“But what did she?”
Wilfred’s answer was in that low, tremulous voice, which would have hinted to a more experienced listener that his sympathies were deeply stirred by the story he was telling.
“She climbed up on the great wheel, lad, and sat upon the rim of it; and she did off her fur cloak, and laid it over her dying lord; and when that served not, so strong was the shivering which had seized him, she stripped off her gown, and spread that over him likewise. And when in his death-thirst he craved for water, she clomb down again, and drew from the well in her shoe, for she had nought else:—and there sat she, all that woeful night, giving him to drink, bathing his brows, covering his wounds, whispering holy and loving words. And when the morrow brake, there below were the throng, mocking her all they might, and calling her by every evil name their tongues might utter.”
“How could she hear it, and abide?” (bear) broke forth Bertram.
“Did she hear it?” answered Wilfred in the same low voice. “Ah, child! love is stronger than death. So, when all was over—when Count Rudolph’s eyes had looked their last upon her—when his voice had whispered the last loving word—‘Gertrude, thou hast been faithful until death!’—and it was not till high noon,—then she laid her hand upon his eyes, and clomb down from the wheel, and went back to her void and lonely home. Boy, I never heard of any woman greater than Gertrude von der Wart.” (Note 2.)
“I marvel how she bare it!” said Bertram, under his breath.
“And to worsen her sorrow,” added Wilfred, “when day brake, came the Duke’s Grace of Austria, and his sister, Queen Agnes of Hungary, and all their following, to behold the scene—men and women amongst whom she had dwelt, that had touched hand or lip with her many a time—all mocking and jibing. Methinks that were not the least bitter thing for her to see—if by that time she could see anything, save Rudolph in his agony, and God in His Heaven.”
“And after that—she died, of force?” said Bertram, clinging still to the proper and conventional close of the tale.
“She was alive thirty years thereafter,” replied Wilfred quietly, turning his attention to a bunch of leaves which ended a bough of his tree.
Bertram privately thought this a lame and impotent conclusion. For a few minutes he sat thinking deeply, while Wilfred sketched in silence.