It would argue a poor knowledge of the quick apprehension of woman, to say that the maiden was entirely unprepared for such a movement; but the suddenness of the demonstration made her start.  Gilbert’s embarrassment had disappeared in his fervor.  He no longer stammered and stuttered, but with unhesitating eloquence went through that ancient but ever fresh story, found in the mouths of all suitors in all ages.  Linda stood with her eyes and mouth distended, looking as though she had been petrified just as she was about to scream.  It was rather a poor omen for Gilbert that Margaret should have turned to the old servant, who had advanced a pace, and calmly motioned her back to her corner.  The daughter of Stramen listened to Gilbert’s passionate professions with the air of one who was hearing the same vows, from the same person, under similar circumstances for the second time.  She could scarcely have foreseen this, but there is no estimating the power of anticipation it is the mother of much presence of mind and unpremeditated wit.

After reciting the history of his love from its dawn to its zenith, Gilbert began to conjure her not to slight his affection, and not to permit family prejudices to stand in the way of their union.

“It can never be sufficiently lamented,” he said, “that the demon of revenge has so long separated our houses, which ought to be united in the closest ties of friendship.  It is time for us to learn to forgive.  We have been too long aliens from God, and wedded to our evil passions.  We must fling aside the scowl of defiance, the angry malediction, the sword and the firebrand, and, like Christians and neighbors, contract an alliance that may edify as much as our discord has scandalized.  I conjure you, in the name of the victims already made by our feud—­of the numbers who must perish by its continuance—­in the name of the holy Church whose precepts we have disregarded, of the God whose Commandments we have violated, not to dismiss me in scorn and anger.  I have perilled my life, that I might end our enmity in love.”

“I am most happy,” interposed the Lady Margaret, availing herself of the first pause in his rapid utterance, “I am most happy,” she repeated, in a voice of singular sweetness, “that our enmity may end in love—­”

A smile of exultation shot over Gilbert’s face, and a sound of joy trembled on his lips.  This did not escape the maiden, for she instantly added: 

“But not in the love you propose!”

The light was gone from Gilbert’s countenance, and he stared wildly into the lovely and mournful face before him.

“Not in the love you propose,” she resumed.  Hitherto she had spoken seriously and without agitation, but now her whole manner was changed.  Her cheek glowed and her eyes gleamed:  a sudden animation appeared in every limb.  She took a step forward, and bent over the still kneeling youth, fixing upon his a steady, penetrating gaze, as though she sought to read his inmost soul.