CHAPTER IX
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!"