“See, Robert; here is the parchment. Turn from her, fix thine eyes upon me, and let us go, to be for ever near each other.”
“And thy mother’s will—O Robert.” Quickly he turned from the tempter to the holy maiden, who held in her hand his mother’s will.
“My son, turn thy face from her, and look on me.”
“My mother’s writing—my own mother!”
As he perused the paper Bertram stretched forth his hands towards the youth, placed them pleadingly together, and even wept.
The knight read the paper, and then, looking up from it, the white knight knew that his power was gone, for Robert drew away from him, and taking the hand of Alice, placed it on his own head.
As he did so, the clanging of the church-bell told them that midnight was come.
Then despair, horrible despair, crept over the face of the white knight. He came one step forward, placed his trembling claw-like hands above the head of the saved knight and vanished. Vanished in the black night, as a wailing cry filled all the air.
Saved! the good spirit had saved him—the good spirit working through a poor country girl!
See him creeping to the church he spurned till now. Saved—saved!