The gorgeous sun of ancient Suabia was beneath the horizon--but Gilbert
slept upon his couch; the moon had lit her feebler torch, and walked
silently beneath the stars--yet not until midnight did Gilbert awake.
All was profoundly still. The dim light of the taper at his bedside
revealed only the motionless figure of the sacristan, and the outline of
a crucifix hanging against the wall. His eyes involuntarily closed, and
in a moment he stood before his father, in the oaken halls of Hers--his
retainers were around him--the horses pranced merrily--the bugle
sounded--"On to the chase!" was the cry. He opened his eyes--the
crucifix became more distinct.

He knelt before a prince, and arose a knight--a broidered kerchief
streamed from his polished casque--the herald, in trumpet tones,
proclaimed his prowess--the troubador embalmed his deeds in immortal
verse--the smiles of high-born damsels were lavished upon him--the page
clasped his sword at the mention of his name. He opened his eyes--the
crucifix, and the sacristan!

A form of beauty was before him--at first, haughty and disdainful, but
gradually assuming a look of interest and pity--it bent over him, and
poured a balm into his wound, with a prayer for its efficacy--but the
figure lifted its finger with a menacing air, and pointed to a snake,
hissing from its hair--a mist settled around him, and the apparition was
gone. He opened his eyes--the taper burned brighter--the crucifix became
more distinct.

Gilbert was now fully awake. His wound was more painful than it had yet
been, and in vain he endeavored to win back the repose so lately
enjoyed. Nor was corporal uneasiness his only annoyance. Father Omehr's