Some serfs were standing around, but offered no assistance.  They seemed rooted to the ground in terror at the rash act, and crossed themselves in mute astonishment.  At this juncture, while Gilbert was examining the extent of the wound, and vainly endeavoring to stanch the blood, the Lady Margaret and the priest appeared at the doorway, having been attracted by the loud laugh of Gilbert’s assailant.

Comprehending in an instant that Gilbert had been wounded, Father Omehr hastened to support him.

“It is but a trifle, Father,” said the youth, anxious to relieve the evident uneasiness of the old man.

“May God will that it be so!” replied the priest, eagerly removing the hunting-shirt, and examining the path of the knife.  After which, having carefully replaced the garment, he turned to the serfs who yet lingered there, inquiring, in a voice of deep indignation: 

“Who has dared to do this?  Who has been impious enough to draw blood during the truce of God, upon the threshold of God’s sacred temple?”

One of them hastened to reply: 

“It was Alber of the Thorn’s widow, crazy Bertha.  God preserve us from such a deed, at such a time, and in such a place!”

“But could you not have prevented it?” continued the priest, eyeing the man until he quailed.

Gilbert interposed.

“They are not to blame, Father,” he said; “I did not expect the attack myself, and none else could have prevented the blow.”

“It bleeds much,” pursued the priest, again examining the wound.

Gilbert made a step forward, but Father Omehr detained him, and reluctantly the youth allowed himself to be supported by two of the serfs of Stramen to the bed he had occupied during the night.

Margaret de Stramen, in the spirit of the age, had gone to the cell, after discovering the nature of the young man’s injury, and taken from the basket she had brought some salves and stringents with which she stood ready at the door.  She washed the wound and dressed it with the tenderness peculiar to woman, and received Gilbert’s thanks with a slight inclination of the head.  Having completed her task, she drew the priest aside, and, looking up into his face with evident emotion, said: 

“Could there have been poison on the knife?”

Though spoken in a whisper, the youth must have heard it, for he smiled at first, and the next moment became pale as death.  Father Omehr noticed the change upon his features, and replied loud enough to be overheard: 

“No, no! it cannot be.  Some momentary paroxysm prompted the deed; there could have been no preparation, no predetermination.”

“It is not for his sake,” continued Margaret, in a still lower tone, and withdrawing farther from the bed; “not for his sake I fear an unfortunate result; but for our own.  I know that it is Gilbert de Hers who lies there, and I have drunk too deeply in the prejudices of our family to repine at any calamity that may befall him.  But this impious outrage can insure nothing but the Divine vengeance upon our heads.  If he were borne down in battle, I perhaps should rejoice at heart at the triumph of my father; but I would rather die than see him perish from a noble confidence in the house of Stramen.”