Scarce knowing whether to credit the confused story of the unfortunate woman, Sir Sandrit had ordered Gilbert's arrest, rather to get rid of Bertha's importunity than as a prudent or necessary measure.
When the youth entered the room with Margaret, Bertha, and his armed escort, the baron said, without any irritation: "Is this a Bohemian, my daughter?
Has he been telling your fortune ?" But the Lady Margaret was silent.
"Unmuffle that churl," pursued the knight, manifesting some impatience; "let us see what lurks beneath that sordid cowl." "Hold!" cried the youth, arresting the lifted arm of his guard and uncovering his head with his own hand.

"There is no motive for concealment now, sir," he continued, meeting without flinching the kindling eye of the baron.

"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.

The single note sounded like a knell: a death-like silence ensued.

Already four stalwart soldiers had secured Gilbert's arms, and with determined looks they waited but a signal from their chief: still the infuriated knight scowled at Gilbert, and still the latter firmly bore the storm.
"To prison with him!" at length exclaimed the baron.