The husband of this unfortunate woman had, about a year before, been mortally wounded in a chance affray between the partisans of the lords of Hers and Stramen.  He was brought home only to die in the arms of his wife.  The shock had reduced her to this miserable extremity.  She could not be prevailed upon to remain in the cottage she had occupied in the hour of her joy; and though repeatedly offered a home by Father Omehr and the Baron of Stramen, she had built for herself this wild nest, and obstinately refused to leave it except to wander to the church or to the grave-yard.  She was maintained by the Lady Margaret principally, and by the charities of the peasantry.  Up to the present time, she had been perfectly harmless, and was rather loved than feared by the children of the country.  She had always manifested an extreme affection for the Lady Margaret, to whom she would sing her sweetest songs, and whose hand she would almost devour with kisses.

Margaret, though somewhat appalled at Bertha’s frightful appearance, yet confiding in the power she had over her, advanced and silently sat down upon the bench.  For some minutes Bertha seemed unconscious of the presence of her visitor, but suddenly removing her eyes from the knife, she bent them upon Margaret.  In an instant a smile of strange sweetness stole over the poor creature’s wasted face:  every trace of anger disappeared as she fell upon her knees and raised the hem of the maiden’s garment to her lips.  Without rising she sang one of those simple ballads which even insanity could not make her forget.  The lady of Stramen patiently permitted her to proceed without interruption.  But the moment her strange companion was silent, she minted to the knife, exclaiming: 

“Is this blood, Bertha?”

Still kneeling, the woman began: 

  The chieftain swore on bended knee,
    That blood for blood should flow—­
  Then leaped upon his coal-black steed,
    And spurred against the foe.

“Has anyone hurt you?” continued Margaret.

But Bertha only replied: 

  Sir Arthur swung his falchion keen—­
    The serf implored in vain;—­
  The knight is galloping away—­
    The serf lies on the plain!

“Bertha!  Bertha! this is wrong:  I hope you have committed no violence?”

But the answer, as before, was given in rude, indefinite verse.

It may be unnecessary to say that the object of the lady’s visit was to discover if the knife had been poisoned.  Finding that all question would be useless, she had recourse to an artifice to effect her purpose, suggested by the discovery of a splinter buried in Bertha’s thumb.

“Let me remove this—­it must give you pain,” she said, examining the hand she had taken in hers, and reaching after the knife.  Bertha passively resigned the weapon, but rapidly withdrew her hand, just as her mistress feigned to prepare for the incision.  Margaret shuddered, for she naturally saw in that quick gesture a confirmation of her worst fears.  For some moments they gazed at each other in mute anxiety.  Bertha was the first to break the silence, and her words revived a gleam of hope in the bosom of her companion.