him and the angry elements, or perhaps he felt flattered to find the deep thunder and arrowy lightning less potent than the feelings within his bosom. He laughed at the coming storm, while the eagle flew by with a shriek, and the cattle sought any casual shelter. But, as he was not ambitious of becoming thoroughly wet, he sprang down the hill when the big drops began to fall, and entered a neat cottage situated in the opening of a rich valley, that swept from the hills toward the lake.

"What! alone, Humbert?" said the youth. "Your wife and children are not out in this storm, I hope?"

"They are praying in the next room," replied the man, sinking his voice.

Gilbert turned to the window; but the rain was now pouring down in torrents, and he could discern nothing but the lightning. Humbert was a favorite with the Lord of Hers. He played upon the harp with more than common skill, and could personate the regular minnesinger to perfection. His stock of ballads was inexhaustible, and some of his original songs might well compare with his borrowed lore. Besides this, he was a daring huntsman, an expert falconer, and a trusty follower.

"Humbert!" exclaimed the youth, in a searching whisper, "would you like to play the minnesinger in this storm?"

The retainer smiled and replied, "Yes, if I were a bull, and could bellow the lay."

But Gilbert answered, without relaxing a muscle, "You will not be called upon to play until you can be heard."

"Then we might as well wait until to-morrow," said the other, with great sangfroid, looking over Gilbert's shoulder at the rain.

"But understand me!" muttered the youth, rather sternly; "I am in earnest! Will your harp weather this storm?"

"Yes," returned Humbert, still playfully, "if we loosen its strings: I have a water-proof case for it. But I have no water-proof case for myself; and being compelled to brace my nerves for the encounter, they will be apt to snap."

"You incorrigible trifler, can you disguise yourself as well now, as when you palmed yourself upon us all for the minstrel Guigo?"

"Certainly."

"And can you array me as your harpbearer, and alter this face and form of mine?"

"With much more ease than I can play the minstrel in this storm."

"Then do it at once," said Gilbert.

"My lord!"

"Yes!"

"Where?"

"Here!"

"When?"

"Now!"

Humbert eyed the young noble with a comic surprise.

"Had we not better wait until the rain abates?"

"It is abating now," replied Gilbert.

It was true: the first frenzy of the storm was over, and there was coming a pause in its wild career.

"There!" resumed the youth; "you can ride to the castle and bring two good horses before it begins again. Quick! I shall wait here."

"You had better wait upstairs, out of sight," suggested Humbert.

"You are right."

"This way, my lord;" and, followed by his retainer, the young noble ascended to a room that might have been called Humbert's studio. The latter, descending at once, called his wife, exchanged a few words with her, the import of which was to keep herself invisible, and, accustomed to a ready obedience, he leaped upon his horse and spurred for the castle. The distance was not greater than half a league, yet to Gilbert he was absent an age.

It was quite dark before Humbert had completed the disguises to his satisfaction. His own was a masterpiece in its way. He assumed a grace and a lightness that might well become a minstrel of no ordinary degree. The character of his face was completely changed, and was reduced, by means of long flaxen curls and other artificial additions, from frank manliness to almost feminine delicacy. The Lord of Hers himself could not have recognized his son in the drooping, swarthy, gypsy-looking figure that stood beside Humbert. Gilbert's head was enveloped in something like a cowl, and his whole figure was muffled up in a coarse brown cloak. Thus attired, he was to play the part of a Bohemian harp-bearer.

The moment the finishing touches were put, the impatient youth hurried the more cautious yeoman to the saddle. The rain had ceased to fall, but the sky was still overcast and threatening. Though the moon was more than half full, they had barely light enough to justify the rapid pace at which the noble led the way. It was a little out of character for the minnesinger to carry his own instrument when a harp-bearer was so near at hand. But Humbert knew how to sling the harp across his back, and Gilbert, a mere novice in the art, would have found the burden excessively embarrassing. Gilbert pressed forward without opening his lips or looking behind, until they had entered the lordship of Stramen. Humbert, respecting the humors of his superior, followed just as silently. But he began to grow anxious as they kept advancing, and he could not repress an exclamation of surprise as Gilbert halted on the brink of the ravine we have described before, within a league of the castle. They led their horses down into the gully and tied them to two stout trees.

"Give me the harp!" exclaimed the youth, commanding rather than entreating. Humbert surrendered the instrument without a word, and they emerged from the ravine. They walked on, side by side, still in silence; for Gilbert's mind was wrought up to the highest pitch, and held too thrilling communion with itself to notice his companion, except at brief intervals. But when they came within full view of the dim turrets of Stramen Castle, and the youth kept steadily advancing toward them, Humbert stopped short, and perceiving that Gilbert still advanced, he made bold to stay the rash stripling by touching his arm.

Gilbert started and stood still; then said, with cold contempt: "Do you flinch?"

"From what?" inquired the other, calmly.

"From that mass of stone."

"What have we to do with that?"

"Enter it before an hour."

"And die before an hour," replied Humbert.

"Or live," said Gilbert, rather to himself than to his attendant, and resuming his rapid advance.

Humbert stood awhile, rooted to the ground, in mute amazement at his lord's inexplicable behavior. But every moment was precious. He sprang forward, and again seizing Gilbert's arm, he threw himself on his knees.

"My dear lord!" he exclaimed, "I conjure you in the name of your father to desist from this madness, and to return! You are rushing upon certain destruction! You are flinging away your life! Remember it is Monday! The arm of our blessed mother, the Church, cannot protect you to-day! My wife and my children will be left without a father, and the lordship of Hers without an heir!" Here the honest yeoman burst into tears, but the youth's determination was taken. He disengaged himself from his follower's grasp, and said, resolutely, but kindly:

"Return!"

"And leave you to perish alone?" cried Humbert, springing to his feet. "No, no! I am no craven! And why should I return? To be reproached with having seduced my lord into danger, and then basely deserted him? If you advance, I go with you, though I cannot guess your object, or justify your seeming madness. But I implore you to remember your duty as a son and as a Christian, and not to take a step that will make your enemies exult and your friends tear their hair in sorrow!"

For a moment the noble stood irresolute; but the next instant he seized Humbert's hand with a vice-like grip, and whispered in his ear, "I must see the Lady Margaret!"

Without waiting for a reply, Gilbert strode forward. Before the drawbridge was gained, Humbert had recovered himself, and was prepared to put forth all his daring and skill to extricate themselves from the consequences of this perilous adventure.

"Ho! warder!" he cried, in a confident tone, "a minnesinger—Ailred of
Zurich—and his harp-bearer, wet and fasting. Shelter in the name of
God!"

Down came the drawbridge, and the portcullis rose and fell, leaving them on the other side of the moat, surrounded by the men of Stramen. They were conducted with much respect to a comfortable room in the castle, and the arrival announced to the Lord Sandrit de Stramen. The baron, who had heard of Ailred's rising fame, was delighted with the intelligence, and invited the minstrel to his principal hall. Humbert encased his harp, and having tuned it, delivered it to Gilbert. Then, with scrupulous care, having re-examined his costume, he ascended a flight of stairs, escorted by a serf, and ordered Gilbert to follow. They were ushered into a spacious room, hung with armor and broidered tapestry.

By a blazing fire were seated the baron and Father Omehr, and some paces behind them stood several attendants. Sir Sandrit rose and saluted the minstrel with much courtesy, and bade him warm himself at the genial hearth. Humbert received the baron's congratulations without embarrassment, and pledged his health in a brimming bowl. While the minnesinger and the noble were exchanging compliments, Gilbert kept a respectful distance, supporting the harp. He feared to look at the missionary, who sat, evidently little concerned about Ailred of Zurrich, wrapped in meditation. His heart had grown cold when, on entering the room, as he glanced around, he missed the Lady Margaret. Was she sick? Was the prophecy to be so swiftly consummated? He maintained his position unnoticed, save by the domestic who offered him wine, until the diligent seneschal had spread a long table, which soon presented a most tempting appearance. Venison, boar's flesh, fish, fowl, pastries of various kinds, and generous bowls of wine, proclaimed the hospitality of the proud baron. Father Omehr blessed the board, but declined participating in the repast.

Sir Sandrit forced the troubadour to sit at his side, while Gilbert occupied a seat at the lower end of the table, among the dependents of the house; for the arrival of a minstrel was one of those momentous occasions when the lord of the fee welcomed his retainers to his own board, and extended equal favor and protection to the highest and the lowest. Humbert's animation increased as the sumptuous meal progressed, while his naturally brilliant qualities, and a remarkable fund of wit and anecdote, so fascinated the baron that he was wholly absorbed in the charming Ailred. Gilbert sat silent and watchful, eating just enough to avoid observation. When the banquet was drawing to a close, the Lady Margaret entered the room, and glided to a seat beside the priest. The blood rushed to Gilbert's face with such a burning thrill, that he bent his head to hide his confusion. He trembled in the violence of his smothered emotion. It was some minutes before he dared to look up. Her face was exposed to his gaze, and he could see every feature distinctly. She was still the same—ay, more than the same—she was lovelier than ever. Regardless of discovery, he fixed his eyes upon the apparition that had haunted him so long, and was only recalled to a sense of his position by a loud call from the baron for the harp.

As he carried the instrument to the spot indicated by Ailred, the baron presented the minstrel to his daughter. Humbert behaved with becoming reverence. He took his station a few feet from the table, between Sir Sandrit and his daughter, and began to prelude with decision and great sweetness. Gilbert stood behind him, with his back to the baron and his face to the Lady Margaret. Humbert, emboldened by his reception, and perhaps inspirited by the wine, sounded the chords with admirable effect; and when the expectation of the audience was at the highest, he introduced a beautiful ballad, and raising his voice, sang the praises of Rodolph of Suabia. The baron and all his followers were listening intently to the minstrel, as, with a heaving breast and flashing eye, he recited the glory of Suabia and of her majestic duke. Even Father Omehr was carried away by the excited Humbert. But Gilbert's eyes and soul were riveted upon the Lady Margaret. What was the strain to him? he heard it not. The violent hopes and fears that had alternately shaken him, had given way to a silent rapture; the unnatural tension of his nerves was relaxed, and in spite of all his efforts, the tears gleamed in his eyes. When the lay was over, the room resounded with loud praises, and the baron threw a chain of gold around the minstrel's neck.

At this moment Margaret encountered Gilbert's eyes; she reddened with anger at first, but almost instantaneously became pale as death. Gilbert saw that he was recognized—he bent his head upon his breast, and prepared for the worst. But so completely had Humbert engrossed all eyes, that the maiden's agitation was not observed. She had penetrated the youth's disguise, and the discovery stunned her. She was bewildered, and could not determine what course to pursue. Humbert sounded his harp again, and began a wild romance. Concealing her agitation, she endeavored during the song to collect her thoughts. What embarrassed her most, was to divine whether Gilbert's purpose in his mad visit were hostile or merely a piece of bravado. But she resolved to take no step without mature reflection. She was deliberating whether she could communicate her secret to Father Omehr, without so surprising him as to excite remark, when he rose and left the room.

The Lady Margaret was detained to hear some verses improvised to herself, which she rewarded with a slight token; she then withdrew, without raising her eyes to Gilbert. After she had disappeared, the baron dismissed the guests and retained the minstrel. Seizing this opportunity, Humbert told Gilbert he might retire until he was called, and the youth passed out, leaving behind only a few favorite retainers with Sir Sandrit and the minnesinger. As the door closed behind him, Gilbert found himself in a long and dimly lighted corridor. He saw a black figure enter at the other end—it was Father Omehr.

"It rains too hard at present to venture out," said the priest, in passing, and he re-entered the hall to wait till the gust had exhausted itself.

Gilbert wandered along the arched gallery without any definite aim, yet expecting to see the Lady Margaret start from some secret niche. Suddenly his cloak was pulled so sharply, that he grasped his sword, which he had been prudent enough to conceal beneath the ample folds of his gown. As he turned, he saw a woman with her finger on her lips, but it was not the Lady Margaret: that shrivelled face and curved back belonged to Linda. The old neif, after thus enjoining silence, made a gesture for the youth to follow, and shuffled noiselessly before him. Gilbert's heart was well-nigh bursting with anxiety as they strode along. When they reached the point where the corridor branched off into many smaller passages, Linda entered one that opened through a sharp-arched door upon the top of a battlemented tower. The youth felt relieved by the cold, damp wind that drove through the aperture against his burning cheeks. As they reached a recess near the tower, Linda stopped and leaned against a buttress with her arms crossed on her breast. At this moment, Gilbert became aware of the presence of a third figure, muffled from head to foot in a mantle of fur; he felt that the Lady Margaret stood before him, but all his gallant resolutions melted away, and he remained mute and motionless, powerless to speak or act. Apparently unconscious of Gilbert's presence, the lady stepped within the recess and knelt before a statue of the Mater Dolorosa; the youth was awed and abashed: he began to consider his daring adventure an unwarrantable intrusion; he meditating kissing the hem of her garment and retiring with all his love unspoken. In the midst of his suspense Margaret arose and confronted him; her manner was formal and dignified without being cold or stern.

"Are you Gilbert de Hers?" she said, in an undertone, but her voice was firm and clear.

Gilbert bowed, but made no other reply.

"What is your motive in coming here?" pursued the maiden, still calmly.

The youth was silent, his eyes fixed on the pavement.

"Why have you come so mysteriously—in such a strange disguise?"

But still no answer came.

"Are you here," continued his fair questioner, with more emphasis, "on a hostile mission? Are you seeking vengeance on our house by stealth? Are you engaged in the prosecution of some criminal vow to injure us? Speak! Have you come to draw blood?"

"No, no!" muttered Gilbert, finding voice at last; "I bear your house no enmity."

"Beware!" said the lady. "Remember that for years you have been our professed and bitter enemy."

"I was your enemy. I solemnly declare myself one no longer."

"Then what has impelled you to this step? Is it an idle curiosity—a mere piece of bravado?" Gilbert made no reply.

"Is the object of your visit fulfilled? If so, fly at once! Your life is in danger—you cannot long escape detection—it is dangerous to tempt my father. Go! you will find none else here to listen to your denial of an inimical intent in this reckless deception."

"My object is but half fulfilled!" exclaimed the youth, throwing himself at the Lady Margaret's feet.

It would argue a poor knowledge of the quick apprehension of woman, to say that the maiden was entirely unprepared for such a movement; but the suddenness of the demonstration made her start. Gilbert's embarrassment had disappeared in his fervor. He no longer stammered and stuttered, but with unhesitating eloquence went through that ancient but ever fresh story, found in the mouths of all suitors in all ages. Linda stood with her eyes and mouth distended, looking as though she had been petrified just as she was about to scream. It was rather a poor omen for Gilbert that Margaret should have turned to the old servant, who had advanced a pace, and calmly motioned her back to her corner. The daughter of Stramen listened to Gilbert's passionate professions with the air of one who was hearing the same vows, from the same person, under similar circumstances for the second time. She could scarcely have foreseen this, but there is no estimating the power of anticipation it is the mother of much presence of mind and unpremeditated wit.

After reciting the history of his love from its dawn to its zenith, Gilbert began to conjure her not to slight his affection, and not to permit family prejudices to stand in the way of their union.

"It can never be sufficiently lamented," he said, "that the demon of revenge has so long separated our houses, which ought to be united in the closest ties of friendship. It is time for us to learn to forgive. We have been too long aliens from God, and wedded to our evil passions. We must fling aside the scowl of defiance, the angry malediction, the sword and the firebrand, and, like Christians and neighbors, contract an alliance that may edify as much as our discord has scandalized. I conjure you, in the name of the victims already made by our feud—of the numbers who must perish by its continuance—in the name of the holy Church whose precepts we have disregarded, of the God whose Commandments we have violated, not to dismiss me in scorn and anger. I have perilled my life, that I might end our enmity in love."

"I am most happy," interposed the Lady Margaret, availing herself of the first pause in his rapid utterance, "I am most happy," she repeated, in a voice of singular sweetness, "that our enmity may end in love—"

A smile of exultation shot over Gilbert's face, and a sound of joy trembled on his lips. This did not escape the maiden, for she instantly added:

"But not in the love you propose!"

The light was gone from Gilbert's countenance, and he stared wildly into the lovely and mournful face before him.

"Not in the love you propose," she resumed. Hitherto she had spoken seriously and without agitation, but now her whole manner was changed. Her cheek glowed and her eyes gleamed: a sudden animation appeared in every limb. She took a step forward, and bent over the still kneeling youth, fixing upon his a steady, penetrating gaze, as though she sought to read his inmost soul.

"Tell me, Gilbert de Hers," she said, "do you truly desire peace between us?"

"As I live," replied Gilbert, "yes!"

"Do you desire it for the love of God, and because our enmity displeases
Him?"

"Yes."

"Then consecrate yourself to the attainment of that peace! Let no selfish motive spur you on! Look to heaven for your recompense, not to me I Aspire to eternal favor, not to mortal love! As for me—my days are numbered here!—but what remains of life, I devote to the same holy end. We will labor together, though apart, in a noble cause—our prayers shall be the same—our hopes the same—our actions guided by the same resolves! If I should die before our task is done—if my death fail to soften my father's heart—falter not in your enterprise! With the grace of God, I shall be with you still! Fix your heart there!"

Her trembling finger was raised to heaven as she spoke, and in the splendor of her pious enthusiasm, she seemed rather the guardian Angel of the youth than a daughter of earth.

Gilbert remained as one entranced—he did not even hear the sharp scream that burst from Linda, as Bertha, with her hair streaming wildly over her face and neck, darted toward them through the corridor, followed by a dozen men-at-arms.

"Fly! fly! my lady!" cried the terrified neif, setting the example.

But Margaret remained firm.

"Rise!" she said to Gilbert, who still knelt as if turned to stone.
Alive to her voice, he sprang to his feet.

"Back!" cried the Lady Margaret to the leader of the party, who was now within a few feet of her.

"Pardon me, my lady," said the man, bowing deeply; "your sire has commanded us to arrest the harp-bearer."

The maiden reflected an instant, and then said: "Offer him no violence—take him before my father—I will accompany you."

Gilbert had drawn his sword, but at a sign from the Lady Margaret, replaced it in his belt, and suffered himself to be seized by two of the men of Stramen. Margaret led the way along the corridor, followed by Bertha, whose voice could be heard at times mingling with the clang of the heavy feet that waked a hundred echoes along the vaulted passage. Had Gilbert looked behind him as he left the ravine, he would have seen a female figure there—that figure had dogged him ever since. Bertha was again his evil spirit: with a peculiar cunning, she had followed him unobserved to the interview with the Lady Margaret, and then communicated her suspicions by gestures and broken sentences to the baron. Scarce knowing whether to credit the confused story of the unfortunate woman, Sir Sandrit had ordered Gilbert's arrest, rather to get rid of Bertha's importunity than as a prudent or necessary measure. When the youth entered the room with Margaret, Bertha, and his armed escort, the baron said, without any irritation:

"Is this a Bohemian, my daughter? Has he been telling your fortune?"

But the Lady Margaret was silent.

"Unmuffle that churl," pursued the knight, manifesting some impatience; "let us see what lurks beneath that sordid cowl."

"Hold!" cried the youth, arresting the lifted arm of his guard and uncovering his head with his own hand. "There is no motive for concealment now, sir," he continued, meeting without flinching the kindling eye of the baron. "I am Gilbert de Hers!"

At this bold declaration, Sir Sandrit started up, almost livid with anger, while the corded veins swelled in his menacing brow; Father Omehr clasped his hands, despondingly at first, and then, raising them as if in prayer, kept his eye fixed on the baron; the Lady Margaret bent her head in deep affliction, and Humbert involuntarily struck his harp. The single note sounded like a knell: a death-like silence ensued. Already four stalwart soldiers had secured Gilbert's arms, and with determined looks they waited but a signal from their chief: still the infuriated knight scowled at Gilbert, and still the latter firmly bore the storm.

"To prison with him!" at length exclaimed the baron. "Instant death were too good for the designing villain who has stolen like a snake into our midst. Away with the deceiver, who would stoop, to seek by a most unmanly stratagem the revenge he dared not openly attempt."

"The bravest of your name," retorted Gilbert, "has not yet dared to set foot within my father's halls."

"Because we murder not by stealth!" shouted Sir Sandrit, stung by the sarcasm.

"I meant no murder in coming here!"

"Aha! you find it easy to disguise your designs as well as your person!"

"I came to renounce the foe at your daughter's feet, and tell her that I loved her. I have done so—do your worst!"

While the youth was speaking, the maddened baron snatched a heavy mace from a man who stood by. Already the ponderous mass quivered in his powerful grasp, when his daughter, with a piercing shriek, threw herself upon his arm. After a vain effort to free himself, the ready knight seized the weapon with his left hand, and with wonderful adroitness and strength prepared for the blow. But the baron's arm was again arrested. Between the chieftain and the motionless object of his wrath stood Father Omehr. The mace must crush that majestic forehead, that benevolent eye, must steep those venerable hairs in blood, before it can reach the unfortunate Gilbert. Calm, but stern, the missionary, stood, superior to the frenzy of the noble.

"Forbear! In the name of God I command you—forbear!" Such was his exclamation, as, with one arm outstretched, he opposed his hand to the mace.

"Tempt me not!" cried the baron, growing pale, and stamping in his rage.

"Tempt not your God!" returned the fearless priest.

"Stand aside! Beware! You shelter a miscreant!"

"Beware yourself of the fiend at your heart!" replied the old man, maintaining his perilous position.

"Think not to thwart me always," resumed Sir Sandrit. "I have too long permitted your interference. Again and again have you thrust yourself between me and the objects of my wrath! You have ever sided with my inferiors—protected my serfs, and insulted their master."

"I have sided with mercy and with your better nature. You are a demon now—and seek what, if obtained, would make you even loathe yourself, and would, in the pure eye of God—"

A shrill blast of a bugle sounded at the castle gate.

"The duke! the duke!" exclaimed the Lady Margaret, throwing her arms around her father's neck.

The mace was still uplifted, the priest was still before it, Gilbert was still pinioned by the men of Stramen, and all was silent as the tomb, when Rodolph and Henry entered the room.

"Did you listen to that minion, Margaret?" said the baron to his daughter, without seeming to notice the presence of the duke.

"It is because she gave me no hope," interposed Gilbert, "that I am indifferent to your anger."

Rodolph, perceiving the difficulty at a glance, put his arm in his angry baron's and led him aside, while Henry advanced to his sister. After a long and vehement discussion, the King of Arles left the knight standing with his arms folded on his breast and his back to the group, and released Gilbert from the close grasp of his captors.

"Come with me," he said, in a whisper.

"Where?" inquired Gilbert.

"To the other side of the drawbridge?"

"But—I cannot leave Humbert," said the youth, pointing to the frightened minnesinger.

"He shall go with you—they care not for him."

At a beck from the duke, Humbert was at his side. "Follow me," said
Rodolph.

But Gilbert lingered a moment to press Father Omehr's hand to his lips, and then the three passed silently, out of the apartment. They soon gained the terrace, where, to his surprise, Gilbert found his own horses that had been tied in the ravine. Bertha had brought them there. The two adventurers were conducted by the duke beyond the castle bounds. The clouds had passed away, and the moon and stars shone brightly.

"Away now!" cried the hero of Hohenburg.

Bidding the noble duke an affectionate farewell, Gilbert and his follower sprang to the saddle and galloped off. But the adventures of the night were not yet over. Hardly had they passed the ravine, before Humbert's quick ear detected the tramp of a horse behind them.

"Faster!" said Gilbert, putting spurs to the somewhat jaded animal he rode.

Faster they went, but the sound came nearer and nearer. Again Gilbert urged on his horse, and again the galled creature bounded forward, but the pursuing sound came faster than they. Humbert looked behind, and by the bright moonlight saw a solitary horseman advancing at a furious pace.

"It is but one man," said he.

"So much the worse!" replied the youth, without checking his speed.

"He must overtake us!" continued Humbert; "he gains at every leap!"

It was true. The horseman was almost on them.

"Fly not so fast, gentlemen!" he cried as he came up.

"I knew it was he," muttered Gilbert, halting.

"You have given me some trouble to overtake you!" said Henry of Stramen, with a bitter sneer, as he wheeled his swift horse, which had darted ahead, and confronted them.

"Had I been well mounted," answered Gilbert, "you should have had your trouble in vain!"

"I conjectured as much, from your determined flight," returned Henry.

Gilbert was stung to the quick, but he constrained himself to reply:

"With your permission, sir, we will ride on."

"My permission can only be obtained in one way, and that way should already have been embraced by a Suabian noble."

Saying this, the young knight leaped to the ground, and drew his sword.

"You will dismount, I trust!" he continued, as Gilbert sat steadily in his saddle.

"No! Let me pass, I entreat you!" said Gilbert, putting his horse in motion. But Henry of Stramen, with a sudden spring, caught the reins, and forced the animal well-nigh upon his haunches.

"I knew it!" cried Henry, with a bitter laugh. "You took advantage of my absence to insult my sister, but I returned too soon for your chivalry. Dismount! The truce of God covers not to-day. Dismount! Add not cowardice to deceit!"

This was more than Gilbert could bear. Quick as lightning he stood beside the challenger. It was but the work of a moment to throw off his coarse cloak and draw his sword. Having chosen his position, he awaited the assault of his adversary. Humbert looked on in breathless interest, while the two young nobles fought in the moonlight. For some minutes Gilbert maintained his ground, despite the furious efforts of his assailant. There was a strong contrast between the desperate energy of Henry and the calm courage of Gilbert. But at length the latter began to recede rapidly down a gentle slope. His antagonist recklessly pursued. The motive of Gilbert's retreat soon became evident. Henry's foot slipped on the long grass, slimy from the recent rain, and he fell at full length upon the ground. Before he could rise, Gilbert had mounted the far fleeter steed of his opponent.

"Return, coward! and see if chance will save you again!" shouted Henry, as he gained his feet.

"Your sister has saved you once, and she shall save you again!" answered
Gilbert; and, without regarding the denunciations of the knight of
Stramen, he called to Humbert, and resuming the road to Hers, was soon
out of hearing of Henry's threats.