There was no struggle, no contortion, to mark the moment of dissolution.  The face only grew more serene and less death-like, as the soul passed from its frail tenement.

The bells no longer swung slowly and solemnly, but poured forth a festive sound.  And well might they peal more merrily then, than at birth, or marriage, or earthly conquest.  Tears were falling fast around the bed; yet only the body wept—­the soul was exulting.

On the morning of the third day after the Lady Margaret’s death, a funeral procession could be seen slowly approaching, within sight of the ruins of Stramen Castle and the blackened Church of the Nativity.  The peasantry, who were expecting it, had gone forth to meet the remains of their dearly loved lady, and rosy children were scattering flowers before the bier.  They could not repress some tears and sighs for their benefactress, yet they knew it was for themselves they grieved, not for her they had lost.  How they wondered at first—­and how their wonder melted into joyous thanksgivings, to see the Lord of Hers supporting the now humble and contrite Baron of Stramen!

The mourners—­if such they may be called—­entered the grave-yard, which was near the church, and had not been violated by the sacrilegious marauders, and halted before a new-made grave.  In those days, it was the peculiar privilege of bishops, abbots, and holy priests to be buried within the church, or only extended to laics of distinguished sanctity.  Yet Father Omehr had assured the maiden that she might be interred in the choir at Tuebingen.  Margaret had declined a privilege of which she deemed herself unworthy, saying that she did not wish to be associated in sepulture with those from whom she was far separated in merit, and expressing a wish to be placed beside her mother.  And they laid her, with prayers and unbidden tears, in the place she had chosen.

The gorgeous sun of ancient Suabia was beaming out in cloudless splendor, and the mountains and the Danube, the forest and the fields looked lovely in the glittering day; yet not one of those who stood around the grave would have said to the dead, “Awake!” if the word could have recalled her to share the beauty of the world before them.  When the Count and Countess of Montfort saw that their longer presence would only impose a restraint upon the family group, they bade the missionary a silent adieu, and began to retrace their steps to Tuebingen.

The cottage of the missionary was spared on account of its insignificance; and Father Omehr led the Lord of Hers and the father and son into his humble apartments, which had been zealously tended by his pious penitents.  All was arranged just as he had left it, to his own bed and the corner where Gilbert had slept.  There was nothing here to mark the scourge which had desolated the smiling country without.  The Baron of Stramen sat down upon a bench, covering his face with his hands.  Here, in the sight of his ruined castle, and with the