But the Lady Margaret was silent.

“Unmuffle that churl,” pursued the knight, manifesting some impatience; “let us see what lurks beneath that sordid cowl.”

“Hold!” cried the youth, arresting the lifted arm of his guard and uncovering his head with his own hand.  “There is no motive for concealment now, sir,” he continued, meeting without flinching the kindling eye of the baron.  “I am Gilbert de Hers!”

At this bold declaration, Sir Sandrit started up, almost livid with anger, while the corded veins swelled in his menacing brow; Father Omehr clasped his hands, despondingly at first, and then, raising them as if in prayer, kept his eye fixed on the baron; the Lady Margaret bent her head in deep affliction, and Humbert involuntarily struck his harp.  The single note sounded like a knell:  a death-like silence ensued.  Already four stalwart soldiers had secured Gilbert’s arms, and with determined looks they waited but a signal from their chief:  still the infuriated knight scowled at Gilbert, and still the latter firmly bore the storm.

“To prison with him!” at length exclaimed the baron.  “Instant death were too good for the designing villain who has stolen like a snake into our midst.  Away with the deceiver, who would stoop, to seek by a most unmanly stratagem the revenge he dared not openly attempt.”

“The bravest of your name,” retorted Gilbert, “has not yet dared to set foot within my father’s halls.”

“Because we murder not by stealth!” shouted Sir Sandrit, stung by the sarcasm.

“I meant no murder in coming here!”

“Aha! you find it easy to disguise your designs as well as your person!”

“I came to renounce the foe at your daughter’s feet, and tell her that I loved her.  I have done so—­do your worst!”

While the youth was speaking, the maddened baron snatched a heavy mace from a man who stood by.  Already the ponderous mass quivered in his powerful grasp, when his daughter, with a piercing shriek, threw herself upon his arm.  After a vain effort to free himself, the ready knight seized the weapon with his left hand, and with wonderful adroitness and strength prepared for the blow.  But the baron’s arm was again arrested.  Between the chieftain and the motionless object of his wrath stood Father Omehr.  The mace must crush that majestic forehead, that benevolent eye, must steep those venerable hairs in blood, before it can reach the unfortunate Gilbert.  Calm, but stern, the missionary, stood, superior to the frenzy of the noble.

“Forbear!  In the name of God I command you—­forbear!” Such was his exclamation, as, with one arm outstretched, he opposed his hand to the mace.

“Tempt me not!” cried the baron, growing pale, and stamping in his rage.

“Tempt not your God!” returned the fearless priest.

“Stand aside!  Beware!  You shelter a miscreant!”

“Beware yourself of the fiend at your heart!” replied the old man, maintaining his perilous position.