"It was Alber of the Thorn's widow, crazy Bertha. God preserve us from
such a deed, at such a time, and in such a place!"

"But could you not have prevented it?" continued the priest, eyeing the
man until he quailed.

Gilbert interposed.

"They are not to blame, Father," he said; "I did not expect the attack
myself, and none else could have prevented the blow."

"It bleeds much," pursued the priest, again examining the wound.

Gilbert made a step forward, but Father Omehr detained him, and
reluctantly the youth allowed himself to be supported by two of the
serfs of Stramen to the bed he had occupied during the night.

Margaret de Stramen, in the spirit of the age, had gone to the cell,
after discovering the nature of the young man's injury, and taken from
the basket she had brought some salves and stringents with which she
stood ready at the door. She washed the wound and dressed it with the
tenderness peculiar to woman, and received Gilbert's thanks with a
slight inclination of the head. Having completed her task, she drew the
priest aside, and, looking up into his face with evident emotion, said:

"Could there have been poison on the knife?"

Though spoken in a whisper, the youth must have heard it, for he smiled
at first, and the next moment became pale as death. Father Omehr noticed
the change upon his features, and replied loud enough to be overheard: