of the audience was at the highest, he introduced a beautiful ballad, and raising his voice, sang the praises of Rodolph of Suabia.  The baron and all his followers were listening intently to the minstrel, as, with a heaving breast and flashing eye, he recited the glory of Suabia and of her majestic duke.  Even Father Omehr was carried away by the excited Humbert.  But Gilbert’s eyes and soul were riveted upon the Lady Margaret.  What was the strain to him? he heard it not.  The violent hopes and fears that had alternately shaken him, had given way to a silent rapture; the unnatural tension of his nerves was relaxed, and in spite of all his efforts, the tears gleamed in his eyes.  When the lay was over, the room resounded with loud praises, and the baron threw a chain of gold around the minstrel’s neck.

At this moment Margaret encountered Gilbert’s eyes; she reddened with anger at first, but almost instantaneously became pale as death.  Gilbert saw that he was recognized—­he bent his head upon his breast, and prepared for the worst.  But so completely had Humbert engrossed all eyes, that the maiden’s agitation was not observed.  She had penetrated the youth’s disguise, and the discovery stunned her.  She was bewildered, and could not determine what course to pursue.  Humbert sounded his harp again, and began a wild romance.  Concealing her agitation, she endeavored during the song to collect her thoughts.  What embarrassed her most, was to divine whether Gilbert’s purpose in his mad visit were hostile or merely a piece of bravado.  But she resolved to take no step without mature reflection.  She was deliberating whether she could communicate her secret to Father Omehr, without so surprising him as to excite remark, when he rose and left the room.

The Lady Margaret was detained to hear some verses improvised to herself, which she rewarded with a slight token; she then withdrew, without raising her eyes to Gilbert.  After she had disappeared, the baron dismissed the guests and retained the minstrel.  Seizing this opportunity, Humbert told Gilbert he might retire until he was called, and the youth passed out, leaving behind only a few favorite retainers with Sir Sandrit and the minnesinger.  As the door closed behind him, Gilbert found himself in a long and dimly lighted corridor.  He saw a black figure enter at the other end—­it was Father Omehr.

“It rains too hard at present to venture out,” said the priest, in passing, and he re-entered the hall to wait till the gust had exhausted itself.

Gilbert wandered along the arched gallery without any definite aim, yet expecting to see the Lady Margaret start from some secret niche.  Suddenly his cloak was pulled so sharply, that he grasped his sword, which he had been prudent enough to conceal beneath the ample folds of his gown.  As he turned, he saw a woman with her finger on her lips, but it was not the Lady Margaret:  that shrivelled face and curved back belonged to Linda.  The old neif,