Their embarrassment was relieved by the appearance of Father Omehr, who extended to both his blessing, gratefully received the basket from the attendant, and, after Margaret de Stramen had retired, accompanied Gilbert to the church.  As they emerged into the morning air, Gilbert caught a glimpse of the graceful figure of the young lady entering the church.  But his attention was soon arrested by a strange, wild-looking being upon the church steps.  She was apparently not over forty, tall, slightly built, and evidently the victim of insanity.  Her long black hair hung in thick masses over her pale face and deathly-white neck; her arms swung to and fro with a restless motion, and she sang at intervals snatches from the ballads for which Suabia is so renowned.  As Gilbert passed her, she bent her large wild eyes upon him with an expression of such fearful meaning, that brave as was the youth in battle, he recoiled from their ferocious glare.  The next instant she was abstracted as before, and crossed her hands upon her breast in an attitude of devotion.  Gilbert looked to his companion with an inquiring eye, but the priest was silent.

The next instant they were treading the marble aisle.  Gilbert knelt down upon a tombstone, and endeavored to compose himself for the Mass.  He perceived from the glances thrown upon him from time to time by some of the peasantry, that he was recognized as an enemy, yet respected as one under the aegis of religion.  These glances became more frequent when Father Omehr, in his brief discourse, eloquently adverted to the example of Jesus in the forgiveness of injuries, and enforced the sacred duty of a Christian to imitate that Divine model.  In powerful terms the gray-haired priest portrayed the miseries of discord, and the blessings of mutual forbearance; and Gilbert felt that a change was creeping over him.

He left the church when the Holy Sacrifice had been completed, meditating upon the pastor’s powerful exhortation.  But the train of his thoughts was broken upon the steps by that wild face almost touching his.  As the maniac stared fixedly at him, she muttered in a hoarse whisper: 

  They laid him ’neath a noisy tree,
    And his glossy head was bare;
  They piled the cold earth on his breast,
    Then left him helpless there.

While the youth listened in amazement, and almost in terror, the frantic woman drew from her bosom a long knife, and inflicted a deep wound upon him before he could wrench it from her determined grasp.  The knife had penetrated to the rib, but not farther, having glanced off to the side.  As the blood spread rapidly over his hunting-shirt, the maniac gave a wild laugh, and repeated in the same low, dismal tone: 

  ’T is red, ’t is red, as red as his;
    Man’s blood is ever red;
  ’T was thus his side was crimsoned o’er
    When they told me he was dead.

With the last words, she laughed again, more wildly than before, and, darting into the wood, was soon lost among the gigantic trees.