He knelt before a prince, and arose a knight—­a broidered kerchief streamed from his polished casque—­the herald, in trumpet tones, proclaimed his prowess—­the troubador embalmed his deeds in immortal verse—­the smiles of high-born damsels were lavished upon him—­the page clasped his sword at the mention of his name.  He opened his eyes—­the crucifix, and the sacristan!

A form of beauty was before him—­at first, haughty and disdainful, but gradually assuming a look of interest and pity—­it bent over him, and poured a balm into his wound, with a prayer for its efficacy—­but the figure lifted its finger with a menacing air, and pointed to a snake, hissing from its hair—­a mist settled around him, and the apparition was gone.  He opened his eyes—­the taper burned brighter—­the crucifix became more distinct.

Gilbert was now fully awake.  His wound was more painful than it had yet been, and in vain he endeavored to win back the repose so lately enjoyed.  Nor was corporal uneasiness his only annoyance.  Father Omehr’s revelation of the motives by which Bertha was actuated, had left a more painful impression upon his mind than his monitor perhaps desired.  Though the priest had not directly attributed the woman’s insanity to her husband’s death, Gilbert too clearly understood that such was the fact.  His was too generous a heart, not to deplore bitterly so terrible a calamity, of which he was—­however unintentionally—­the cause.  He felt no resentment for his misguided assailant—­he would willingly have exposed himself to a second attack, could he have thus restored her reason.  The memento of the crucifixion—­that Catholic alphabet, the crucifix—­held up unto his soul the wondrous truth that God had voluntarily suffered, for the sake of man, all that humanity can endure; and the youth interiorly acknowledged that the errors of his life were but imperfectly balanced by the inconvenience he then experienced.

It is not in the pride of health and youth, surrounded by pleasure, and strangers to care, that a heart, wedded to the world, is apt to prostrate itself in humility before the Author of life; but in danger and affliction, we learn to mistrust our self-sufficiency, and feel our complete dependence upon an invisible and almighty power.  We are much more disposed to appeal to heaven for protection, than to return thanks for repeated favors.  It is not to be wondered at, then, that Gilbert sought relief in prayer; there is nothing more natural to one who prefers the consolations of religion to the staff of philosophy.  He was far indeed from that exalted perfection of loving God for Himself alone; but who can predict what may spring from the mustard-seed?

By the first gray light of the morning Father Omehr was bending over his youthful charge:  Gilbert was fast asleep.

CHAPTER III

  Fit to govern! 
  No, not to live.  O nation miserable,
  With an untitled tyrant, bloody-sceptred,
  When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again?