Glory is like a circle in the water,
which never ceaseth to enlarge itself
Till, by wide spreading, it disperse to nought.
SHAKESPEARE.
The battle of Fladenheim was fought just as Gregory VII was opening his
seventh synod at Rome. Hardly had the ancient canons been renewed and
Guibert of Ravenna excommunicated, before the envoys of Rodolph
appeared, and, after reciting Henry's fresh iniquities, supplicated
their master's coronation and his rival's deposition.
The Pope had not failed to invite his impious antagonist to abide by his
decision, but his recent defeat seemed only to have confirmed his
obstinacy. It was evident that Henry would keep the field while a hope
of success remained, and that peace could not be recovered but by the
complete triumph of one of the hostile parties. The Pontiff no longer
hesitated. Since all hope of an amicable adjustment had fled, the
interests of the Church and of mankind required the ascendency of
Rodolph; and Gregory saw that to withhold his sanction now, was to peril
his cause, or at least to prolong the contest. The victory of Fladenheim
had calmed the impetuosity of the Italian nobles who burned to declare
for Henry; and they were disposed to preserve a safe neutrality. The
cruelties and vices of the Franconian were past endurance; the moment
for which the Suabian so patiently and yet so ardently looked, had at
length arrived. Rising before the crowded council, the noble Pontiff,
giving voice to a holy enthusiasm he could not restrain, invoked the aid
of St. Peter, the Prince of Apostles, and of St. Paul, the Teacher of
the Nations. He called upon them to witness, that in spite of his grief,
his groans, and his tears, he had been chosen their most unworthy
successor; and that princes, ecclesiastics, and courtesans were leagued
to accomplish his death or exile. "By _your_ authority," he exclaims,
"relying upon the mercy of God and the pity of His Virgin Mother, I
excommunicate Henry and all his partisans, and absolve his subjects from
their allegiance. And even as Henry is justly deprived of his royalty by
his pride, his disobedience, and perfidy, so are the same power and
royal authority granted to Rodolph for his humility, his submission, and
his merits."
The envoys of Rodolph hastened back to Saxony, bearing him the Papal
confirmation of his election and the benediction so fervently
pronounced. The king and his army were inspired with the most lively joy
and confidence. Those who before had dreaded the result, no longer
doubted, but deemed the agony of the empire already ended. Mass was
celebrated amid universal rejoicings, and Saxon and Suabian forgot the
desolation of their homes in this presage of victory and peace. The camp
of Henry presented another scene. The excommunicated king abandoned
himself to the most violent transports of fury. He swore the destruction
of the daring Pontiff and the usurper who now went forth as the chosen
champion of the Holy See. He assembled at Mayence thirty bishops and a
proud array of princes and barons.
Here again was acted the solemn farce of the conventicle of Brixen. A
decree was prepared and published, asserting that it was necessary to
cut off from the communion of the faithful, a priest who had been rash
enough to deprive the august person of majesty of all participation in
the government of the Church, and to strike him with anathema. "He is
not the elect of God," runs the instrument, "but owes his elevation to
his own unblushing fraud and corruption. He has ruined the Church--he
has distracted the State; he has embittered the life of a _pious and
peaceful_ monarch, upheld a perjured rebel, and scattered everywhere
discord, jealousy, and adultery. For this, here in final council at
Mayence, we have resolved to depose, expel, and, if he disobey our
command, to doom to eternal condemnation a monster who preaches the
pillaging of churches and assassination, who abets perjury and homicide,
who denies the Catholic and Apostolic faith concerning the Body and
Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ--this accursed Hildebrand, this ancient
ally of the heretic Berengarius, this conjurer and magician, this
necromancer, this monk possessed by a devil, this vile apostate from the
faith of our fathers."
After this violent invective had been launched, Guibert of Ravenna was
unanimously elected anti-pope, under the name of Clement III. Henry next
addressed himself to win the support of England; but Cardinal Lanfranc
condemned his precipitation, and refused to unite in these insults and
outrages.
The brief respite from arms that followed the battle of Fladenheim was
over. Hostilities had commenced. Cries of war were heard from every
quarter, and while the two kings were mustering their strength for
another great struggle, the partisans of Rodolph and Henry were daily
mingling in deadly strife. Nor were princes and counts, knights, pages,
and vassals alone in the field, but the spear and sword flashed in the
hands of bishops, abbots, and monks. Ulrich, Abbot of Saint Gall, was
ravaging Linzgau and Thurgovia, demolishing the castles of Otto, of
Marchdorf, Marquard of Bregence, and Hartman of Kyburg, and forcing the
friends of Rodolph to fly before him.
These trivial advantages were amply compensated by the victory of Welf
over Frederick of Hohenstaufen, at Hochstadt, and the occupation of
Augsburg.
It was in the month of October, 1080, that Henry, confiding in the
superior of numbers and discipline of his army, advanced upon Saxony,
where Rodolph calmly awaited his approach. Each monarch well knew that
the approaching contest would be decisive of his fate, and had omitted
nothing to insure the victory. Anxious to shorten an interval of such
painful suspense, they longed to meet, Henry stimulated by hatred and
the memory of his recent defeats, Rodolph animated by a just indignation
and conscious rectitude.
Once upon the soil of Saxony, Henry swept the country with fire and
sword to the banks of the Elster. He took a strong position at Mulsen,
and awaited reinforcements from Bohemia. When the desired succor had
arrived, he put his army in motion, intending to desolate the country
and then retire. But he had not advanced far, before he discovered the
allied forces of Saxony and Suabia drawn up to oppose him. Daunted for a
moment, by this gallant host, he fell back upon the Elster. The deep
river prevented a farther retreat. His position was protected by narrow
and difficult approaches, and by a deep morass. Here he passed the
night.
Early in the morning of the fifteenth of October, the army of Henry was
drawn up in battle array along the Elster, while the vanguard of his
rival became visible in the distance. The soldiers of the former were
unwearied and invigorated by a night of repose; the troops of Rodolph
were jaded with forced marches over roads almost impassable. Rodolph,
apprehensive lest fatigue should prove fatal, would have declined an
immediate action, but he found it impossible to restrain the ardor of
his men. The knights leaped from their sinking steeds and formed
themselves on foot, and the infantry, forgetting their toil at the sight
of the foe, continued to advance. They halted at length on the edge of
the deep morass of Grona, in full view of the opposing army on the other
side.
With Henry were the bishops of Bâsle and Lausanne with their
men-at-arms, the Count Palatine Herman with all Franconia, Marquard of
Carinthia, and Lutold, his son. Many recreant Bavarians were around him,
and even Suabia raised her arm against her noble duke, in the person of
Werner, Archbishop of Strasburg. There, too, were found Ulrich of
Eppenstein, Arnaud of Lentzburg, Ulrich of Bregenz, Lutold of
Dillingen, the counts and prelates of the house of Welschneuenburg,
Egina of Achalm, and Werner of Gruningen. But conspicuous, even amid
that high-born and martial group, stood the Duke Godfrey of Bouillon and
Frederick of Hohenstaufen.
Rodolph was surrounded by Altman of Constance, and the mitres of Coire,
Rheinau, Stein, Würtzburg, and Worms; he could touch the hands of
Eckhard of Richenau, of the Abbot of the Convent of All Saints at
Schafhouse, and of William de Hirschau, the most exemplary man of his
day. Welf, Otto of Nordheim, Berthold of Carinthia, and Hugo, Count
Palatine of Tübingen, were ready to support him with their lives, as
they marched on proudly at the head of their vassals and soldiers.
Glittering at his side were raised the lances of Marquard of Bregenz,
Hartman of Dillingen, Burchard of Nellemburg, Cuno and Lutold of Achalm,
Werner of Hapsburg, Adalbert of Calm, Albert of Hers, and Sandrit of
Stramen.
At the moment the advancing columns halted, the legates of Gregory
appeared in front of the army and imparted the Papal benediction to all
who had taken up arms against the enemy of the Church and of the
liberties of Germany. As if a thunderbolt had stricken them down, the
soldiers sank simultaneously upon their knees, and, with their heads
bent upon their hearts, received the boon so dearly prized. While they
were yet kneeling, the clerks began to intone the eighty-second Psalm,
and the solemn strains could be heard all along the ranks. How sad was
the thought, that this calm music was but the prelude to the groans of
the dying and the hoarse shouts of blood-stained victory! As the army
rose at the last note of the Psalm, the clash of steel, instead of the
mournful chant, was heard along the line.
Rodolph, pale and thoughtful, but calm and dignified, rode through his
columns, uttering brief expressions of encouragement and confidence,
which were answered by cheers that made the welkin ring. When he had
gained an eminence which commanded a view of both armies, a messenger,
darting from his side, flew like an arrow toward the column of Welf of
Bavaria. After the lapse of a few minutes, the Bavarians had turned the
morass, and were almost within striking distance of the enemy. Without
moving from his position, Frederick of Hohenstaufen waited the assault.
The next instant the Bavarians had encountered the Bohemians hand to
hand. For a time the combat seemed equal, but at length the division of
Welf could be seen slowly falling back. The Suabian nobles, who had
hitherto watched the contest in silence and the deepest interest,
besought the king to permit them to aid the retreating column. But
Rodolph firmly refused. He watched the combatants sternly, but without
moving a muscle, until the main body of Henry's army was in motion, and
then Gilbert could see the smile he had marked at Fladenheim, curling
the hero's lip and lighting up his eye. Yet it was not the same smile:
there was something sadder, yet fiercer in it. Never had his eye flashed
forth such wild lustre, or his bosom heaved with such pent-up emotion.
Then, as the main body of the Saxons pressed rapidly forward under Otto
of Nordheim, against the foe disordered by pursuit, and Rodolph saw his
plans accomplished, he turned to the Archbishop of Mayence, and
exclaimed, in a voice broken by deep feeling:
"The day is ours!"
The prelate uttered a prayer of thanksgiving, and, turning to the king,
said:
"I give your highness joy!"
"I may need your prayers rather than your congratulations," replied
Rodolph, in a whisper, and he closed his visor.
The king still occupied the height from which he had directed the
battle, that had now become general. Around him were the chivalry of
Suabia and his former faithful subjects, acting in concert with a large
body of Saxons. Henry's army was divided into two bodies, one of which,
commanded by the monarch in person, was engaged with Otto, while the
other, led by Godfrey de Bouillon and Frederick of Hohenstaufen,
assailed the Bavarians. Welf, borne down by numbers, still retreated in
obedience to his instructions.
"Our turn has come at last, gentlemen," cried the king. "Forward!"
The barons, who had waited as impatiently as hounds in the leash,
required no second bidding, but dashed after their chivalrous monarch,
who was in full course with his lance in rest. Already, in Henry's camp,
the _Te Deum_ was sounding in anticipation of the victory promised by
the supposed rout of the Bavarians. But the arrival of Rodolph changed
the face of affairs. The strife then began in earnest. The enemy
recoiled at first before the king's impetuous charge, but they were
commanded by the ablest knights in the empire, and soon recovered from
their momentary panic. Foremost of all his gallant chiefs, Rodolph
carried death and terror into the Bohemian ranks. He seemed endowed with
supernatural strength, and neither lance nor mace could arrest his
brilliant career. Wherever the foe was thickest, or the fight most
dubious, his white crest gleamed like some fearful meteor. It was
difficult for the Suabian nobles to keep up with their invincible
monarch, and only by dint of the most extraordinary efforts about twenty
of the best lances of his army could prevent his falling alone upon the
hostile masses. Among those who fought at his side were the lords of
Stramen and Hers, Gilbert and Henry. At this moment a band of perhaps
thirty horsemen, with their spears in rest, headed by a knight of
gigantic size and another whose deeds had proclaimed him equally
formidable, came like a thunderbolt through the opening files of the
Bohemians, and fell upon the Suabian group.
The shock was fearful. Many of the combatants were hurled to the earth;
but the white plume still waved, and Rodolph of Suabia was in mortal
combat with Godfrey de Bouillon. The giant had singled out Sandrit of
Stramen, who spurred to meet him with equal avidity. In an instant both
riders rolled in the dust. The antagonist of Sir Sandrit was the first
to rise, and as the knight of Stramen staggered to his feet, the
battle-axe of his opponent was poised above his head. A moment more and
the Lady Margaret would have been an orphan--for Frederick of
Hohenstaufen's strength was not to be babied by steel casque or bars of
proof. But the axe was destined to take another direction. A mounted
knight, spurring to the rescue of Sir Sandrit, was within a few bounds
of the Lord of Hohenstaufen. Sir Frederick saw his danger, and with
wonderful quickness changed his aim, and discharged the ponderous weapon
against this new assailant. But the Suabian, displaying equal quickness,
fell suddenly upon the neck of his steed, and the flying mass passed
harmlessly over his head, grazing his crest. But as the rider rose to
his seat, a Bohemian knight, darting before Sir Frederick, checked his
career. Such was the fury of the onset that both were unhorsed. The
saddle-girths of the Suabian had given way, but the Bohemian fell,
pierced by the spear of his antagonist. The former sprang uninjured to
his feet, and drawing his sword, rushed against the first object of his
attack. Sir Sandrit, dizzy from his first shock, was staggering beneath
the heavy blows of his powerful opponent, as the knight whose advance we
have marked, crying "God and Suabia!" turned aside a stroke aimed at the
exhausted baron, and stepped between them.
"Who are you?" said the Lord of Hohenstaufen, parrying a blow and
returning it. "Your shield bears no device; beware lest you fall before
it obtains one!"
"I shall take a device when I have earned one," was the reply. "My name
would convey nothing to your ears."
"Then perish in your insignificance!" exclaimed the giant, bringing down
his sword with both hands. But the blow was avoided with admirable
agility, and the combat went on in silence. It seemed as if the struggle
could not last an instant, for Frederick towered full a foot above his
adversary. But the Lord of Hohenstaufen was fatigued by his passage with
the Baron of Stramen, and his wonderful strength was partially balanced
by the superior activity of the Suabian. In the mean time, numbers of
Rodolph's knights had now arrived, and the Duke Godfrey was compelled to
retreat. Frederick of Hohenstaufen lingered until almost surrounded, and
then retired slowly before his antagonist, hoping to obtain some
advantage from the pursuer's impetuosity.
But the Suabian was as cautious and dangerous as ever.
"Hold, Sir Knight!" said Frederick, suddenly sinking his sword and
lowering his visor. "I beg your name."
"I am called Gilbert de Hers," replied the youth, imitating his example.
"There," cried the Lord of Hohenstaufen, throwing down his glove, "wear
that for me, and say for Frederick of Hohenstaufen, that he rarely coped
with better knight."
At these words, the giant mounted a horse which a groom had brought him
through the fray, and, waving an adieu, wheeled off to another part of
the field. Gilbert raised the gage and fastened it in his casque. There
was a strong tumult in the young noble's heart. In spite of his
impulsive disposition, he was never so calm as when in danger. Though
sharing the intense excitement of the battle-field, he was not carried
away by the frenzy of the strife. Though the praises of an illustrious
enemy were sounding in his ears, he felt little of the exultation which
such a circumstance might naturally impart. He had rescued the Baron of
Stramen from imminent peril; but though the Lady Margaret's image had
been before him through the horror and glory of the day, it was only for
a moment that he thrilled at the prospect of a relenting father. His
interview with Rodolph had sunk deep into his soul, and not even the
pomp and terror of war could blot from his mind the contemplation of the
king and his solemn language. He knew not why, but he could scarce
withdraw his eyes from the snow-white crest, which, still unwearied,
hung upon the now retiring columns of the foe. The Count Rapatho had
already fallen before the fiery Rodolph, and the _Te Deum_ was hushed as
the mangled corpse was brought into Henry's camp.
Nor was Otto of Nordheim less successful. At the head of the Saxon
infantry, he had routed the legions of Franconia, and had driven numbers
into the deep and rapid river. Fruitlessly did Henry endeavor to
preserve his array and keep his ground: he was routed at every point.
The Saxons, now certain of victory, would have fallen upon and pillaged
the camp. But Otto was too old a warrior to throw caution aside because
of a partial success. "Wait a moment!" was all the veteran said, as he
checked their appetite for plunder; and the wisdom of his advice was
soon made evident. Henry de Laca, Count Palatine of the Rhine, began to
menace his rear. The troops of the count were fresh, and had been
proved in former trials. As they advanced with the rapidity and
steadiness of veterans, singing the _Kyrie eleison_, they seemed well
able to retrieve the fortunes of the day.
"Another triumph awaits us!" cried Otto; "let us trust in God!"
Without hesitating a moment, the gallant Saxon, with his wonted
impetuosity, fell upon the advancing lines, and, though stubbornly
resisted for a time, gained at last a complete victory. When the forces
of the Palatine of the Rhine had been driven across the Elster, Otto
turned to his soldiers, exclaiming:
"Now to the camp, and take the reward of your valor!"
In the meanwhile, the retreat of the Bohemians had turned into a
confused flight. Rodolph, in the eagerness of pursuit, had rashly
penetrated too far into the flying masses of the foe, who now turned
upon the pursuer. Awhile the white crest danced amid hostile helmets and
spears--then vanished.
"He is down!" screamed Gilbert, in agony, hewing his way toward the
king. Rodolph was alone against a host, while his horse sank up to his
knees in the marshy ground. Before succor could arrive, a sword had
cloven through the monarch's wrist, and his right hand fell to the
ground.
"It is the hand that I raised when swearing allegiance to Henry,"
muttered Rodolph, bitterly. With tears in his eyes, Gilbert struggled to
reach the king, who, unarmed and disabled, drove his steed against the
circle that hemmed him in. His crest was gone, and his armor hacked and
stained with blood: still fearlessly he bore up against his foes, and
seemed to rejoice in the unequal strife. The chivalry of Suabia were
spurring fast to the rescue, and Gilbert, now supported by a small band
of friends, was almost at his side, when Godfrey de Bouillon charged the
king with levelled lance. The steel, impelled by a powerful hand,
entered at the groin, and Rodolph, mortally wounded, fell to the ground.
The Bohemians uttered a cry of joy at the king's overthrow, for they
knew him well by his armor and actions. Their triumph was short-lived,
however, for the Suabians, eager to avenge their leader, gave no
quarter, and the victorious Saxons had attacked their rear.
"Stop not now!" said Rodolph to the nobles about him; and the lords of
Hapsburg, Tübingen, Achalm, Hers, and Stramen swept on to avenge him.
Gilbert remained rooted to the spot. His lance dropped from his hand as
he leaped from his horse and knelt beside his monarch. Already the
helmet had been removed by one who supported the dying hero in his arms.
From Gregory VII to Pius IX, from the Dominican that accompanied Cortez
to the Jesuit who followed a more recent conqueror, the Catholic
missionary had been found in the front of battle. It was Father Omehr
whose breast now pillowed the monarch's head. Gilbert's heart was almost
bursting as he pressed the only remaining hand to his lips and saw that
he was recognized. Feeling he could not long survive, Rodolph raised his
head and asked, in a dying voice, "Whose is the day?" "Yours, my lord,
yours!" replied those who were around him; for Gilbert, unable to speak,
did not attempt to answer, but continued to gaze on the eagle eye over
which the film of death was gathering fast.
"Yours, my lord, yours," repeated the mourners. At these words, Rodolph
fell back in the missionary's arms, saying, "Then I accept with joy the
end to which God has called me. Death no longer disturbs me, since it
brings victory with it." From this moment he was speechless; and with
his gaze earnestly bent upon his shield, that had been raised by a page,
and on which was blazoned a crowned lion sleeping upon the knees of the
Blessed Virgin, Rodolph of Suabia breathed his last. The calm face of
the dead was not paler than Gilbert, who, unmoved by the shout of
victory, watched the clay that had so lately been--a king.
While they bore the body to the royal pavilion, the pursuit was
continued with terrible effect. The Saxons remembered the losses they
had suffered five years before--the Suabians saw their desolated homes
and their expiring duke. The small remnant of Henry's army that escaped
the relentless sword and the equally fatal depths of the Elster, were
only reserved for a fate still more dreadful. After wandering about, a
prey to want and misery, they were now butchered by the peasantry of
Saxony and Thuringia, who, armed with hatchets and scythes, flew to
avenge upon the relic the wrongs they had suffered from the whole army.
Many of the fugitives plunged into the forests, preferring the slow
tooth of famine to the swifter stroke of steel. Others, concealing
themselves until the first gust of passion was over, besought the mercy
of the peasantry, who, at last moved with compassion or glutted with
slaughter, received them as fellow-beings, healed their wounds, and sent
them to their homes. Henry of Austria, with a suite little proportioned
to his rank, fled to Bohemia.
There was none of the exultation of victory in the allied camp that
night: each soldier seemed to feel that the conquest had been too dearly
won. Rodolph was not only beloved by the Suabians, who from their
cradles had experienced his bounty, his virtue, and justice, but he had
endeared himself to the Saxons by his affability, his wisdom, and his
valor. He had healed their private quarrels and humbled their public
enemies; he found them divided and feeble, he left them united and
vigorous. They regarded him as the savior of Saxony, and affectionately
styled him "_Pater patriæ_." Nor was the grief of the bishops and
priests less ardent and sincere, for they felt that a zealous and
dauntless defender of the Church had fallen.
The soldiers, scattered about in groups, slept little, but whispered to
each other, and fixed their eyes upon the torches that burned so
steadily in the royal pavilion. There was stretched, cold and stiff, the
victor of the day, his noble features rigid in death, while his barons
knelt weeping around the bier, and the Archbishop of Mayence recited
prayers for his soul. The night wore away, and when the morning broke
out cheerfully as though no care were in the world, Gilbert de Hers
still knelt beside the corpse of the king. No tears were in his eyes
then, and the expression of his face varied between deep thought and
deep grief. He might have remarked that the scorn had departed from
Henry of Stramen's lip; but he did not. His mind was occupied with
other things; and silent and sad, he would not leave his vigil beside
the dead.
Early in the morning of the sixteenth, the victorious army, sadder than
defeat could ever have made it, entered Merseburg. After the obsequies
had been performed with equal solemnity and magnificence, the body of
the king was deposited in the choir of the cathedral. A statue of gilt
bronze for many a year marked the tomb of Rodolph of Suabia.
On the same evening, when the soldiers were scattered through the town,
and the nobles had retired to such quarters as they could procure,
Gilbert de Hers sought out Father Omehr, and found him in an apartment
which the Archbishop of Mayence had obtained for the missionary.
Up to the day of his interview with Rodolph at Mayence, Gilbert's mind
had been wholly engrossed with the bright pictures which a vivid and
worldly fancy and a keen ambition to excel can always unfold to the eye
of youth. At times he remembered the night passed in the missionary's
humble dwelling, when Bertha's knife had confined him there, and he saw
again the crucifix and the sacristan. But this was only for a moment.
The image of the Lady Margaret was sure to enter and banish every other
feeling than that of deep love for her. But from the night of the
coronation, a change had fallen upon the youth, which Father Omehr's
keen eye had not failed to remark. He displayed no longer the same
thoughtless gayety or the same dreamy abstraction. He had reveries, it
is true, proceeding from the fear of losing the Lady Margaret, or the
hope of gaining her. The missionary had refrained from questioning the
young knight, nor did Gilbert reveal any secret to his venerable friend.
Whether he might have recovered his former levity can scarcely be
answered, but the death of Rodolph seemed to have extinguished it
forever. So great a change had this last incident wrought in him, that
it was not only evident to Father Omehr and Sir Albert, but all who knew
him were struck with his altered manner. They ascribed it to grief
alone, for they knew him to have been the monarch's favorite.
When the young noble and the old priest, whose love for each other had
steadily increased, had sat awhile in silence, the latter took his
companion by the hand, and, as the visit seemed to solicit the question,
said, in a tone evincing the interest of a parent: "My son, what ails
you?"
Then, for the first time, the violent and various feelings which had
been aroused in Gilbert's breast found a vent in tears. An hour almost
passed away before he could compose himself, and then he only said: "To
witness him struck down by death just as he had gained all for which he
lived--to see the fruit of thirty years' labor snatched from his lips
before he could taste it! O God, for what trifles are we toiling!"
It was difficult to recognize Gilbert de Hers in the pale, excited face
and trembling figure which, with clasped hands and eyes upturned,
uttered these meaning words.
Another hour passed, and the youth was kneeling at the missionary's
feet.
Midnight was tolled by the great bell of the cathedral, and Gilbert had
risen.
"My son," said Father Omehr, as they parted, "you have been taught to
despise the world--the next step is to love God!"
Otto of Nordheim and Welf of Bavaria had determined to keep their forces
together until apprised of Henry's further designs, and the allied
armies rested upon their arms at Merseburg. In the meantime Henry used
every artifice to raise another army; but such a panic had seized his
adherents, that they declared they would rather be swallowed up in the
earth than again encounter the Saxons. When Otto and Welf were thus
assured of Henry's immediate inability to injure them, they disbanded
the troops which had served them so gallantly. Much as the soldiers
longed to return to their homes, they did not part without some
reluctance. They had long toiled side by side in the same glorious
cause; they had shared the same dangers and the same pleasures. They had
slept and kept watch together. Reminiscences of hair-breadth escapes and
of mutual services had created friendships of no ordinary strength. For
many days the different troops could be seen evacuating the city under
their feudal chiefs, until at last scarce a soldier remained at
Merseburg.
It was about the first of November that the barons of Hers and Stramen
set out with the relics of their clans for their lordships in Suabia.
The face of Sandrit of Stramen was sterner than ever, and his son seemed
to have caught a portion of his severity. They rode along swiftly, and
whenever they spoke it was about the Lady Margaret. Father Omehr alone
preserved his equanimity, and even he was now unusually absent and
thoughtful. Nor was the retinue of Albert of Hers more cheerful. Sir
Albert's eyes were fixed on the ground in deep dejection; tears were
ever and anon springing into Humbert's eyes, and even the vassals behind
them were gloomy and dispirited. They were returning to a desolated
home, it is true; but, what was worse, they were returning without
Gilbert.
The Lady Margaret was still at Tübingen. With scarce more fervor did
Gregory VII uphold against the world the measures he deemed essential to
the liberty, unity, and purity of the Church, than did this young girl
pursue the object to which she had consecrated herself--the extinction
of the feud. Humble as were her aim and efforts, when contrasted with
the objects and exertions of the sainted Pontiff, she could still
imitate his piety and perseverance. The reader may have remarked the
changes in the Lady Margaret's character. She was naturally haughty and
impetuous, though generous and sincere. In spite of her piety, that
pride, so difficult to curb, would still break out. But these
infirmities had been zealously combated, until religion had triumphed
over the weakness of humanity. Still, for some time, the Lady Margaret
was unhappy, and accused herself of human love in seeking the
reconciliation, imputing the revolution in her feelings to a culpable
tenderness. But she soon discovered that vanity--that an aspiration
after the _consciousness_ of perfection rather than true
piety--occasioned her uneasiness. She no longer tormented herself with
dangerous mistrusts, but gave all she had to God, begging Him to purify
the gift and supply her mind with the dispositions to render the
offering acceptable. She had learned that most difficult lesson even to
the holy--to hope rather than despond in the conviction of unworthiness.
There was one other victory which the Lady Margaret had gained over
herself: she had suppressed an inclination to return the attachment of
Gilbert de Hers, which she clearly saw could only lead to unfortunate
results. It was the remembrance of this inclination that occasioned the
misgivings which she had at last obtained grace to disregard.
Such was the Lady Margaret at the time of the battle of Elster. She
frequently reverted to the challenge she had given the assailants of
Stramen Castle, and detected in that defiance a relic of her former
pride. It was the last spark.
She was now in daily expectation of her father and brother, and of one
almost equally dear--Father Omehr. Her walks were confined to a large
room adjoining her chamber, and thence along the corridor to the chapel.
Her evening exercise was to walk, supported by the Countess of Montfort,
to the altar of the Blessed Virgin, and observe the custom of her
earliest youth, by leaving there a bunch of flowers. She spent most of
the day in a cushioned chair--she was too weak to kneel long. She loved
to sit in the sunlight, holding the countess's hand in her own
attenuated fingers. Then she would speak of her father and brother, and
say that on the morrow they would surely be reunited. She never
mentioned sickness or pain; she saw her companion's tears falling fast
at times, but she would only wipe them away with a smile and an
embrace. As the sunbeams played upon her wasted features, fringing her
hair with gold, and encircling her with a brilliant halo, the countess
would turn away from the lovely vision to hide her emotion, and whisper
to herself: "This is a glimpse of the world beyond the grave!"