"I have hoped so, even in the recollection of my many sins, for His mercy is infinite. May He uphold and strengthen my father, and teach him to rejoice in the change he now deplores!"

The countess left the room, and once more the Lady Margaret opened her soul to her first confessor.

The baron knelt all night beside his dying child. He watched her broken slumbers, as if he feared each might be the last. A thousand sighs of anguish and affection were given and returned before another day began to dawn. How precious are the last hours of life! In our inability to lengthen them, we strive to gather into them more feeling and action than we could extract from as many years.

As the sun flashed out the Lady Margaret seemed animated with new strength. Her father trembled at the suggestion--what if she should recover! Thus hope feeds upon the wishes of the heart.

An hour before noon the Count Montfort, accompanied by Albert of Hers, entered the apartment. Sir Albert, obeying a look which the maiden gave him, advanced, and with much emotion p.r.o.nounced the words, "My lady, I am here!"

Sir Sandrit had antic.i.p.ated all; nor did his son manifest the least surprise. They both stood sorrowful and mute, nor did anger and disdain appear in the features with which they were so familiar. Albert of Hers saw, at a glance, the position in which he was placed.

"Father!" began the sinking girl--"father! let me die in the a.s.surance of meeting you hereafter. In the name of Him before whom I am soon to appear, forgive this man!"

The struggle had already taken place in the baron's soul. When his heart was trampled in the dust, his pride was broken. The stubborn rock was smitten by the heaven-directed wand, and the waters of contrition gushed forth.

"You have conquered, my child," he murmured, kneeling and kissing her pale forehead.

"Not I, my father. G.o.d is the conqueror!"

It seemed as if her upward glance had rested upon something more than mortal, her face a.s.sumed an expression of such unearthly meaning. Sir Albert, too, knelt beside his ancient foe: he felt it impious to stand.

The maiden motioned to the countess, who raised and supported her in her arms and drew back the long hair which had partially covered the hollow cheeks. Without a word, but with an eloquence that must have charmed the attendant Angels as much as it entranced the mortals who witnessed it, she placed her father's hand into Sir Albert's right hand, while Henry took the left.

"Albert de Hers," said Sir Sandrit, as the tears coursed down his brown cheeks, "I freely forgive you and yours; and nevermore shall my hand be raised against you."

Henry repeated the words after his father.

"And I," said the Lord of Hers, "will forget the past: and I declare, here in the presence of dying innocence, that I am guiltless of your brother's blood!"

The Countess of Montfort sobbed aloud, and her husband made no effort to conceal his tears. Father Omehr, who had raised his hands to heaven in an ecstasy of grat.i.tude, now exclaimed:

"Let me speak for one who is not here: Gilbert de Hers has long since forgiven those who were once his father's foes."

The object of her life was attained--the goal was reached--the victory was won. There lay the victor, supported in the arms of her friend. The victory was hers, for though heaven had won it, she had won heaven by prayer. What are earth's conquests to a victory like this! What the splendid overthrow of nations--what Thermopylae, or Marathon, or Trafalgar to this triumph over long-nourished hatred! When does man appear in so magnificent an att.i.tude as when, by fervent prayer and complete humility, he converts heaven into an agent by which his desires are accomplished!

Yet the dying victor felt no pride. Her heart was dissolved in grat.i.tude: she knew her nothingness, and ascribed all to G.o.d. She spoke not, she wept not: even the wonted smile forsook her lips. She only felt the immensity of the goodness of G.o.d--she only bowed before this new manifestation of his power. The three knights, who looked up in her face, saw she was invoking a blessing upon them, and reverently bent their heads, as if in the feeling that the blessing was then descending.

Young girls clothed in white were noiselessly strewing with flowers the way by which the adorable Sacrament was to pa.s.s from the chapel to the chamber. The blessed candle, the emblem of the light of faith and of the heavenly mansions, was lit, and the maiden, unable to kneel, received the Sacred Body as she lay. Her eyes were closed, and, as if detached from all earthly things, she continued to murmur, almost inaudibly, pa.s.sages from the Psalms and pious e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns. She raised her finger to trace upon her lips the sign of Christ, and then fell into her agony.

Three times the bell had tolled when the last absolution was given, and its solemn voice still sounded at regular intervals, mingling with the sublime words that bade the faint soul go forth from the world in the name of G.o.d the Father Almighty, who created it, in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of the living G.o.d, who suffered for it, in the name of the Holy Spirit, which had been imparted to it: in the name of Angels and Archangels, in the name of Thrones and Dominations, in the name of Princ.i.p.alities and Powers, in the name of Cherubim and Seraphim, in the name of Patriarchs and Prophets, in the name of holy Apostles and Evangelists, in the name of holy martyrs and confessors, in the name of holy monks and hermits, in the name of holy virgins and all the Saints of G.o.d, that its rest that day might be in peace, and its habitation in holy Sion!

There was no struggle, no contortion, to mark the moment of dissolution. The face only grew more serene and less death-like, as the soul pa.s.sed from its frail tenement.

The bells no longer swung slowly and solemnly, but poured forth a festive sound. And well might they peal more merrily then, than at birth, or marriage, or earthly conquest. Tears were falling fast around the bed; yet only the body wept--the soul was exulting.

On the morning of the third day after the Lady Margaret's death, a funeral procession could be seen slowly approaching, within sight of the ruins of Stramen Castle and the blackened Church of the Nativity. The peasantry, who were expecting it, had gone forth to meet the remains of their dearly loved lady, and rosy children were scattering flowers before the bier. They could not repress some tears and sighs for their benefactress, yet they knew it was for themselves they grieved, not for her they had lost. How they wondered at first--and how their wonder melted into joyous thanksgivings, to see the Lord of Hers supporting the now humble and contrite Baron of Stramen!

The mourners--if such they may be called--entered the grave-yard, which was near the church, and had not been violated by the sacrilegious marauders, and halted before a new-made grave. In those days, it was the peculiar privilege of bishops, abbots, and holy priests to be buried within the church, or only extended to laics of distinguished sanct.i.ty.

Yet Father Omehr had a.s.sured the maiden that she might be interred in the choir at Tubingen. Margaret had declined a privilege of which she deemed herself unworthy, saying that she did not wish to be a.s.sociated in sepulture with those from whom she was far separated in merit, and expressing a wish to be placed beside her mother. And they laid her, with prayers and unbidden tears, in the place she had chosen.

The gorgeous sun of ancient Suabia was beaming out in cloudless splendor, and the mountains and the Danube, the forest and the fields looked lovely in the glittering day; yet not one of those who stood around the grave would have said to the dead, "_Awake!_" if the word could have recalled her to share the beauty of the world before them.

When the Count and Countess of Montfort saw that their longer presence would only impose a restraint upon the family group, they bade the missionary a silent adieu, and began to retrace their steps to Tubingen.

The cottage of the missionary was spared on account of its insignificance; and Father Omehr led the Lord of Hers and the father and son into his humble apartments, which had been zealously tended by his pious penitents. All was arranged just as he had left it, to his own bed and the corner where Gilbert had slept. There was nothing here to mark the scourge which had desolated the smiling country without. The Baron of Stramen sat down upon a bench, covering his face with his hands.

Here, in the sight of his ruined castle, and with the funeral tears of his only daughter undried upon his cheeks, he was happier than he had been for many a year: happier than when carousing in his father's halls--happier than when proudly embracing his darling child--happier than when engaged in avenging his brother--happier than when exulting in the victories of Rodolph! And Henry, too, shared in this blessed change wrought by his sister's prayers. Each heart was too full for speech; words would have fallen meaningless and cold.

At this eloquent moment, a man, exhausted with running, and greatly agitated, abruptly entered the cottage. He checked himself, however, and stood as if petrified at the sight of the group before him. Father Omehr, who rightly judged that his rude intrusion must have been caused by no ordinary occurrence, rose, and in a whisper commanded him to explain himself.

"Bertha seems adying!" said the man.

"Where is she?" asked the priest.

"About a mile from here--I will take you there." The Baron of Stramen seemed not to listen, for he sat motionless; but his son manifested much interest.

"Shall I go with you?" he said to the missionary.

"No, my child, remain with your father."

Albert de Hers had started up at the peasant's announcement, and followed Father Omehr out of the apartment.

"Permit me," he said, "to accompany you; I feel that the call is intended for me too. This ring," he continued, holding up his finger, "was given me in my youth by Rodolph of Suabia; in a moment of folly and sin, I parted with it. After an interval of more than twenty years, it was restored to Rodolph by this Bertha, without a word of explanation.

He gave it to me the night before his death"--here the baron paused an instant--"and informed me how and from whom he had received it. I resolved to seek out the woman on my return; for if she be the Bertha to whom I gave this ring, even in her madness she may throw light upon an event hitherto involved in mystery."

"You mean the death of Sir Sandrit's brother?"

"Yes."

"I see no reason to oppose your wish," said the missionary; "perhaps the mercy of G.o.d may choose to reveal what we vainly have endeavored to discover."

It was not known how Bertha had escaped from the castle on the fatal night when it was fired and its inmates put to the sword. Her insanity might have shielded her; or she might have availed herself of the confusion and darkness to elude observation, or extricated herself by some secret pa.s.sage. A peasant thought he had seen her, by moonlight, walking along the moat of the castle, some days after the hostile army had disappeared; but his account was discredited until she appeared by daylight to the surviving va.s.sals of Stramen, when they emerged from the forest in which they had taken refuge. At the time of the return of the soldiers of Stramen, she was much thinner and walked with difficulty, rarely issuing from her retreat in the ravine, to which she had again retired. On the morning of Margaret's funeral she could be seen, pale and haggard, tottering toward the grave-yard. The simple peasants recoiled before the ghastly figure, which, tall and trembling, with a black gown and death-white face, pa.s.sed among them like a spectre.

Before she reached the church she fell senseless to the ground. The humanity of those who observed her triumphed over their fears, and they bore her to a newly finished house hard by.

This was all the missionary could glean from his guide, as they walked swiftly toward the shed pointed out by the peasant.

They found her lying motionless upon a bed in a corner of the room. As they entered, she opened her eyes, and, after keenly scanning the Lord of Hers, raised herself with difficulty upon her arm. Father Omehr started. The wild light of insanity had left her eyes, and her glance, though firm and resolute, was gentle and natural.

"Do you know me, Bertha?" said the missionary, springing trembling to the bedside.

"Oh, yes," was the reply. "I have been in a long, wild dream!" and she pa.s.sed her hand over her high, clammy forehead. "And I know _you_, Sir Albert of Hers, and I know that G.o.d has brought you here at this moment."

The stout warrior, who never quailed before any odds, and whose self-possession was as remarkable as his valor, quivered before the mournful gaze of that weak woman. The room seemed to reel, and he leaned against the wall for support.

"There is one other I must see--Sandrit of Stramen. Father, have him brought here now; there is not one moment to be lost."

The missionary whispered a few words to a youth who was present, and the stripling pa.s.sed hurriedly out.

"Have you sent for him?" she inquired.