The wild dog
Shall flesh his tooth in every innocent.
O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows!
HENRY IV.
Shut out from Augsburg by the treachery of the emperor, Gregory VII
retired to Canossa, where he resolved to let the affairs of Germany
shape themselves for a time, while he awaited a more favorable moment
for action. Nor was his gigantic mind occupied with Germany alone, and
the movements there which menaced his life and the liberty and purity of
the Church. Dalmatia, Poland, and England claimed his constant
attention. With the most powerful monarch in Europe plotting his
downfall, he contrived to win the love and obedience of Zwonomir, to
force the rebellious Boleslaus from his throne, and to purify England
still more from simony and incontinency.
As Henry's submission to the Pope had disgusted the bold who were ready
to assist him, and repelled the timid who waited but a second call, so
his shameless perjury and fearless defiance of Gregory at Augsburg
reassembled his professional adherents, and inspired with new courage
those who secretly clung to his cause. The mitres of Luinar, Benno,
Burchardt of Lausanne, and Eppo of Ceitz again sparkled around him, and
Eberhard, Berthold, and Ulric of Cosheim displayed their lances to
confirm his resolution. In every country and in every age there must
exist a large and powerful party prone to pleasure and license, which is
easily arrayed against virtue, when the indulgence of their criminal
passions is threatened. This party is ever formidable, especially when
supported by a powerful king, nobly descended, and legally invested with
the crown. A natural sympathy, too, had been awakened for the emperor,
as numbed with cold he besought the pity of the Pontiff; and, with
proverbial fickleness, men, in ascribing humility to the king, imputed
arrogance to the Pope. Owing to these causes, it was not long before
Henry found himself stronger than ever. Inflamed with new ardor, he
loudly lamented his submission at Canossa, and cursing the hours of
misery passed there, swore speedy vengeance against the presumptuous son
of Bonizo the carpenter.
Rodolph had no sooner reached Forchheim, than it was announced that a
general diet would be held there for the discussion of matters of vital
importance to the Church and State, with the suggestion that the absence
of the king would facilitate their deliberations. The Count Mangold de
Veringen was despatched to the Pope, inviting him to sanction the diet
by his presence, to aid them by his wisdom and intrepidity, and to take
the helm of the tempest-tossed vessel of state. He was also commissioned
to inform His Holiness of their determination to elect a new king. The
Pope, in reply, conjured them not to be precipitate, and to wait his
arrival before they acted.
There was one feature in the proposed diet to which Gregory
objected--the attempted exclusion of Henry from any participation in it.
This he endeavored to remedy by obtaining a promise from the emperor to
attend the meeting in person. It was partly to avoid the appearance of
partiality, but principally in the hope of reconciling the angry
factions, that the Pope requested the presence of his unscrupulous
antagonist. Henry not only recoiled from his engagement, but, by
blocking up all the avenues to Forchheim, compelled the Pope to remain
at Carpineta, unable either to enter Germany or return to Rome.
Bernard, cardinal deacon, Bernard, Abbé of St. Victor, and the
celebrated Guimond, the Papal legates, announced to the confederates the
desire of His Holiness that they should wait his arrival. But the
assembled nobles dreaded the least delay. Already their cause was
weakened by indecision, and a hostile army was in the field, receiving
daily accessions. Though May had been fixed for the opening of the diet,
so great was the impatience of Rodolph and his barons, that it was
concluded in the middle of March. No sooner had the legates delivered
their instructions, than deliberations were virtually begun. The chiefs
directed all their efforts to induce the legates to sanction the
election of a king, and confirm their choice. Guimond and his
companions, faithful to their instructions, replied: "It were far better
to await the arrival of His Holiness"; but they added, imprudently,
"that they did not wish to oppose their advice to the wisdom of the
princes, who knew much better than they what was most conducive to the
interests of the State." Assuming an implied permission to act from
these words of courtesy, the nobles proceeded at once to cast their
votes. A scene of confusion ensued, created by the jarring of private
interests. These were finally quelled by the interposition of the Papal
legates, and the balloting proceeded without interruption. The vote of
the bishops alone remained to be taken. The Archbishop of Mayence rose,
and exercising his prescriptive title, gave the first voice for Rodolph
of Suabia. Adalbert and the other bishops followed his example. Otto,
Welf, Berthold, ranged themselves on the same side, and amid universal
acclamations Rodolph was proclaimed king.
Something still remained--the Papal confirmation. There were some who
were sad and mute amid the general rejoicings, and among them was Father
Omehr. In vain had he implored Rodolph to postpone the session, at least
until the appointed time would arrive: the King of Arles regarded the
delay as suicidal. In vain, too, he conjured the legates to refuse their
approval, at least until May, and begged them, with tears in his eyes,
not to give the signal for civil war. All the princes and a majority of
the bishops conceived that the denial of the Apostolic benediction would
destroy the hopes of the Church party. They beheld in themselves the
champions of the Church, and identified their own welfare with that of
the Holy See; they believed that Gregory was only restrained by
circumstances from granting the prayers of those who had sworn never to
desert him; they maintained that although the Pope might not have
permitted the election, he could not refuse to sanction their choice
after it had been made. Moved by these passionate representations, and,
perhaps, expecting to please the Sovereign Pontiff, the legates yielded,
and confirmed the election of Rodolph.
When Rodolph heard that he had been called to the throne he shut himself
up in his room and sent for Father Omehr. Scarce a minute elapsed before
the missionary stood at his side. They gazed at each other in silence
for some moments. The duke's lips were compressed, and his brow gathered
into a deep frown. Mingled sorrow and hope were portrayed in the
missionary's face, and his breast heaved with excitement.
"I am king!" said Rodolph, in a whisper, still scanning the priest, as
though he would read his soul.
"Not yet!" was the reply.
"Who can prevent it?"
"God!"
"Most humbly would I submit to His gracious interposition," said the
duke, bending his head devoutly; "but can any human power prevent it?"
"Yourself!"
Rodolph buried his face in his hands and with rapid, nervous gestures
paced up and down the small apartment.
"Hear me!" he exclaimed, suddenly leading Father Omehr to a chair, and
taking a seat beside him. "Hear me!" he repeated, bending forward until
his lips almost touched his companion's ear, and the veins swelled in
his throat and temples:
"I have toiled and sighed and prayed for this! Day after day, night
after night, for years, this has been the aim of all my actions, ay,
even the limit of my aspirations. Once to be king--oh! ever since I
first clutched a lance I panted for it! In love, in sickness, in peace,
in war, I never forgot that one surpassing object--the crown! Hear me
on! It is now within my reach--I can touch it--and you ask me to resign
it?--"
The duke paused a minute, his eagle eye flashing fire; then, with a
vehemence almost appalling, he resumed: "You ask me to resign it--and I
_would_, without a pang--gladly, cheerfully--this very instant! Yes--I
swear to you--here in presence of my Creator, that I no longer covet the
crown I have well-nigh worshipped; that, but for Germany and the Church,
I would rather place it on Henry's perjured head than wear it on my
own!"
"Then you will resign it?" said the missionary, eagerly.
Rodolph slowly shook his head and fixed his eyes upon the floor.
"Let no fears for the Church and your country restrain you," pursued the
priest; "they both demand your refusal, not your acceptance."
Still Rodolph sternly shook his head.
"Then as you value honor, defer your decision until the appointed
time--our Holy Father may still be with us--it is treacherous to deprive
him of the opportunity of interfering, by thus anticipating by a month
the day on which we invited him to meet us."
"It is too late for interference now," replied the duke, "and of what
avail is it to pause on the brink when all the avenues from Carpineta
are closed by Henry's minions?"
"Have confidence, I conjure you," exclaimed the other, passionately, "in
the virtue and wisdom of His Holiness. Rest assured that he will find
some means to avert bloodshed and yet preserve his See and the empire."
"War is inevitable!"
"Obey the Pope and trust in God. Beware how you take upon yourself to
plunge the nation in war--to tear down the sacred barriers of peace--and
open the floodgates for a thousand evil passions to deluge Germany with
crime and blood! Can you foresee what may occur--what a month may
develop--what new political combination the master mind of Gregory may
devise for our preservation?"
"I must rather beware," returned the noble, "how I sacrifice the last
hope of my country and the main support of religion by procrastination
and criminal hesitation. If I refuse the crown, I disband my party. Men
will leave us, and say we tremble, and before long we are at the tender
mercies of the tyrant, for my resignation, while striking terror into
our ranks, will infuse new courage into his. Then would I see my
allies--the friends whom I seduced into rebellion and then
abandoned--destroyed in detail--pursued, hunted down, exiled, and
martyred before my eyes. No! come what may, I must accept."
"What is your situation now," rejoined the missionary, "that you have
anything else to expect than defeat and disgrace? You know the
emperor--you have seen his dauntless courage, his consummate skill, his
desperate resolution. You know that he is at the head of an army more
numerous and better disciplined than your own. And you must also clearly
foresee that if the Pope--as he certainly will--shall condemn the policy
of his legates, your efforts will want the principle of life which alone
can bless them with success."
"If the prospect now is bad," said Rodolph, solemnly, "delay can only
make it worse. And I believe that, could His Holiness see what is
evident to us, he would command me to accept the crown, and place it
with his own hands upon my head."
"You are mistaken--wofully mistaken, my lord. While a hope of averting
anarchy and civil war remains, Gregory will not adopt the surest means
of inflicting both. Trust in God for the future! Do not pursue what to
the mole-blind vision of humanity seems expedient, when certain
bloodshed is the result! Humble yourself before Him who alone can exalt
and lay low! Confide in the efficacy of prayer! Think not that God will
desert His Church or her champions!"
"I do trust in the future," answered the duke, "but not until I have
embraced what reason dictates for the present."
"Do you hold your reason more enlightened than that of His Holiness?"
"He cannot see what I see. Urge me no more! It is too late to recede. I
know well what dangers I incur by accepting the crown--and what disgrace
I should earn in refusing it. Did I consult my inclinations, I should
renounce the glittering ornament: but I will not have men to point at me
covertly, and say, 'He faltered!' I will not endanger the noble barons
who have devoted themselves to my advancement. If I have sinned in
alluring them thus far, I will not deepen my guilt by betraying them.
Though I knew that the crown which I am about to assume were like the
gift of Medea, I would still set it on my temples: better pay the
penalty of ambition by advancing than by timidly retreating, when
boldness may remedy, and retreat is certain death!"
The tread of armed men was heard along the passage, and immediately
afterward the Count Mangold entered the room.
"The diet awaits your highness' answer," he said, bowing deeply to the
duke.
"I will follow you," said Rodolph, "and deliver it in person." Saying
this, he strode proudly from the room, preceded by the count and his
attendants.
As the door closed behind them, Father Omehr fell upon his knees. He
knelt there with the tears streaming down his pale cheeks and his hands
clasped in prayer, until a long loud shout announced Rodolph's
acceptance. Then the trumpets' merry notes, mingled with the joyful
clang of arms, went up to heaven together with the missionary's sighs.
Father Omehr appeared scarcely to hear the martial revelry, but as the
tumult increased, he rose and glided from the room.
Amid the congratulations of the bishops, nobles, and people, Rodolph
proceeded in great pomp to Mayence, where he was to be crowned and
consecrated the following day. It was after nightfall when Rodolph
reached the palace prepared for his reception; and seizing the first
moment to escape from the embraces of his friends, he retired early to
his chambers, accompanied only by Gilbert de Hers. Rodolph had always
evinced a strong partiality for Gilbert, which the youth repaid by the
liveliest love and admiration. No sooner were they alone, than the duke
threw himself dejectedly into a chair, and was soon plunged into a fit
of gloomy abstraction. Gilbert stood motionless beside him, inwardly
wondering at the silence and despondency of the man, who, a moment
before, had been gayly exchanging felicitations with all who approached
him.
"Sit down, my son," said the duke.
Gilbert mechanically obeyed.
"Do I seem happy?" asked Rodolph.
"No, my lord; are you unwell?"
"Do I seem overwhelmed with joy at my good fortune?"
"Has anything befallen you, sire?" inquired the youth.
"Yes!" cried the monarch-elect, seizing his wrist, "the gratification of
my ambition!"
Gilbert started at the trembling tones and excited gesture of his
companion.
"Gilbert," continued the duke, regaining his composure, "you see me in
possession of all that I ever craved on earth. I am now legally invested
with the imperial crown. It was not the peaceable enjoyment of the
throne I asked, but permission to occupy it. I am gratified. With all my
hopes realized--I never was more miserable than at this moment. I am not
sad because I feel that my career is drawing to a close--that I shall
be unsuccessful in the struggle for undisputed power: it is sufficient
for me that I die a king. I tremble because I have discovered the
impotence of earthly things to gratify the cravings of an immortal
soul--because, in finding that I have a capacity of enjoyment not to be
appeased by the highest dignities on earth, I begin to comprehend my
immortality. I see what a shadow I have pursued--how madly I have
neglected eternal happiness for temporal preferment. You, my son, are
full of earthly hope, dreaming of the Lady Margaret, of minstrels'
praises, and knightly fame. Do not think me harsh, if I pray God that
you may speedily know their emptiness. You can never rise as high in
this mundane atmosphere as I am now; but your soul is as immortal as
mine, and would sicken over less renown, as I do over this."
Rodolph paused, and Gilbert, struck dumb with surprise, gazed up into
his face.
"It is late, my son," he resumed, "and we must part. Is there anything
you would ask before leaving me?"
"There is to be a tournament to-morrow," the youth faltered out.
"And you would take part, in spite of my discourse," said the duke, with
a smile.
Gilbert's reddening cheeks answered for him.
"I must forbid you to couch lance to-morrow," said Rodolph, tenderly;
"you shall receive your spurs at my hands when I am king, but let me be
the judge of the time. And remember, my son," he added, detaining
Gilbert as the latter was about to retire, "remember what you have seen
this night. When men shall question my motives, and extol or condemn
me, you may say that Rodolph of Suabia was inspired by ambition to seek
the crown, but that when it was within his grasp, he would have turned
from it in disgust, had not conscience and patriotism compelled him to
wear it."
As Gilbert, deeply moved, kissed his hand and withdrew, Rodolph retired
to an oratory into which his apartments opened. He had been there
engaged in prayer for more than an hour, when the Archbishop of Mayence
appeared, and, after a brief adoration, entered the confessional. There,
in the silent hour of midnight, the king knelt before the priest, in
obedience to the voice of that God who bequeathed us a Church to
administer the Sacraments which He appointed for our salvation, and
through which we can only attain it. When Rodolph sat again in his
chamber, his brow was calmer and his eye softer and brighter.
The morning of the twenty-sixth of March dawned calm and bright. A warm
sun suddenly interrupted a long-protracted spell of cold weather, the
snow rapidly disappeared from the fields and streets, and the credulous
saw a happy omen in the genial spring day that broke through the icy
fetters of winter to greet the coronation. A splendid procession moved
to the cathedral, and during the celebration of Solemn High Mass,
Sigefroy, Archbishop of Mayence, crowned and consecrated Rodolph
rightful king and defender of the kingdom of the Franks.
After the ceremony, the nobles assembled to witness the tournament,
where the newly crowned monarch presided with a crowd of barons at his
side. Gilbert stood at some distance from the royal person, and watched
the tilting with all-absorbing interest. Henry of Stramen displayed so
much address and managed his horse with so much skill that Gilbert could
scarce forbear to join in the applause rendered by those around him. So
intent was he upon the lists that a citizen by his side had, unobserved
by him, severed the links of a massive gold chain which he wore around
his neck, and had concealed it in his gown. But a page who had perceived
the theft, throttled the culprit and drew the chain from its
hiding-place. The man was ordered to prison, and Gilbert had forgotten
the occurrence, when the assembly was disturbed by loud cries and
imprecations from without. Gilbert quick as thought passed through the
doorway and stood in the street. The bourgeois of Mayence were zealous
partisans of Henry, and had already scowled upon the honors paid to his
rival. The maltreatment of their townsman had kindled the spark of
discontent to flame. They had attacked the soldiers of Rodolph, who, as
was customary, attended the joust unarmed, and had rescued the thief. As
Gilbert stood watching the tumult, he was singled out as the object of
attack, probably at the direction of the citizen who had suffered in the
attempt to steal his chain. The situation of the young noble, clad only
in a velvet doublet and armed only with a light sword, was extremely
precarious. Yet he did not dream of flight, but for a time kept his
assailants at bay, slowly falling back upon the arena. A number of
soldiers issuing from the pavilion gathered around him, but, shorn of
their weapons, they could only parry without returning the blows of
their adversaries, who were well supplied with stones and clubs.
Gilbert had not left the lists unobserved by Rodolph, who immediately
despatched a page to watch his movements. When informed of his young
friend's danger, he arose and cried in a loud voice:
"Gentlemen, we would not have you meddle in this affray: a party of my
men have gone for their arms, and it will speedily be terminated. But
the son of Albert de Hers is now overpowered by these boors. Let some
one hasten to his rescue!"
Three young knights at once dismounted and passed out: the foremost bore
in his crest a long dark plume.
The generous soldiers, who had hitherto received upon their defenceless
bodies the blows aimed at Gilbert, were almost all beaten down, and in a
few minutes more he would have been exposed comparatively unaided to the
fury of the populace. His sword was shivered to the hilt, and though he
drove back a giant who attempted to close with him, by dashing the guard
in his face, he must have fallen beneath a club that swung over his
head, had not a tall knight, completely clad in armor, striding before
him, intercepted the blow, and dashed the assailant to the earth. A
shower of blows saluted the youth's deliverer, but he bore them
unflinching, and, vigorously plying his two-handed sword, cleared a
space around the exhausted Gilbert. The two other knights arriving at
this moment, the contest became more equal. But the mob were now
displaying deadlier weapons, and Rodolph reluctantly resolved to
command his chivalry to disperse the rabble, when his soldiers arrived
with their arms. Inflamed by the loss of their comrades, the now
formidable troops threw themselves upon the citizens, and pursued them
with great slaughter to their homes. When the knights were left without
an enemy, Gilbert advanced to embrace his deliverer. But the knight of
the black plume stepped back a pace, and raising his visor, disclosed
the features of Henry of Stramen, cold, haughty, and showing just the
traces of a smile of disdain.
Gladly at that moment would Gilbert have fallen into his arms and
entreated him to forget the past; but there were too many eyes to
witness a repulse. He contented himself by saying:
"Sir, you have preserved my life, and with the grace of God you shall
not repent it."
Henry made no reply, and they parted.
Gilbert was far too generous to regret an incident which laid him under
such deep obligations to Henry of Stramen. He rejoiced that it had
occurred, for it might remove the mortification produced by their late
encounter, and diminish the mortal hatred with which he was regarded. He
was also well disposed to welcome any accident that might give him a
pretext for conciliating the house of Stramen. Henry perhaps secretly
exulted that he had conferred a favor upon Gilbert that would gall his
heart, while it poured a balm upon his own. Still he did not hold the
youth in the same utter detestation as before.
On the next day, Rodolph, following an ancient custom, began a tour
through his dominions.
Germany now presented the spectacle of a country claimed by two kings.
To Gregory the party of the old king was heretical and odious--that of
the new king pure and orthodox. Though all his sympathies were with the
latter, he still openly blamed and deplored the conduct of his legates,
and refused to acknowledge Rodolph as king. The Pope well knew what a
delicate undertaking it was to depose a sovereign whom he had
consecrated, and how fraught with danger such a precedent must be. His
interest evidently called him to receive Rodolph at once into his arms,
and had he done this, the result of the contest would have been very
different. In the behavior of Gregory we discover, in addition to an
insuperable aversion to countenance civil war, a disposition to endure
the last extremity rather than dethrone a legitimate monarch, and
perhaps a preference of Henry, for his parents' sake, to his rival.
Both kings prepared vigorously for the struggle which could not be long
postponed. Henry's measures were admirably calculated to increase his
power. He scattered rich benefices lavishly among the clergy, lured on
the soldiers of fortune with tempting bribes, and granted enviable
privileges to the seaboard towns. The citizens of Augsburg, after
tasting his bounty, braved the menaces of his antagonist. Hordes of
brigands from Bohemia were attracted to his camp by brilliant largesses
and the prospect of an easy booty. The German cities, and particularly
those along the Rhine, had always, pursuant to the policy of his
ancestors, been the object of his peculiar favor, and the merchants of
Worms were relieved from all imposts. The population of these cities
was soon ranged under the banner of Henry, whose ranks increased so long
as gold could buy, and the promise of license and plunder attracted.
Rodolph's policy served to diminish instead of swelling his numbers. He
devoted himself, at the sacrifice of everything else, to gain the Pope
to acknowledge him as king. He appeared the inflexible chastiser of
simony and ecclesiastical corruption. The very day of his coronation he
had obtained the dismissal of a simoniacal deacon. Everywhere he
compelled the nominees of Henry to fly, and filled their places with
zealous champions of the canonical discipline. At Constance and Zurich
he drove the irregularly appointed bishops from their sees: he placed
Lutold, a zealous champion of the Pope, over the monastery of St. Gall,
which had been devoted to his rival. Many, frightened by these
severities, deserted his standards, and others recoiled from the
presence of so rigorous an enforcer of spiritual purity.
Thus, while the cause of Henry was flourishing under his criminal
artifices, Rodolph was weakened by his honest severity. Yet there was
this difference between the parties. The minions of Henry were goaded on
by individual interests--the partisans of Rodolph by a common resolution
to die in defence of a sublime principle; the first were incited by the
hope of plunder, the lust of empire, ambition, avarice, or a lawless
appetite for war--the last were animated by a love of liberty, and
fought for future security from oppression; the one prepared to preserve
unrighteous license and ill-gotten gains--the other were inspired by
the hope of regaining the freedom of which they had been unjustly
deprived, and by the resolve to regain their ancestral rights and to
protect the outraged Church of God.
Albert of Hers with all his energy and address had not succeeded in
extracting from Suabia more than two thousand men. With this small force
he joined Rodolph, who was then encamped at the little village of
Sommeringen, with scarce three thousand Suabians. Here they learned that
Henry, at the head of twelve thousand effective troops, was advancing
upon Suabia through Ratisbon. Rodolph soon heard of the atrocities of
his rival, who abandoned the country to fire, sword, and rapine. Old men
and women, pale with fear, came crowding into camp with thrilling tales
of the brutality of the Bohemians and their associates. The war had
begun; and Henry was devastating the region bordering on the Danube and
the Rhine, from Esslingen to Ulm.
Though his force did not amount to half that of his opponent, Rodolph,
enraged by the crimes he could not prevent, would have gone to meet his
competitor, but for the unanimous opposition of his nobles. While the
Suabian party were deliberating upon the best course to pursue, Henry,
by a forced march, fell unexpectedly upon their rear. Taken by surprise
and overpowered by numbers, they fled in all directions, and Rodolph,
accompanied only by a remnant of his army, escaped with difficulty into
Saxony. Suabia was now at the mercy of the victor.
Tidings of this disastrous defeat had not yet reached the Lady Margaret.
The scanty intelligence she could occasionally glean was not such as to
brighten the melancholy caused by the absence of her father and
brother. Her fears thickened daily, as rumor, for once unable to
exaggerate, divulged the massacres and impieties of the old
imperialists. Her only relief was in the Sacraments, administered by the
saintly Herman, and in prayer. The wives of the yeomen, not knowing when
to expect the enemy, sought shelter in the castle with their parents and
children. There were gathered the innocent, the aged, the young, the
beautiful, and the Lady Margaret experienced some relief in
administering to their wants and calming their anxiety. She did not rely
much upon the few faithful soldiers who were left to guard the castle;
but though womanly apprehension would often blanch her cheek, and her
frame quiver as some recent deed of shame was unfolded, her confidence
in God continued unabated.
One afternoon, as the Lady Margaret, surrounded by the inmates of the
castle, was seated in the hall, Bertha, clad in a black mantle, stole
silently into the room, and glancing wildly around, began to traverse
the apartment with rapid strides. Her excited manner attracted much
attention, and many anxious conjectures were made as to the cause of her
meaning gestures. At length, stopping before the Lady Margaret, who
watched her movements with a troubled eye, she sang, almost in a
whisper:
The sunbeam was bright on their shields as they came,
But dim on their blood-rusted spears;
They gave up the hamlet to pillage and flame,
And scoffed at the kneeling one's tears!
"Perhaps the enemy are upon us," said a graycoated palmer, who for some
days had shared the bounty of the Lady Margaret.
At these words, a general murmur ran round the group, and then all was
still as death.
Bertha resumed, in a louder tone:
They come--they come--the groan, the shout
Of death and life ring wildly out!
The sky is clouding at their cry,
As they toss their reeking blades on high;
Arm, gallants all! and watch ye well,
Or to-morrow's chime will be your knell.
As she concluded the rough fragment, she extended her arm to the south,
and shaking her finger menacingly, muttered, "They come!"
This thrilling announcement called forth more than one cry from the lips
of the trembling listeners. To increase the panic, a groom burst into
the room, and whispered something into the Lady Margaret's ear that made
her start and turn pale as marble. Awhile she sat motionless and
apparently sinking. But it was not long before her weakness disappeared,
and her face assumed a serene, undaunted expression that imparted new
hope to those who were sobbing about her. The wailing was hushed as she
rose and said, calmly and without faltering:
"We shall probably be attacked in a few hours by an inferior force. Let
us pray to God that we may be able to defeat their malice."
In uttering this she had fallen upon her knees, and the rest of the
group, imitating her example, knelt beside her. When that solemn and
fervent prayer was over, the voice of the gray palmer was again heard,
as he cried:
"If any man here can still hurl stone, or thrust spear, let him follow
me to the walls!"
About six, in whom age had not quenched the fire or strength of youth,
and as many beardless youths, sprang up at the call, and accompanied the
speaker out of the room.
Exclusive of this new force, the defenders of the castle were not more
than twenty, yet so admirable were its defences that they might hold in
check an attacking party of more than a hundred. The warder and his men
were grouped together at the main gate, straining their eyes against the
horizon, where the smoke of some cottages indicated the presence of the
foe, when the palmer advanced and asked permission to assist them. This
was readily granted, and the recruits were soon supplied with defensive
armor and the usual weapons. The palmer wore his headpiece over his
hood, and, with his breast-plate over his gown, which, tucked up with
more than John Chandos' prudence, but half revealed the thigh-pieces
beneath it, he was equally conspicuous and grotesque.
A body of mounted men could now be plainly seen rapidly advancing. They
no longer stayed to desolate the humble dwellings in their path, but
swept on against the stately castle which seemed to bid them defiance.
The Lady Margaret was now among the soldiers, animating them to
resistance. Guided by the palmer, to whom the command had been tacitly
yielded, the men were busily engaged in carrying large stones up to the
battlements over the archway.
"Who are our assailants?" asked the maiden, as with a firm step she
mounted the wall.
The advancing troops rode up to the raised drawbridge, displaying as
they came the picturesque costume and swarthy face of the Bohemian
marauder. The Lady Margaret's cheek was now deeply flushed, and the
haughty spirit of her race flashed within her eyes and curled her lip in
scorn.
"They are not a hundred," she said to the palmer, who stood at her side.
In reply, the palmer pointed to a body of men-at-arms, then emerging
from a clump of trees in which they had been hitherto concealed. Her
color fell at the sight of this new force--yet only for a moment: the
next instant her cheek resumed its glow. This column, about a hundred
strong, approached slowly and cautiously, as if expecting a sally, until
they too had reached the moat.
"We call upon you to open your gates!" exclaimed a knight, who rode a
little in advance.
"To whom?" replied the Lady Margaret, in a loud voice.
"To your rightful king and master, Henry of Austria!"
"We do not own a monarch," she returned, "who has forfeited the crown,
and our gates shall be closed against all who come in his name."
"You refuse to surrender?"
"Yes!"
"Prepare then, for we will force a passage!"
"We are ready, and invite you to begin!"
The animation which had hitherto supported the maiden gave way, and,
all trembling, she descended the rough steps and returned to the castle.
The attack was at once begun. The assailants were not supplied with
cross-bows or instruments for casting stones, and the palmer with the
soldiers, who readily submitted to his command, could safely watch their
operations from the battlements. Some with their battle-axes dashed into
the moat and swam across to cut the chain which raised the bridge; but
hardly had they reached the shore before they were struck down with
stones hurled from the walls. The palmer's object was to hold out until
nightfall, and create as much delay as was attainable. The sun was
already half hidden behind the hills.
But the fall of the bridge now became inevitable. Their ammunition was
exhausted, and three of the assailants, armed with axes, occupied the
bridge, while others were arriving at intervals.
"Let us at least gain five minutes," exclaimed the palmer. "One sortie
for the Pope and Rodolph of Suabia!"
The bars were withdrawn and the gallant band poured out.
"Suabia!" shouted the palmer, as he launched a heavy mace at one who was
hewing at the chain, and felled him to the earth. With a well-aimed
thrust he laid another at his feet, and so well was he seconded that the
bridge was soon cleared. This gallant feat was greeted with cries of
rage from their opponents on the other bank, many of whom, forgetting
their heavy armor in their indignation, leaped into the water and sank,
muttering idle imprecations. For some minutes the defenders held the
bridge, but fearful of being intercepted, they made good their retreat
and stood safe within the gate, without the loss of a man.
As further resistance was impossible, the bridge was abandoned to its
fate, and was speedily lowered, amid the rejoicings and threats of the
besiegers. It was now toward twilight, and the strong gate would baffle
their efforts till dark. When that was won, the ballium and the inner
wall could still be disputed.
"There is nothing to be done now," said the palmer to his companions;
"and you had better go to the castle and take some refreshment, for we
will soon have need of all our strength."
As they retired at his suggestion, he climbed to the crenelles and
looked anxiously out upon the plain until the men returned; when,
resigning the barbican to the warder, he went to receive the thanks of
the Lady Margaret, who expressed her gratitude for his services by
waiting upon him in person.
The assailants had cut down a tree which they used as a battering-ram
against the gate; but the stern bars were yet unbroken. It was now
pitch-dark. A thunderstorm had suddenly gathered, and the report of the
distant bolt came upon the ear, mingling with the still more appalling
clash of the beam against the gate.
Brief indeed was the repose of the palmer before he was again at the
embrasures. Bold as he was, he trembled as a blinding flash poured a
flood of livid light over the plain and castle. It was not the sudden
bolt that awed him; but the lightning streamed upon a host of armed men,
stretching away as far as the eye could reach. They were not half a
mile off. Another flash leaped out, and revealed a forest of spears. "It
is the king himself!" muttered the palmer; "we will be surrounded by a
host! God assist us, or we are lost!"
Such were the sounds that trembled on his lips as he abandoned his post.
Selecting the groom who had announced the enemy, he whispered to him:
"Do you wish to save your mistress?"
"With my life!" said the man.
"Then lead me to the postern gate."
In their impetuosity, the attacking party had neglected to blockade this
avenue, before darkness prevented them from discovering it. The banks of
the moat opposite the gate had been made shelving, so as to afford a
means of retreat to the besieged, without giving any advantage to the
besieger. When they had gained the postern and drawn back the bolts, the
palmer said to his companion:
"Now, as you value life and honor, saddle the best three horses--one for
yourself, one for your lady, the third for me--swim the moat, and wait
till I come."
The groom promised obedience, and they separated--the groom to the
stable, and the palmer in quest of the Lady Margaret. He found her in
the midst of her dependents, praying in the oratory. It was a sight to
make the heart bleed--that defenceless group, with tearful eyes and
hands raised trembling to heaven, now starting as the iron gate groaned
beneath the heavy blows, now glancing timidly around as the lightning
streamed in upon them. The palmer stepped up to the maiden and drew her
aside.
"You must fly with me!" he said.
"Why? Are we not safe?"
"Before one may count a hundred, we are surrounded by the whole army of
the tyrant!"
This sudden and awful disclosure was too much for the frail maiden,
already exhausted by watching and excitement. She grasped his wrist, and
shuddering as she fixed her eyes on him, staggered forward, and would
have fallen, had not the palmer caught her now unconscious form, and,
raising it in his arms, passed from the room. Through the gallery, down
the staircase, along the portico he passed, as swiftly as though he
carried but a child. The wind came damp and cold against his cheek, the
rain poured pitilessly upon his head, the arrowy lightning seemed to
play around his feet, but manfully he hurried on with his precious
charge. The gate was reached; he paused but an instant to hail the groom
and take breath, then slid into the moat, and in a short space stood
safe upon the other side. Here he staid but to envelop the maiden in his
own heavy cloak, which he had snatched up when the rain began. As her
consciousness was but imperfectly restored, the palmer mounted one of
the horses and placed her before him. The groom, at his direction,
sprang to the saddle and led the third animal.
When they were a little within the wood, the palmer exclaimed
"Can you find the road to Count Montfort's?"
The groom replied in the affirmative.
"Then take the lead, and strike it at the nearest point."
After groping for some minutes, they succeeded in hitting it, and, aided
by the lightning, pursued their course as swiftly as the stormy night
permitted.
The Lady Margaret was awakened to her situation only to pour forth
torrents of tears. In vain the palmer tried to moderate her grief--she
could scarcely be persuaded from returning.
The rain had now ceased, and as the clouds rolled away, they obtained
light enough to continue their flight more rapidly and securely.
"Look!" cried the groom, as they stood on the top of a lofty hill. The
palmer could scarcely repress an inclination to throttle his imprudent
friend; for as the Lady Margaret turned her head, she saw a column of
smoke and flame curling up, as if it warred against the skies.
"It is my father's castle!" she said. "Oh, what has become of those we
left?" she added shuddering. "Let us trust in God!" murmured the palmer.
Brighter and brighter grew the flame--higher and higher rose the lurid
column. Still the Lady Margaret continued to gaze on the fiery pillar.
At last the light suddenly expanded and burned awhile with intense
brilliancy. It was but for a moment. Dimmer and dimmer grew the flame,
and darkness soon settled over the ashes of Stramen Castle.
The palmer now placed the maiden upon the third horse, and led the way
with his hand upon her bridle. Two hours more brought them to the
fortress of Tübingen, where the brave Count Montfort, though refusing to
join Rodolph, had designed to hold out to the last against his perjured
and sacrilegious rival. The palmer demanded admittance in the name of
Albert of Hers, and instantly obtained it.
The generous countess received the daughter of Stramen with open arms,
and the count swore first to protect and then to avenge her. Nor was the
palmer forgotten. Despite his ridiculous costume, now soiled and torn
and stained with blood, he exhibited no embarrassment when ushered into
the presence of the noble group.
"The Lady Margaret would know her deliverer," said the countess.
The palmer removed his head-piece and threw back his hood.
"Do you remember me, my lady?" he asked, with a smile.
The maiden looked as one striving to recall a dream.
"Do you remember Ailred of Zurich, the minnesinger?"
Her cheek turned scarlet as she exclaimed, "Oh I how much I owe to you!"
"You owe me nothing, lady," returned Humbert.
"Is my life nothing?"
"If you prize that," was the reply, "reserve your thanks for him who
made your safety my duty."