The golden sceptre which thou didst reject,
Is now an angry rod to bruise and break
Thy disobedience.
Gilbert de Hers, as the good priest withdrew into his own apartment,
resumed his seat upon the bench, and soon became absorbed in meditation.
His varying face betrayed the character of each thought as it filed
before his mind in rapid review. For more than an hour he remained in
that statue-like state, when we, in a measure, assume a triple being, as
the past and the present unite to form a future.
But as all reveries, like life itself, must end, Gilbert at length
seemed to be aware of the reality of the unpretending bed in the corner.
Having repeated the prayers which his piety suggested, he extinguished
the almost exhausted taper, and threw himself upon the bed. He could not
sleep, however; for, great as the fatigue of the day had been, the
excitement was greater. His mind was perpetually recurring to the events
at the spring, from which they wandered to his father's lonely and
anxious chamber: now he remembered the earnest appeal of Father Omehr,
and now pondered the injuries he had received from the house of Stramen.
Through a narrow opening in the wall he could see the noble church
sleeping in the moonlight. Its walls of variegated marble had been
built principally at the expense of the Barons of Stramen, for in those
days it was not unfrequent for private families to erect magnificent
churches from their own resources; and as his eye rested upon the misty
window, perhaps he felt that though utterly opposed in all else, there
was one thing in common between his own haughty race and the founders of
that church--religion.
The night wore on, and was far advanced; but Gilbert still kept piling
thought upon thought, unable and even scarcely desiring to exchange them
for the deep repose or more confused images of slumber. It must have
been after midnight when, as he lay awake, he could distinctly hear the
sound of blows. Gilbert was not a moment in conjecturing the cause; he
knew at once that the venerable priest was subjecting himself to
corporal chastisement. He did not live in an age when voluntary
mortification was ridiculed, when a sacred ambition to imitate a
crucified God insured contempt from man. Then, those self-denying
religious were not taunted with "the hope of gaining heaven by making
earth a hell." And perhaps Gilbert knew that the spiritual peace and
delight derived from such chastisements, were infinitely sweeter, even
here below, than the impure pleasures of worldlings. Feeling thus, he
could not but contrast the mortified life of that holy man with his own
indulged and pampered existence. He had never known the sting of
adversity, and rarely been thwarted in a single desire; yet how much
greater his sins than those of Father Omehr! Amid such reflections he
felt--and it is a salutary feeling--the truth of a hereafter.
But we will no longer pursue the reflections of the youth. Some time
after the sounds had ceased he fell asleep, and was only roused by the
sun streaming into his apartment, and the solemn tones of the church
bell.
The morning was beautiful. The sun was everywhere; kindling the hoary
tops of the Suabian Alps, sparkling on the broad Danube as it rolled
majestically on from the southwest to the northeast, lighting up hamlet,
hill, vale, rivulet, forest, and making the church glitter like a
stupendous diamond. But Gilbert was ill-prepared to enjoy this blaze of
beauty. In a melancholy mood he leaned against the window, watching the
sturdy serf in the centre of his family, as he came to share the
blessings of the Mass. He was rather startled when the outer door opened
and admitted the lady he had seen in the church the night before with
Henry de Stramen. She came unattended, save by an old female servant,
who carried with some difficulty a basket filled with fruits,
delicacies, and medicines of various kinds, designed for Father Omehr to
apply to any purpose his piety might point out.
Though in the year 1076 chivalry was not the regular and well-defined
institution it became during and after the Crusades, yet the same amount
of valor and devotion to woman was expected from the knight. The spirit
of Christianity, operating upon Teutonic virtue, which has raised the
woman from the drudge of man to be the ornament of society, created a
chivalric courtesy long before the cry of "_Deus vult!_" rang from Italy
to England. Gilbert de Hers, born and bred in the courtly circle of
Suabia, though his spurs were not yet won, was still familiar with the
duties of knighthood. As the lady paused, surprised at his presence, he
made a profound and respectful reverence, and he would have done the
same had she been less noble, or had he known, as he then surmised, that
the fair visitor was the daughter of his father's deadliest foe.
Their embarrassment was relieved by the appearance of Father Omehr, who
extended to both his blessing, gratefully received the basket from the
attendant, and, after Margaret de Stramen had retired, accompanied
Gilbert to the church. As they emerged into the morning air, Gilbert
caught a glimpse of the graceful figure of the young lady entering the
church. But his attention was soon arrested by a strange, wild-looking
being upon the church steps. She was apparently not over forty, tall,
slightly built, and evidently the victim of insanity. Her long black
hair hung in thick masses over her pale face and deathly-white neck; her
arms swung to and fro with a restless motion, and she sang at intervals
snatches from the ballads for which Suabia is so renowned. As Gilbert
passed her, she bent her large wild eyes upon him with an expression of
such fearful meaning, that brave as was the youth in battle, he recoiled
from their ferocious glare. The next instant she was abstracted as
before, and crossed her hands upon her breast in an attitude of
devotion. Gilbert looked to his companion with an inquiring eye, but the
priest was silent.
The next instant they were treading the marble aisle. Gilbert knelt down
upon a tombstone, and endeavored to compose himself for the Mass. He
perceived from the glances thrown upon him from time to time by some of
the peasantry, that he was recognized as an enemy, yet respected as one
under the aegis of religion. These glances became more frequent when
Father Omehr, in his brief discourse, eloquently adverted to the example
of Jesus in the forgiveness of injuries, and enforced the sacred duty of
a Christian to imitate that Divine model. In powerful terms the
gray-haired priest portrayed the miseries of discord, and the blessings
of mutual forbearance; and Gilbert felt that a change was creeping over
him.
He left the church when the Holy Sacrifice had been completed,
meditating upon the pastor's powerful exhortation. But the train of his
thoughts was broken upon the steps by that wild face almost touching
his. As the maniac stared fixedly at him, she muttered in a hoarse
whisper:
They laid him 'neath a noisy tree,
And his glossy head was bare;
They piled the cold earth on his breast,
Then left him helpless there.
While the youth listened in amazement, and almost in terror, the frantic
woman drew from her bosom a long knife, and inflicted a deep wound upon
him before he could wrench it from her determined grasp. The knife had
penetrated to the rib, but not farther, having glanced off to the side.
As the blood spread rapidly over his hunting-shirt, the maniac gave a
wild laugh, and repeated in the same low, dismal tone:
'T is red, 't is red, as red as his;
Man's blood is ever red;
'T was thus his side was crimsoned o'er
When they told me he was dead.
With the last words, she laughed again, more wildly than before, and,
darting into the wood, was soon lost among the gigantic trees.
Some serfs were standing around, but offered no assistance. They seemed
rooted to the ground in terror at the rash act, and crossed themselves
in mute astonishment. At this juncture, while Gilbert was examining the
extent of the wound, and vainly endeavoring to stanch the blood, the
Lady Margaret and the priest appeared at the doorway, having been
attracted by the loud laugh of Gilbert's assailant.
Comprehending in an instant that Gilbert had been wounded, Father Omehr
hastened to support him.
"It is but a trifle, Father," said the youth, anxious to relieve the
evident uneasiness of the old man.
"May God will that it be so!" replied the priest, eagerly removing the
hunting-shirt, and examining the path of the knife. After which, having
carefully replaced the garment, he turned to the serfs who yet lingered
there, inquiring, in a voice of deep indignation:
"Who has dared to do this? Who has been impious enough to draw blood
during the truce of God, upon the threshold of God's sacred temple?"
One of them hastened to reply:
"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:
"No, no! it cannot be. Some momentary paroxysm prompted the deed; there
could have been no preparation, no predetermination."
"It is not for his sake," continued Margaret, in a still lower tone, and
withdrawing farther from the bed; "not for his sake I fear an
unfortunate result; but for our own. I know that it is Gilbert de Hers
who lies there, and I have drunk too deeply in the prejudices of our
family to repine at any calamity that may befall him. But this impious
outrage can insure nothing but the Divine vengeance upon our heads. If
he were borne down in battle, I perhaps should rejoice at heart at the
triumph of my father; but I would rather die than see him perish from a
noble confidence in the house of Stramen."
"You are not responsible, my child," rejoined her companion, "for the
blind violence of a crazy woman. I am confident that the wound is not
dangerous. Perhaps the accident, apparently so untoward, may in the end
be productive of good. We are too apt to receive as good what should be
avoided as evil, and to deem that a curse which should be considered a
blessing."
The young lady made no reply, but advanced to Gilbert's bedside.
"Believe me, sir," she began with dignity but in some confusion, "that I
sincerely regret the accident which has confined you here, and that I
desire and will pray for your speedy recovery. You cannot suspect the
house of Stramen of conniving at such a cowardly assault; they are too
powerful in the field to resort to such a pitiful stratagem. Our effort
shall now be to secure you from further violence."
The blood returned to Gilbert's cheek as she spoke. Feeble with pain and
the loss of blood, he with difficulty replied:
"I little expected ever to receive such kindness as you have shown me
from the daughter of my father's foes; but come what may, kind lady, I
shall never forget your services. I feel assured that the kinsmen of
her whom I address, could never be guilty of so ignoble an action."
It was not without pleasure that the noble maiden heard an answer so
flattering to her pride, and so earnestly pronounced. Her cheek became
brighter than Gilbert's as she bowed and left the apartment, attended by
the old woman servant.
We will leave Gilbert, for the present, in the care of Father Omehr, to
follow the footsteps of the fair lady of Stramen.
Margaret led the way rapidly to the border of the forest, where she had
left a groom with horses. She sprang lightly upon her spirited palfrey,
and exchanging a few words with the old woman, dismissed both domestics
to the castle, and galloped off alone in an opposite direction. As she
rode along, she was greeted with smiles and blessings by all who met
her; yet she seemed to heed but little the frequent reverence and
heartfelt salutation.
After proceeding about three miles, she struck into a deep, dark ravine,
through which there rushed a slender stream, whose waters, seldom
gladdened by a sunbeam, seemed to groan and murmur like an angry
captive. The way, thickly strewn with moss-bound stones and the
mouldering skeletons of trees, required all the maiden's horsemanship.
But she struggled on, until she reached something midway between a
grotto and a hut, projecting from the side of the gully, and looking as
though by some fantastic freak of nature it had grown there, so
admirably was it in keeping with the character of the place.
From the time she had mounted her horse, the maiden's face expressed
great anxiety, which increased as she alighted and entered the singular
excrescence we have mentioned. A blazing pine-knot driven in the ground,
shed a fierce, and flickering light over the interior of this gloomy
abode, for it was an abode--and more, a home--the home of Bertha! The
maniac was sitting upon a rude bench, close to the firebrand which gave
a fearful lustre to her haggard features, while with a species of
exultation she gazed upon the knife stained with Gilbert's blood, still
clenched in her hand.
The husband of this unfortunate woman had, about a year before, been
mortally wounded in a chance affray between the partisans of the lords
of Hers and Stramen. He was brought home only to die in the arms of his
wife. The shock had reduced her to this miserable extremity. She could
not be prevailed upon to remain in the cottage she had occupied in the
hour of her joy; and though repeatedly offered a home by Father Omehr
and the Baron of Stramen, she had built for herself this wild nest, and
obstinately refused to leave it except to wander to the church or to the
grave-yard. She was maintained by the Lady Margaret principally, and by
the charities of the peasantry. Up to the present time, she had been
perfectly harmless, and was rather loved than feared by the children of
the country. She had always manifested an extreme affection for the Lady
Margaret, to whom she would sing her sweetest songs, and whose hand she
would almost devour with kisses.
Margaret, though somewhat appalled at Bertha's frightful appearance, yet
confiding in the power she had over her, advanced and silently sat down
upon the bench. For some minutes Bertha seemed unconscious of the
presence of her visitor, but suddenly removing her eyes from the knife,
she bent them upon Margaret. In an instant a smile of strange sweetness
stole over the poor creature's wasted face: every trace of anger
disappeared as she fell upon 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 unable to comprehend
what had passed.
Emerging from the dark ravine, the Lady Margaret rode straight toward
the old castle of Stramen, whose gray towers retained their sombre
majesty, which the merry sun could not entirely dispel. It was not long
before she passed the drawbridge, sped through the massive gate, and
reined in her palfrey upon the ample terrace; when, having thrown her
bridle to an attendant, she proceeded at once to her chamber, and
summoned Linda, the old domestic, to her side.
"You are skilled in such matters, Linda," she said, producing the knife,
before the faithful neif had finished her salutation; "is there poison
on this blade?"
Linda took the knife, and having examined it attentively, returned it to
her mistress; after which she left the room, making a signal that she
would soon return. After the lapse of a few minutes, she reappeared with
a vessel of boiling water, which she placed upon a marble slab. Then
taking from her pocket a piece of polished silver, and at the same time
receiving the knife, she plunged them both into the hissing liquid. As
the lady of Stramen, eagerly watching the experiment, stood bending over
the water with her back to the door, she was not aware of her father's
presence. He had entered unperceived, and was contemplating in some
surprise the mysterious operation going on before him. He could scarce
repress a laugh, for there was something ludicrous in Linda's very wise
and consequential manner, as she knelt over the kettle, while his
daughter, equally absorbed, her hat yet untied, continued in an attitude
of profound attention beside her.
When the water had cooled, the old woman with a trembling hand drew out
the silver--it was bright as ever!
"It is venomless as the bill of the turtle-dove," she exclaimed, with
the importance of an oracle, looking up at her mistress.
"May I ask the meaning of all this, without being referred to the prince
of magic for an answer?" said the Baron of Stramen, stepping forward;
and he added, addressing Linda, who in her surprise had nearly
overturned the vessel: "Do you wish to be hung for a witch?"
The old woman slunk terrified into a corner, but Margaret hastily
replied:
"You are already informed, sir, of the violation of the truce of God,
which occurred this morning. Our magic consisted only in the discovery
that there was no poison upon the knife which inflicted the wound."
"I cannot but think," rejoined her father, "that you have displayed an
unnecessary interest about the result. That young stripling has cost me
more lives than he numbers years; and though I could not connive at
Bertha's attempt to assassinate, I certainly do not see much reason to
rejoice at his escape."
It may have been that Margaret quailed a little beneath her father's
rigid scrutiny, but without embarrassment she returned:
"If I had been born and bred to arms, if my breast were accustomed to
the coat of mail, if my hand could wield the battle-axe, I might
anxiously crave, or coldly behold the murder of a foe confiding in our
generosity and in our plighted faith to the Church; but I have never
worn the gauntlet, or drawn the sword; my heart has never exulted at the
gladsome sight of an enemy's blood, and I scorn to ascribe the interest
I may have shown, to a wish of having the sweet assurance that a scion
of Hers would perish like a dog, when in reality I hoped to find the
weapon venomless."
"Spoken like a woman, as you are," muttered the knight. "I would have
you feel otherwise, but God has given you your sex; I cannot change its
nature."
The Baron of Stramen was a tall, powerful man, whose vigor fifty years
had not impaired. His face was stern, though not repulsive, and free
from any approach to vulgarity. A man of strong passions, yet the
strongest of all was an unvarying love for his daughter, on whom seemed
to have centered all the tenderness of which he was capable. On the
present occasion, he put an end to further controversy by drawing
Margaret to his side, and giving her an exquisitely wrought head of
Gregory VII.
"Treasure it, my child," he said, "it is the faithful likeness of a
wonderful man--a man who may one day, with a few stout hearts to second
his energy, chastise the impious tyranny of the house of Franconia!" He
spoke with deep feeling, and, after pacing the room, with his arms
folded upon his broad breast, abruptly stalked through the door,
apparently absorbed in some momentous question.
No sooner had he gone, than Margaret turned to Linda, who still occupied
the corner, and dismissed her with a message to Father Omehr. When
alone, she knelt down before an ivory image of the Blessed Virgin and
prayed--not to the polished ivory--but to the Mother of purity whose
intercession it suggested, with a fervency and constancy which only they
venture to ridicule who cannot record the virtues of Mary without a
sneer.
Though not apprehensive, Father Omehr was pleased to learn from Linda
that the knife had not been poisoned. Gilbert's eye brightened at the
intelligence, though he had not given utterance to his fears--_fears_
they were--for even the young and brave recoil in terror from death,
when it assumes a form and hovers near in a detested shape. Having
informed the youth that a messenger had been despatched to his father,
the priest left Gilbert in charge of the sacristan, and proceeded on his
daily errand of mercy through the neighborhood. By men like him,
fervent, fearless, faithful, the rude Northern hordes were induced to
abandon their idolatry, and embrace the faith of the Church of Rome.
These noble missionaries slowly but surely prepared the canvas on which
were afterward laid, in colors of enduring brightness, the features of
Christian civilization.
When Father Omehr returned, Gilbert was asleep. The sacristan put in his
hands a letter from a distinguished prelate, informing him of the
nomination of Henry, canon of Verdun, by Henry IV.
"O God, protect Thy holy Church!" exclaimed the missionary, crushing the
paper in his excitement. "If the ministers of God become the creatures
of the king, despotism and irreligion must inevitably ensue. How long
will virtue be accounted a crime? Shall every faithful shepherd be
supplanted, to make room for the wolf of lay investiture, the instrument
of a lustful tyrant, raised by simony, and upheld by royal favor?"
Gilbert's light slumber had been broken by the voice of his benefactor.
As soon as Father Omehr saw the youth awake, he approached him, and
inquired, with great kindness of manner, whether he felt better.
The youth replied in the affirmative.
"I have discovered," continued the other, "that you have richly deserved
this wound. You killed with your own hand the husband of the woman who
stabbed you, and though the chance thrust of an affray, it was noted,
and communicated to Bertha by an eye-witness, one of the combatants.
This is her revenge--but how inadequate to her suffering!"
"It is, indeed," said Gilbert, replying to the last remark, which had
been particularly emphasized. His companion could not conceal the
satisfaction with which he hailed this reply, as an omen of regret, and
of a right apprehension of his former violence. But the youth was
drowsy, and prudence forbade a longer conversation. At the close of the
evening service, the lady of Stramen was seen to exchange a few words
with her venerable pastor, but she did not enter the cell.
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
revelation of the motives by which Bertha was actuated, had left a more
painful impression upon his mind than his monitor perhaps desired.
Though the priest had not directly attributed the woman's insanity to
her husband's death, Gilbert too clearly understood that such was the
fact. His was too generous a heart, not to deplore bitterly so terrible
a calamity, of which he was--however unintentionally--the cause. He felt
no resentment for his misguided assailant--he would willingly have
exposed himself to a second attack, could he have thus restored her
reason. The memento of the crucifixion--that Catholic alphabet, the
crucifix--held up unto his soul the wondrous truth that God had
voluntarily suffered, for the sake of man, all that humanity can endure;
and the youth interiorly acknowledged that the errors of his life were
but imperfectly balanced by the inconvenience he then experienced.
It is not in the pride of health and youth, surrounded by pleasure, and
strangers to care, that a heart, wedded to the world, is apt to
prostrate itself in humility before the Author of life; but in danger
and affliction, we learn to mistrust our self-sufficiency, and feel our
complete dependence upon an invisible and almighty power. We are much
more disposed to appeal to heaven for protection, than to return thanks
for repeated favors. It is not to be wondered at, then, that Gilbert
sought relief in prayer; there is nothing more natural to one who
prefers the consolations of religion to the staff of philosophy. He was
far indeed from that exalted perfection of loving God for Himself alone;
but who can predict what may spring from the mustard-seed?
By the first gray light of the morning Father Omehr was bending over his
youthful charge: Gilbert was fast asleep.