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The face of Sandrit of Stramen was sterner than ever, and his son seemed to have caught a portion of his severity. They rode along swiftly, and whenever they spoke it was about the Lady Margaret. Father Omehr alone preserved his equanimity, and even he was now unusually absent and thoughtful. Nor was the retinue of Albert of Hers more cheerful.
Many of the combatants were hurled to the earth; but the white plume still waved, and Rodolph of Suabia was in mortal combat with Godfrey de Bouillon. The giant had singled out Sandrit of Stramen, who spurred to meet him with equal avidity. In an instant both riders rolled in the dust.
His brother's soul would be much better honored by his prayers, than by imprecations and the clash of steel; we cannot avenge the dead, for their bodies are dust, and their souls absorbed in things eternal; and Sandrit de Stramen is but making his brother's misfortune the occasion of his own temporal, and perhaps eternal injury. I wish, indeed, this criminal work of vengeance could be stopped."
"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.
He grew cold: he was dead. Again I looked at Albert he was shaking like a leaf. 'Bertha, he said, 'I am a lost man! When Sir Sandrit knows this, I cease to live. I saw his danger, which did not until then occur to me, and I lost my concern for the dead in my fears for him. I loved him better than anything in the world, and the devil, who knew my heart, suggested a scheme for his preservation.
"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.
While the stern Sandrit de Stramen was preparing his vassals for the impending strife, and literally converting the scythe into the sword while he spared no expense or trouble in supplying his men with arms and horses, all gayly decorated to make a gallant show at Tribur while the sturdy yeomen were leaving their ploughs in the field to pay their rent by the service of shield and sword the Lady Margaret, uninfluenced by the war-like bustle, calmly pursued her meditations, her daily visits to the church, and her numberless acts of charity.
Henry de Stramen had been nursed in the bitterest hostility to all who bore the name of Hers, and the unrelenting persecution of the Lord Sandrit had made Gilbert detest most cordially the house of Stramen. It was with mutual hatred, then, that the two young men had met at the spring. They knew each other well, for they had often fought hand to hand, with their kinsmen and serfs around them.
The Baron of Hers was charged with the murder, and, though he persisted in declaring his innocence, Henry's impetuous father, the Lord Sandrit de Stramen, swore over the dead body of his brother to take a bitter revenge on the Baron of Hers and all his line.
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."
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