"I do not ask you to forgive me—but forgive each other."
"They have forgiven each other already," said Father Omehr. "They are friends."
"Friends?"
"The Lady Margaret reconciled them on her death-bed."
"The Lady Margaret dead!"
"She was buried this morning."
"Yes," said Bertha, "it was to her funeral I was going. Yes, she is dead—the beautiful, the young, the innocent—she has been praying for me in heaven."
At these words a smile beamed over her sharp features, and she sank gradually back in bed, lowered by Henry and the missionary.
The proud Lord of Hers was, in spirit, in sackcloth and ashes. He attributed the existence of the feud to his indiscretion and guilt, and reproached himself with all its pernicious consequences. He saw in the wreck before him the fruits of his sin; Bertha's misery and madness seemed wholly his own unhallowed work. The strong man shuddered at the consequences of his folly, and beat his breast, and wept like a child.
Sandrit of Stramen also accused himself of having caused the feud by his rash credulity, and driven Bertha to perjury and insanity by his impetuous and uncontrollable temper. For, he reasoned, had she reposed any confidence in his justice and charity, she would have told the truth.