They rose almost together, and their faces, so lately flushed with anger, were now calm and subdued.

“Farewell!  Henry de Stramen,” said Gilbert, as he leaped into the saddle.

“Farewell!” replied his antagonist, and, almost side by side, they proceeded in the direction of the bell.

A deadly feud was raging between the families of Hers and Stramen.  It had continued for more than twenty years, and now burned with unabated fury.  It originated in some dispute between Gilbert’s father and the Lord Robert de Stramen, Henry’s uncle, which resulted in the death of the latter.  The Baron of Hers was charged with the murder, and, though he persisted in declaring his innocence, Henry’s impetuous father, the Lord Sandrit de Stramen, swore over the dead body of his brother to take a bitter revenge on the Baron of Hers and all his line.  Henry de Stramen had been nursed in the bitterest hostility to all who bore the name of Hers, and the unrelenting persecution of the Lord Sandrit had made Gilbert detest most cordially the house of Stramen.  It was with mutual hatred, then, that the two young men had met at the spring.  They knew each other well, for they had often fought hand to hand, with their kinsmen and serfs around them.  Now they were alone, and what a triumph would be the victor’s! but the bell, the Tell of peace, the silver-tongued herald of the truce of God, had sheathed their weapons.

It could not have been without a severe struggle that the two mortal foes rode quietly in the same direction, with but a few yards between them.  They were not half an hour in the saddle when they discovered the spire of the church they were both in search of, rising gracefully above the trees.  As they emerged from the forest, they could see stretching before them a broad expanse of hill and dale, wood and field.  Scattered here and there were the humble dwellings of the forester and husbandman, and, from their midst, towering above them, like Jupiter among the demigods, stately and stern rose the old castle of the house of Stramen.  The western sky was still bathed in light, and shared its glories with the earth; airy clouds, ever changing their hues, sported, like chameleons, on the horizon; the stream that wound around the castle seemed sheeted with polished silver:  the herds and flocks were all still, and the voice of the birds was the only sound; and, amid this beauty and repose, how lovely and majestic was that finely moulded Gothic church!

Henry de Stramen tied his horse to a tree, and was soon lost in the elegantly carved doorway.  Gilbert paused a moment, and gazed upon the open country before him with very mingled emotions.  He had been there before at the head of his clan to disturb the serenity which, in spite of himself, was now softening his heart.  He did not linger long, but led his horse a little within the woods, and entered the church.  The gray-headed priest at the altar was solemnly chanting,