When Father Omehr returned, Gilbert was asleep. The sacristan put in his hands a letter from a distinguished prelate, informing him of the nomination of Henry, canon of Verdun, by Henry IV.
"O God, protect Thy holy Church!" exclaimed the missionary, crushing the paper in his excitement. "If the ministers of God become the creatures of the king, despotism and irreligion must inevitably ensue. How long will virtue be accounted a crime? Shall every faithful shepherd be supplanted, to make room for the wolf of lay investiture, the instrument of a lustful tyrant, raised by simony, and upheld by royal favor?"
Gilbert's light slumber had been broken by the voice of his benefactor. As soon as Father Omehr saw the youth awake, he approached him, and inquired, with great kindness of manner, whether he felt better.
The youth replied in the affirmative.
"I have discovered," continued the other, "that you have richly deserved this wound. You killed with your own hand the husband of the woman who stabbed you, and though the chance thrust of an affray, it was noted, and communicated to Bertha by an eye-witness, one of the combatants. This is her revenge—but how inadequate to her suffering!"
"It is, indeed," said Gilbert, replying to the last remark, which had been particularly emphasized. His companion could not conceal the satisfaction with which he hailed this reply, as an omen of regret, and of a right apprehension of his former violence. But the youth was drowsy, and prudence forbade a longer conversation. At the close of the evening service, the lady of Stramen was seen to exchange a few words with her venerable pastor, but she did not enter the cell.
The gorgeous sun of ancient Suabia was beneath the horizon—but Gilbert slept upon his couch; the moon had lit her feebler torch, and walked silently beneath the stars—yet not until midnight did Gilbert awake. All was profoundly still. The dim light of the taper at his bedside revealed only the motionless figure of the sacristan, and the outline of a crucifix hanging against the wall. His eyes involuntarily closed, and in a moment he stood before his father, in the oaken halls of Hers—his retainers were around him—the horses pranced merrily—the bugle sounded—"On to the chase!" was the cry. He opened his eyes—the crucifix became more distinct.
He knelt before a prince, and arose a knight—a broidered kerchief streamed from his polished casque—the herald, in trumpet tones, proclaimed his prowess—the troubador embalmed his deeds in immortal verse—the smiles of high-born damsels were lavished upon him—the page clasped his sword at the mention of his name. He opened his eyes—the crucifix, and the sacristan!
A form of beauty was before him—at first, haughty and disdainful, but gradually assuming a look of interest and pity—it bent over him, and poured a balm into his wound, with a prayer for its efficacy—but the figure lifted its finger with a menacing air, and pointed to a snake, hissing from its hair—a mist settled around him, and the apparition was gone. He opened his eyes—the taper burned brighter—the crucifix became more distinct.
Gilbert was now fully awake. His wound was more painful than it had yet been, and in vain he endeavored to win back the repose so lately enjoyed. Nor was corporal uneasiness his only annoyance. Father Omehr's revelation of the motives by which Bertha was actuated, had left a more painful impression upon his mind than his monitor perhaps desired. Though the priest had not directly attributed the woman's insanity to her husband's death, Gilbert too clearly understood that such was the fact. His was too generous a heart, not to deplore bitterly so terrible a calamity, of which he was—however unintentionally—the cause. He felt no resentment for his misguided assailant—he would willingly have exposed himself to a second attack, could he have thus restored her reason. The memento of the crucifixion—that Catholic alphabet, the crucifix—held up unto his soul the wondrous truth that God had voluntarily suffered, for the sake of man, all that humanity can endure; and the youth interiorly acknowledged that the errors of his life were but imperfectly balanced by the inconvenience he then experienced.