“No! no!” she exclaimed, slowly and sternly, “his blood must not mix with mine!”

“Is there poison here?” pursued the lady, in a low searching tone.

She received in reply: 

  There was no poison on the steel
    That robbed Sir James of breath;
  There was no poison on the blade
    That well avenged his death.

Greatly relieved, but still unsatisfied, the high-born damsel sprang to her feet.

“It is the blood of Hers!” she cried, exultingly.

The maniac’s face assumed a look of savage triumph.

“Then will I keep this blood-stained instrument as a precious jewel.  Farewell, Bertha; you shall hear from me soon.”

She passed rapidly through the narrow aperture by which she had entered, leaving Bertha in blank amazement, utterly unable to comprehend what had passed.

Emerging from the dark ravine, the Lady Margaret rode straight toward the old castle of Stramen, whose gray towers retained their sombre majesty, which the merry sun could not entirely dispel.  It was not long before she passed the drawbridge, sped through the massive gate, and reined in her palfrey upon the ample terrace; when, having thrown her bridle to an attendant, she proceeded at once to her chamber, and summoned Linda, the old domestic, to her side.

“You are skilled in such matters, Linda,” she said, producing the knife, before the faithful neif had finished her salutation; “is there poison on this blade?”

Linda took the knife, and having examined it attentively, returned it to her mistress; after which she left the room, making a signal that she would soon return.  After the lapse of a few minutes, she reappeared with a vessel of boiling water, which she placed upon a marble slab.  Then taking from her pocket a piece of polished silver, and at the same time receiving the knife, she plunged them both into the hissing liquid.  As the lady of Stramen, eagerly watching the experiment, stood bending over the water with her back to the door, she was not aware of her father’s presence.  He had entered unperceived, and was contemplating in some surprise the mysterious operation going on before him.  He could scarce repress a laugh, for there was something ludicrous in Linda’s very wise and consequential manner, as she knelt over the kettle, while his daughter, equally absorbed, her hat yet untied, continued in an attitude of profound attention beside her.

When the water had cooled, the old woman with a trembling hand drew out the silver—­it was bright as ever!

“It is venomless as the bill of the turtle-dove,” she exclaimed, with the importance of an oracle, looking up at her mistress.

“May I ask the meaning of all this, without being referred to the prince of magic for an answer?” said the Baron of Stramen, stepping forward; and he added, addressing Linda, who in her surprise had nearly overturned the vessel:  “Do you wish to be hung for a witch?”