"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—"