pon her knees and raised the hem of the
maiden's garment to her lips. Without rising she sang one of those
simple ballads which even insanity could not make her forget. The lady
of Stramen patiently permitted her to proceed without interruption. But
the moment her strange companion was silent, she minted to the knife,
exclaiming:

"Is this blood, Bertha?"

Still kneeling, the woman began:

The chieftain swore on bended knee,
That blood for blood should flow--
Then leaped upon his coal-black steed,
And spurred against the foe.

"Has anyone hurt you?" continued Margaret.

But Bertha only replied:

Sir Arthur swung his falchion keen--
The serf implored in vain;--
The knight is galloping away--
The serf lies on the plain!

"Bertha! Bertha! this is wrong: I hope you have committed no violence?"

But the answer, as before, was given in rude, indefinite verse.

It may be unnecessary to say that the object of the lady's visit was to
discover if the knife had been poisoned. Finding that all question
would be useless, she had recourse to an artifice to effect her purpose,
suggested by the discovery of a splinter buried in Bertha's thumb.

"Let me remove this--it must give you pain," she said, examining the
hand she had taken in hers, and reaching after the knife. Bertha
passively resigned the weapon, but rapidly withdrew her hand, just as
her mistress feigned to prepare for the incision. Margaret shuddered,
for she naturally saw in that quick gesture a confirmation of her worst
fears. For some moments they gazed at each other in mute anxiety. Bertha
was the first to break the silence, and her words revived a gleam of
hope in the bosom of her companion.

"No! no!" she exclaimed, slowly and sternly, "his blood must not mix
with mine!"

"Is there poison here?" pursued the lady, in a low searching tone.

She received in reply:

There was no poison on the steel
That robbed Sir James of breath;
There was no poison on the blade
That well avenged his death.

Greatly relieved, but still unsatisfied, the high-born damsel sprang to
her feet.

"It is the blood of Hers!" she cried, exultingly.

The maniac's face assumed a look of savage triumph.

"Then will I keep this blood-stained instrument as a precious jewel.
Farewell, Bertha; you shall hear from me soon."

She passed rapidly through the narrow aperture by which she had
entered, leaving Bertha in blank amazement, utterly un