“Tell me, Gilbert de Hers,” she said, “do you truly desire peace between us?”

“As I live,” replied Gilbert, “yes!”

“Do you desire it for the love of God, and because our enmity displeases Him?”

“Yes.”

“Then consecrate yourself to the attainment of that peace!  Let no selfish motive spur you on!  Look to heaven for your recompense, not to me I Aspire to eternal favor, not to mortal love!  As for me—­my days are numbered here!—­but what remains of life, I devote to the same holy end.  We will labor together, though apart, in a noble cause—­our prayers shall be the same—­our hopes the same—­our actions guided by the same resolves!  If I should die before our task is done—­if my death fail to soften my father’s heart—­falter not in your enterprise!  With the grace of God, I shall be with you still!  Fix your heart there!”

Her trembling finger was raised to heaven as she spoke, and in the splendor of her pious enthusiasm, she seemed rather the guardian Angel of the youth than a daughter of earth.

Gilbert remained as one entranced—­he did not even hear the sharp scream that burst from Linda, as Bertha, with her hair streaming wildly over her face and neck, darted toward them through the corridor, followed by a dozen men-at-arms.

“Fly! fly! my lady!” cried the terrified neif, setting the example.

But Margaret remained firm.

“Rise!” she said to Gilbert, who still knelt as if turned to stone.  Alive to her voice, he sprang to his feet.

“Back!” cried the Lady Margaret to the leader of the party, who was now within a few feet of her.

“Pardon me, my lady,” said the man, bowing deeply; “your sire has commanded us to arrest the harp-bearer.”

The maiden reflected an instant, and then said:  “Offer him no violence—­take him before my father—­I will accompany you.”

Gilbert had drawn his sword, but at a sign from the Lady Margaret, replaced it in his belt, and suffered himself to be seized by two of the men of Stramen.  Margaret led the way along the corridor, followed by Bertha, whose voice could be heard at times mingling with the clang of the heavy feet that waked a hundred echoes along the vaulted passage.  Had Gilbert looked behind him as he left the ravine, he would have seen a female figure there—­that figure had dogged him ever since.  Bertha was again his evil spirit:  with a peculiar cunning, she had followed him unobserved to the interview with the Lady Margaret, and then communicated her suspicions by gestures and broken sentences to the baron.  Scarce knowing whether to credit the confused story of the unfortunate woman, Sir Sandrit had ordered Gilbert’s arrest, rather to get rid of Bertha’s importunity than as a prudent or necessary measure.  When the youth entered the room with Margaret, Bertha, and his armed escort, the baron said, without any irritation: 

“Is this a Bohemian, my daughter?  Has he been telling your fortune?”