CHAPTER X
We need not mourn for thee, here laid to rest;
Earth is thy bed, and not thy grave; the skies
Are for thy soul the cradle and the nest.
There live!
TASSO.
Toward the close of November, on one of those bright warm days, when winter, as if in memory of the departed summer, puts by his blasts and snows, the Countess of Montfort was seated at the bedside of the Lady Margaret. The countess, though in the bloom of health and youth, was sad and tearful. The maiden, though her breath was short and difficult, wore a smile upon her lips. The shadow of death was on her sunken temples, and had touched her quivering nostril and waxen ear, through which the light came as through porcelain. Yet the eyes were closed, and the pale lips moved, and the wasted hands, embracing a crucifix, were joined in prayer. She could still beg God to heal the feud. How edifying, how beautiful, how sublime the spectacle!—sublimer than the deeds of heroes, the conceptions of poets, the aspirations of genius. What is Archimedes moving the world to the humblest Christian moving heaven by prayer!
In a corner of the room a small statue of the Immaculate Mother of God stood upon a pedestal. The marble figure breathed all that purity and simplicity so striking in the images which adorned the old Gothic cathedrals. The eyes of the maiden frequently rested upon it, and as often as sunset came, she would bid the countess place a bunch of flowers at its feet. Thus did she continue to the end of her life the pious custom of her infancy.
All was still in the darkened chamber, and the rich tapestry hung mournfully from the walls. The things of earth make the earthly heart ache in the presence of death. But how joyously the eye of faith kindled up, as it rested on the face of the meek sufferer!
The door opened softly, a light step entered, and a female servant whispered something to the countess. She started and looked suddenly at Margaret. The invalid had caught the whisper, low as it was. A slight tinge was visible on her cheek, as she pressed her white fingers to her breast and said, in a low tone:
"God be praised! It is my father! Bring him to me."
Is this dying girl his daughter! Is this attenuated form all that remains of his noble, his beautiful, his darling Margaret? Like a blasted pine, the stalwart warrior fell upon his knees, with a groan as if his heart had burst, and buried his face in the curtains. Henry, all tears and sobs, caught his sister's outstretched hand and held it to his heart, gazing in anguish at the ruin of his idol. Behind these knelt Father Omehr. For a moment the man triumphed over the Christian, and he too felt the thorn of grief in his throat. But when Margaret's calm eye rested on him, and her meek smile beamed out, he felt the rapture which is only known to the holy, when a soul is happily returning to the bosom whence it came.
"Let us thank God for having thus united us!" said the Lady Margaret, and they remained some minutes in silent prayer.
"Father!" whispered the invalid.
The broad chest was convulsed and the moan deepened, but that bent, crushed figure made no reply.
"Father!" she repeated, as her hand fell, in a caress, upon her parent's head.
Sir Sandrit, starting at her touch, looked up and seized the hand. A minute had changed his face, as if a year had been ravaging there: it was so furrowed, so haggard. He gazed but an instant at his daughter; then hid his face again, muttering but one word: "Margaret!"
"Father," said the maiden to Father Omehr, who now stood at her at her pillow, "is Albert of Hers at home?"
The missionary nodded.
"Let him know that Margaret of Stramen, on her death-bed, entreated him to fly here without a moment's delay."
Even the sound of that hated name produced no perceptible impression upon the heart-broken baron. The Count Montfort, who had just entered the room, suddenly exclaimed:
"I, myself, will deliver your message, my child, as quickly as horse can speed."
Margaret endeavored to thank him, but, exhausted by excitement and exertion, she fell back upon her pillow. The countess prudently led the unresisting father from the room, and despatched Henry to administer to his grief.
"I am changed," said Margaret to the missionary, as she recovered.
"God has changed you for Himself, my child," replied the old man, struggling with the weakness of human nature, for he had known and loved her from her infancy.
"I have hoped so, even in the recollection of my many sins, for His mercy is infinite. May He uphold and strengthen my father, and teach him to rejoice in the change he now deplores!"
The countess left the room, and once more the Lady Margaret opened her soul to her first confessor.
The baron knelt all night beside his dying child. He watched her broken slumbers, as if he feared each might be the last. A thousand sighs of anguish and affection were given and returned before another day began to dawn. How precious are the last hours of life! In our inability to lengthen them, we strive to gather into them more feeling and action than we could extract from as many years.
As the sun flashed out the Lady Margaret seemed animated with new strength. Her father trembled at the suggestion—what if she should recover! Thus hope feeds upon the wishes of the heart.
An hour before noon the Count Montfort, accompanied by Albert of Hers, entered the apartment. Sir Albert, obeying a look which the maiden gave him, advanced, and with much emotion pronounced the words, "My lady, I am here!"
Sir Sandrit had anticipated all; nor did his son manifest the least surprise. They both stood sorrowful and mute, nor did anger and disdain appear in the features with which they were so familiar. Albert of Hers saw, at a glance, the position in which he was placed.
"Father!" began the sinking girl—"father! let me die in the assurance of meeting you hereafter. In the name of Him before whom I am soon to appear, forgive this man!"
The struggle had already taken place in the baron's soul. When his heart was trampled in the dust, his pride was broken. The stubborn rock was smitten by the heaven-directed wand, and the waters of contrition gushed forth.
"You have conquered, my child," he murmured, kneeling and kissing her pale forehead.
"Not I, my father. God is the conqueror!"
It seemed as if her upward glance had rested upon something more than mortal, her face assumed an expression of such unearthly meaning. Sir Albert, too, knelt beside his ancient foe: he felt it impious to stand.
The maiden motioned to the countess, who raised and supported her in her arms and drew back the long hair which had partially covered the hollow cheeks. Without a word, but with an eloquence that must have charmed the attendant Angels as much as it entranced the mortals who witnessed it, she placed her father's hand into Sir Albert's right hand, while Henry took the left.
"Albert de Hers," said Sir Sandrit, as the tears coursed down his brown cheeks, "I freely forgive you and yours; and nevermore shall my hand be raised against you."
Henry repeated the words after his father.
"And I," said the Lord of Hers, "will forget the past: and I declare, here in the presence of dying innocence, that I am guiltless of your brother's blood!"
The Countess of Montfort sobbed aloud, and her husband made no effort to conceal his tears. Father Omehr, who had raised his hands to heaven in an ecstasy of gratitude, now exclaimed:
"Let me speak for one who is not here: Gilbert de Hers has long since forgiven those who were once his father's foes."
The object of her life was attained—the goal was reached—the victory was won. There lay the victor, supported in the arms of her friend. The victory was hers, for though heaven had won it, she had won heaven by prayer. What are earth's conquests to a victory like this! What the splendid overthrow of nations—what Thermopylæ, or Marathon, or Trafalgar to this triumph over long-nourished hatred! When does man appear in so magnificent an attitude as when, by fervent prayer and complete humility, he converts heaven into an agent by which his desires are accomplished!
Yet the dying victor felt no pride. Her heart was dissolved in gratitude: she knew her nothingness, and ascribed all to God. She spoke not, she wept not: even the wonted smile forsook her lips. She only felt the immensity of the goodness of God—she only bowed before this new manifestation of his power. The three knights, who looked up in her face, saw she was invoking a blessing upon them, and reverently bent their heads, as if in the feeling that the blessing was then descending.
Young girls clothed in white were noiselessly strewing with flowers the way by which the adorable Sacrament was to pass from the chapel to the chamber. The blessed candle, the emblem of the light of faith and of the heavenly mansions, was lit, and the maiden, unable to kneel, received the Sacred Body as she lay. Her eyes were closed, and, as if detached from all earthly things, she continued to murmur, almost inaudibly, passages from the Psalms and pious ejaculations. She raised her finger to trace upon her lips the sign of Christ, and then fell into her agony.
Three times the bell had tolled when the last absolution was given, and its solemn voice still sounded at regular intervals, mingling with the sublime words that bade the faint soul go forth from the world in the name of God the Father Almighty, who created it, in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God, who suffered for it, in the name of the Holy Spirit, which had been imparted to it: in the name of Angels and Archangels, in the name of Thrones and Dominations, in the name of Principalities and Powers, in the name of Cherubim and Seraphim, in the name of Patriarchs and Prophets, in the name of holy Apostles and Evangelists, in the name of holy martyrs and confessors, in the name of holy monks and hermits, in the name of holy virgins and all the Saints of God, that its rest that day might be in peace, and its habitation in holy Sion!
There was no struggle, no contortion, to mark the moment of dissolution. The face only grew more serene and less death-like, as the soul passed from its frail tenement.
The bells no longer swung slowly and solemnly, but poured forth a festive sound. And well might they peal more merrily then, than at birth, or marriage, or earthly conquest. Tears were falling fast around the bed; yet only the body wept—the soul was exulting.
On the morning of the third day after the Lady Margaret's death, a funeral procession could be seen slowly approaching, within sight of the ruins of Stramen Castle and the blackened Church of the Nativity. The peasantry, who were expecting it, had gone forth to meet the remains of their dearly loved lady, and rosy children were scattering flowers before the bier. They could not repress some tears and sighs for their benefactress, yet they knew it was for themselves they grieved, not for her they had lost. How they wondered at first—and how their wonder melted into joyous thanksgivings, to see the Lord of Hers supporting the now humble and contrite Baron of Stramen!
The mourners—if such they may be called—entered the grave-yard, which was near the church, and had not been violated by the sacrilegious marauders, and halted before a new-made grave. In those days, it was the peculiar privilege of bishops, abbots, and holy priests to be buried within the church, or only extended to laics of distinguished sanctity. Yet Father Omehr had assured the maiden that she might be interred in the choir at Tübingen. Margaret had declined a privilege of which she deemed herself unworthy, saying that she did not wish to be associated in sepulture with those from whom she was far separated in merit, and expressing a wish to be placed beside her mother. And they laid her, with prayers and unbidden tears, in the place she had chosen.
The gorgeous sun of ancient Suabia was beaming out in cloudless splendor, and the mountains and the Danube, the forest and the fields looked lovely in the glittering day; yet not one of those who stood around the grave would have said to the dead, "Awake!" if the word could have recalled her to share the beauty of the world before them. When the Count and Countess of Montfort saw that their longer presence would only impose a restraint upon the family group, they bade the missionary a silent adieu, and began to retrace their steps to Tübingen.
The cottage of the missionary was spared on account of its insignificance; and Father Omehr led the Lord of Hers and the father and son into his humble apartments, which had been zealously tended by his pious penitents. All was arranged just as he had left it, to his own bed and the corner where Gilbert had slept. There was nothing here to mark the scourge which had desolated the smiling country without. The Baron of Stramen sat down upon a bench, covering his face with his hands. Here, in the sight of his ruined castle, and with the funeral tears of his only daughter undried upon his cheeks, he was happier than he had been for many a year: happier than when carousing in his father's halls—happier than when proudly embracing his darling child—happier than when engaged in avenging his brother—happier than when exulting in the victories of Rodolph! And Henry, too, shared in this blessed change wrought by his sister's prayers. Each heart was too full for speech; words would have fallen meaningless and cold.
At this eloquent moment, a man, exhausted with running, and greatly agitated, abruptly entered the cottage. He checked himself, however, and stood as if petrified at the sight of the group before him. Father Omehr, who rightly judged that his rude intrusion must have been caused by no ordinary occurrence, rose, and in a whisper commanded him to explain himself.
"Bertha seems adying!" said the man.
"Where is she?" asked the priest.
"About a mile from here—I will take you there." The Baron of Stramen seemed not to listen, for he sat motionless; but his son manifested much interest.
"Shall I go with you?" he said to the missionary.
"No, my child, remain with your father."
Albert de Hers had started up at the peasant's announcement, and followed Father Omehr out of the apartment.
"Permit me," he said, "to accompany you; I feel that the call is intended for me too. This ring," he continued, holding up his finger, "was given me in my youth by Rodolph of Suabia; in a moment of folly and sin, I parted with it. After an interval of more than twenty years, it was restored to Rodolph by this Bertha, without a word of explanation. He gave it to me the night before his death"—here the baron paused an instant—"and informed me how and from whom he had received it. I resolved to seek out the woman on my return; for if she be the Bertha to whom I gave this ring, even in her madness she may throw light upon an event hitherto involved in mystery."
"You mean the death of Sir Sandrit's brother?"
"Yes."
"I see no reason to oppose your wish," said the missionary; "perhaps the mercy of God may choose to reveal what we vainly have endeavored to discover."
It was not known how Bertha had escaped from the castle on the fatal night when it was fired and its inmates put to the sword. Her insanity might have shielded her; or she might have availed herself of the confusion and darkness to elude observation, or extricated herself by some secret passage. A peasant thought he had seen her, by moonlight, walking along the moat of the castle, some days after the hostile army had disappeared; but his account was discredited until she appeared by daylight to the surviving vassals of Stramen, when they emerged from the forest in which they had taken refuge. At the time of the return of the soldiers of Stramen, she was much thinner and walked with difficulty, rarely issuing from her retreat in the ravine, to which she had again retired. On the morning of Margaret's funeral she could be seen, pale and haggard, tottering toward the grave-yard. The simple peasants recoiled before the ghastly figure, which, tall and trembling, with a black gown and death-white face, passed among them like a spectre. Before she reached the church she fell senseless to the ground. The humanity of those who observed her triumphed over their fears, and they bore her to a newly finished house hard by.
This was all the missionary could glean from his guide, as they walked swiftly toward the shed pointed out by the peasant.
They found her lying motionless upon a bed in a corner of the room. As they entered, she opened her eyes, and, after keenly scanning the Lord of Hers, raised herself with difficulty upon her arm. Father Omehr started. The wild light of insanity had left her eyes, and her glance, though firm and resolute, was gentle and natural.
"Do you know me, Bertha?" said the missionary, springing trembling to the bedside.
"Oh, yes," was the reply. "I have been in a long, wild dream!" and she passed her hand over her high, clammy forehead. "And I know you, Sir Albert of Hers, and I know that God has brought you here at this moment."
The stout warrior, who never quailed before any odds, and whose self-possession was as remarkable as his valor, quivered before the mournful gaze of that weak woman. The room seemed to reel, and he leaned against the wall for support.
"There is one other I must see—Sandrit of Stramen. Father, have him brought here now; there is not one moment to be lost."
The missionary whispered a few words to a youth who was present, and the stripling passed hurriedly out.
"Have you sent for him?" she inquired.
"Yes."
"Will he soon be here?"
"He is scarce a mile off."
"It is well," she continued, lifting up her large black eyes; "God has designed it all! And now," she resumed, after a brief pause, "we must be alone until the baron comes."
At a signal from the missionary, Albert of Hers and the wondering peasants silently withdrew.
The half hour that elapsed before Sir Sandrit's appearance, seemed like an age to the Baron of Hers, who in an agony of suspense paced up and down the clearing before the cottage. At last, however, the two noblemen and Henry of Stramen were admitted.
Bertha was sitting upright in bed, supported by Father Omehr, who beckoned to Henry to assist him. There were traces of recent tears upon her furrowed cheeks, and her form seemed to dilate as she gazed at the nobles before her.
"Listen to me, Baron of Stramen!" she began, looking full at the noble, in whom surprise was gaining a temporary mastery over grief; "listen, for it is God's mercy that permits me to speak and you to hear! Twenty years ago I was young and beautiful. I was loved by your brother and by him who stands at your side."
Albert de Hers turned pale as death, and drawing the ring from his finger, advanced a step, saying hoarsely, "Are you the Bertha to whom I gave this ring?"
She took the trinket in her hand, and after examining it over and over, replied:
"I am that Bertha. But how did you get this?"
"From the Duke Rodolph, to whom you gave it."
The woman knit her brows, as if struggling to recall some confused impression, and at length said: "Yes, I did give it to him; I remember now. Where is he?"
"In heaven, I trust," replied the Lord of Hers.
At the word heaven, the tears started in the eyes of the poor creature, and she hung her head. The silence was profound and painful. She was the first to break it.
"Interrupt me no more," she said, suppressing her emotion. "Hear me through. Robert of Stramen and Albert of Hers were rivals for my love, and they began to hate each other bitterly on my account. I loved neither, for I had promised to marry Albert of the Thorn, and I loved him as much as my vain heart was able to love anything. But I was weak enough to receive the presents they gave me for the sake of wearing the finery, and my lover was pleased, because we were poor. My Lord of Stramen, do you remember the day we brought you your brother's corpse?"
The baron shuddered.
"On that very morning—oh! how distinctly do I see it—I was sitting in the ravine, not far from my mother's house, when a wild boar pursued by hounds rushed madly by me. As I stood trembling, a horseman followed, dashing along at full speed. He reined up when he saw me. It was the Lord of Hers. He began to smile, and asked me to forgive him the fright he had given me, and, untying a scarf which he wore around his waist, threw it over my shoulders. Then he put this ring on my finger and galloped off, crying he must not miss the stand. This much you know, Albert of Hers, but you do not know what followed. Was it not as I have said?"
The noble nodded.
"O God, strengthen me to reveal all!" continued the now agitated woman. "I began to walk down the ravine, when I met Albert of the Thorn. I showed him my presents, and we sat down at the foot of a pile of steep rocks, beside a little spring. Albert was arranging the scarf about my neck, when Sir Robert of Stramen suddenly stood before us. His face was pale with rage, and his lips were all foaming. I screamed at his awful appearance. I knew well that he hated my betrothed, and had threatened his life if he married me. He snatched the scarf from my neck, and shaking it at me, said: 'I know very well from whom this came!' Then, turning upon Albert, he cried: 'And for you, who pretend to love her, to connive at his guilt! You shall pay for your baseness with your life!' He stopped here, as if rage had choked him, and drew his sword. Albert sprang quickly up the ledge of rocks, and Sir Robert followed. I saw Albert stoop, pick up a large fragment of rock, and hurl it—I saw Sir Robert fall, and then I grew sick and dizzy, and fainted. When I recovered, Albert was watching me, trembling and livid. I looked around, and there was Sir Robert, stretched out stiff and still and bloody. He had worn nothing but a light cap on his head, and the stone had made a fearful dent in his temple. I knelt beside him, and prayed, and chafed his hands, and brought water from the spring and poured it upon his face. I hoped he would come to life, even if he would only revive to kill me. It was all in vain. He grew cold: he was dead. Again I looked at Albert—he was shaking like a leaf. 'Bertha,' he said, 'I am a lost man! When Sir Sandrit knows this, I cease to live.' I saw his danger, which did not until then occur to me, and I lost my concern for the dead in my fears for him. I loved him better than anything in the world, and the devil, who knew my heart, suggested a scheme for his preservation. The scarf of the Lord of Hers, which bore some family device, was grasped in the dead man's hand, and I saw at once how strongly that circumstance implied the noble's guilt. I concealed the ring he had given me in my pocket. 'Come!' I said to Albert, 'let us take the body to Sir Sandrit, and tell him that we found it in a spot from which we had just seen the Lord of Hers depart.' He refused at first, and would not touch the body, but by argument and entreaty, I prevailed upon him to be guided by me.
"Sandrit of Stramen, you know the rest. You know that we swore to have seen the Lord of Hers ride away from the fatal spot just before we found the body. It was the fact; but my lover and I were perjured in the sight of God. I do not wish to lighten my crime before men, when it is written out so plainly against me before Angels. I was a perjured woman—perjured through love and fear. I heard you swear vengeance. I wept, but I was silent. I saw your fury and your wars. My heart bled, but I was silent. There was no rest, no sleep, no peace for me. It was not my husband's death that drove me mad. Oh, no! It was remorse. There were spectres all around me—I trembled before the innocent, fled before the guilty. The caresses of my child that died at my breast tortured me. I felt as though my breath had withered and defiled it. Every hour was full of misery—day and night there was a gnawing at my heart. At last my mind gave way, and the justice of heaven struck him with death and me with madness!"
Bertha paused an instant, quite exhausted, then again exerting herself, she said:
"I do not ask you to forgive me—but forgive each other."
"They have forgiven each other already," said Father Omehr. "They are friends."
"Friends?"
"The Lady Margaret reconciled them on her death-bed."
"The Lady Margaret dead!"
"She was buried this morning."
"Yes," said Bertha, "it was to her funeral I was going. Yes, she is dead—the beautiful, the young, the innocent—she has been praying for me in heaven."
At these words a smile beamed over her sharp features, and she sank gradually back in bed, lowered by Henry and the missionary.
The proud Lord of Hers was, in spirit, in sackcloth and ashes. He attributed the existence of the feud to his indiscretion and guilt, and reproached himself with all its pernicious consequences. He saw in the wreck before him the fruits of his sin; Bertha's misery and madness seemed wholly his own unhallowed work. The strong man shuddered at the consequences of his folly, and beat his breast, and wept like a child.
Sandrit of Stramen also accused himself of having caused the feud by his rash credulity, and driven Bertha to perjury and insanity by his impetuous and uncontrollable temper. For, he reasoned, had she reposed any confidence in his justice and charity, she would have told the truth.
Henry of Stramen saw that all his brilliant achievements against the family of Hers were only unjustifiable murders and robberies, and his haughty spirit was humbled and contrite.
Father Omehr saw their contrition, but he was entirely absorbed in the penitent Bertha.
Bertha lived three days after the revelation, constantly engaged in prayer and acts of contrition. Her profound sorrow affected and edified the missionary and all the neighborhood. On the third day she received the Viaticum, and expired in the arms of the Baron of Stramen, who, together with the Lord of Hers, had repeatedly assured her of their complete forgiveness. Her last words were: "I know she is praying for me in heaven."
She was buried, as she desired, near the Lady Margaret, with nothing but a rude wooden cross to mark her grave.
On the day after her burial, Father Omehr and the three nobles set out for the Castle of Hers. Humbert had already fitted up for his lord some rooms which had been only partially consumed, and Albert of Hers had prevailed upon the baron and his son to remain with him until they could find suitable lodgings at home. The reconciliation between the nobles was complete; and at sunrise the next day they could be seen kneeling together before the altar of the Pilgrim's Chapel, eating the Bread of Life. If the Angels rejoice at such a sight, how much greater must be the joy of the Saints!
But where was Gilbert, that he could not share in the blessed feast?
The Middle Ages abound in characters better entitled to our consideration and esteem than the classic magnates of Greece and Rome. There is not in pagan antiquity such a combination of virtue, constancy, fortitude, and valor as was presented in Matilda of Tuscany, "the heroine of the Middle Ages." She devoted herself to the cause of the Holy See as early as 1604, and her life was a series of sacrifices cheerfully made for the security of the Church. While wondering at her heroism, you love her for her charity, and revere her for her piety. Let Catholics read her life, and they will embalm her in their hearts. Her unvarnished actions are a nobler eulogy than even the unfading wreath flung by a master's hand on the grave of the martyred Marie Antoinette.
At the time of the battle of the Elster, this pious defender of the
Faith was sorely pressed by the Lombards, who sided with the emperor.
The imperial troops had gained a victory at Mantua, which revived the
drooping royal cause.
When Gilbert de Hers parted from his father and friends, he turned his horse's head to Matilda's camp. The partisans of the heroic princess took little notice of the nameless knight who came among them without follower or page, and whose shield was simply blazoned with an azure cross. He was silent and reserved, shrinking from observation and mirth, and either engaged in meditation or prayer.
The gloomy aspect of the future was also capable of furnishing the youth with sufficient food for reflection. The death of Rodolph spread consternation over Saxony and Suabia: both circles were crippled by internal dissensions, and unable to profit by their victory. Inspired by this, and by his rival's death, and encouraged by the attitude and successes of the Lombards, Henry meditated an invasion of Italy, and the conquest of Rome itself. He reorganized a powerful army, and penetrated Lombardy, leaving Frederick of Hohenstaufen to hold Suabia in check, while Saxony was convulsed by the rival schemes of Otto and Herman.
Never before had the Holy See seemed in such imminent danger. England and France looked coldly on, and the emperor of the East sympathized with his brother of Austria.
Gregory alone awaited the storm calm and fearless, relying upon the sacredness and justice of his cause, neither dismayed nor discouraged by the fickle course of human events. He deplored the spirit which arrayed itself against truth, but he found in the recollection of the trials of the Apostles and their successors abundant consolation for himself and his friends. Florence, Padua, Cremona, Milan had fallen before the Austrian invader. Lucca swelled the triumphs of the tyrant. Fortress after fortress was wrested from Matilda; Henry sat down before the gates of Rome at last, in the plains of Nero and opposite the fortress of St. Peter. Yet the sublime Pontiff displayed no symptom of uneasiness, though half of Europe was against him.
Gilbert's first impulse was to fly to Rome, but the approaches to the city were all in possession of the enemy. The noble Matilda could ill spare a good lance, and the Romans then displayed so much resolution and gallantry, that the German army was repulsed in every assault. To the young knight's heart, wounded by the siege of Rome and misfortunes of Matilda, the tidings of the reconciliation at home were like a sweet balsam. And though the blessed intelligence was blended with the account of the Lady Margaret's death, it was not the less welcome. Gilbert had long since ceased to regard the Lady Margaret with human love. He revered her as one sacred to heaven, upon whom death had already set the seal of eternity, and, far from weeping over her early grave, he exulted at her triumphant flight to the judgment-seat of God.
Two long years crept by, and the imperialists were still before Rome. Gilbert looked anxiously for succor to Suabia and Saxony, but the sudden death of Otto of Nordheim laid his hopes in the dust, and Henry, for the third time, invested the eternal city. Hitherto, the Romans, encouraged by the Pope, had made an heroic resistance, and the besiegers had suffered incredibly from their desperate sallies, as well as from the diseases that decimated them. But the fidelity of the citizens was beginning to totter beneath the protracted warfare, and many sighed for a period to their calamities. Henry failed not to profit by these dispositions, and poured in thirty thousand golden florins to inflame them.
The horizon grew darker and darker—the Pope more winning, more eloquent, more determined. Matilda did not fail him in this crisis. The knight of the azure cross had already won the confidence of the princess by his valor, his prudence, and his piety, and she now selected him as the instrument of her generosity. She pointed to a large amount of silver, saying that she intrusted him with the dangerous and difficult duty of conveying it to Gregory. Gilbert gladly accepted the perilous commission. He loaded a number of mules with the treasure, concealed beneath vegetables, and disguising himself as a peasant, took a guide and set out for Rome. During a dark and stormy night he contrived to pierce the hostile lines and enter the city by the Lateran gate.
Gilbert found the Pope seated in the midst of an assembly. He could at last feast his eyes upon the wonderful and sainted man whom he had all his life loved and venerated. When the Pontiff rose and spoke of the virtue and fortitude that ought to sustain them in this crisis, he seemed endowed with supernatural power, and moved all present to tears. It seemed as though his soul foreknew it was the last time his voice should be raised in defence of his grand and holy cause.
Another year passed by; the festival of Easter was approaching. Henry was meditating a return to Germany, when a deputation of the citizens arrived in his camp, offering to surrender the capital. The Lateran gate was opened, and the imperial army began to enter the city. The Roman soldiers, finding themselves betrayed, flew to arms, and Gilbert de Hers was once more contending with the warriors he had met at Fladenheim and the Elster. Godfrey de Bouillon fell wounded before the desperate resolution of the besieged, and as he was brought to his knee, vowed a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. But, outnumbered and confused, the defenders were driven into the citadel, and Henry, with his queen at his side, entered in triumph. The next day Guibert of Ravenna was installed in the Lateran palace in the See of St. Peter, and consecrated on the twenty-fourth of March, by the bishops of Modena and Arezzo. His first act was to crown King Henry in the Vatican. Gregory retired to the castle of San Angelo, and the giddy populace greeted the anti-pope with shouts of joy. A severe chastisement awaited their perfidy and inconstancy. Robert Guiscard was advancing with thirty thousand infantry and six thousand cavalry, and Henry fled before the redoubtable prince, whom he had provoked by an alliance with Alexis, the Emperor of the East. Abandoned by Henry, who had returned to Austria, the treacherous Romans barred their gates. Robert asked admission, but in vain; and his irritated soldiers forced their way at midnight through the Flaminian gate. The city was crimsoned with flame and sword. A body of Saracens formed part of the Norman's army, and their fury knew no bounds. From three points of the city the flames were streaming. Scarce could the Papal guards preserve a portion of the churches from pillage and destruction. St. Sylvester's and St. Lawrence were wrapped in fire, and the basilicas, from the quarter of Lateran to the Coliseum, were involved in the red ruin. For three days the conqueror raged like a lion in the capital of the Christian world. The frenzied people again attempted resistance, and again the streets ran with their blood. When, gorged with slaughter and booty, the ferocious conquerors had evacuated the city, Gregory and his attendants reentered Rome and occupied the Lateran palace. He lingered in the venal city only long enough to convoke a council and renew his anathemas against Henry and Guibert, and then retired to Monte Cassino.
Gilbert was not permitted to accompany the Pontiff to his retreat, but was dispatched to Matilda with an account of all that had occurred. He found the magnanimous princess threatened by an army more than treble her own. But she was undismayed and full of hope, meditating a bold enterprise that was crowned with success. In the dead of the night, when the imperialists, secure in their numerical superiority, were plunged in sleep, she led the remnants of her troops into the hostile camp. The sleepers awoke to the cry of "St. Peter! St. Peter!" and perished ere they could grasp their arms. The chivalry and nobility of Lombardy were well-nigh exterminated. In a few hours, corpses and tents alone remained of the hostile array. Why should not Sorbara be as magical a word as Thermopylæ? It would be, if the Christian chroniclers had shared the pride or shown the polish of Grecian historians, and if modern Christians felt a Grecian enthusiasm for the deeds of their Christian ancestors. Matilda differed from Leonidas but in one respect—in surviving the action and remaining victor on the field.
Some days after the battle, Gilbert was summoned into Matilda's presence.
"I owe you more," she said, "than I can ever repay. Your former voluntary services and fidelity are enhanced by your brilliant exploits in this last victory. Be pleased to style yourself Governor of Modena."
Gilbert advanced a step, and sinking upon one knee, replied:
"Madam, I came to share in your generous devotion to our common Father, and to assist you as best I could. You are now—thanks to your own valor—victorious and secure. I must decline your bounty, for from this moment I renounce the soldier. Here is my sword, madam; since Rome and you no longer require it, I shall not need it; nowhere would I more willingly resign it than thus at your feet."
As the morning dawned, Gilbert de Hers, accompanied by a troop of horse, set out for Monte Cassino.
Gregory had retired to Salerno, where he passed his days in the contemplation of heavenly things, and in reading the lives of the Saints and ecclesiastical history. Gilbert soon heard of his increasing weakness. The sun that had poured its light over the world, despite the mists and clouds of error and vice, was setting at last. How his dying words bespeak the Saint: "My best-loved friends, I count my labors nothing. That which gives me confidence is the consciousness of having loved justice and hated iniquity!" When his assistants, groaning in anguish, adverted to their desolate condition after his death, he raised his arms to heaven, exclaiming, "I will ascend there, and plead your cause before a God supremely good!"
On the twenty-fifth of May, 1085, were uttered those memorable words that smote the forehead of guilty Europe as if with a burning hand: "I have loved justice and hated iniquity—therefore I die in exile."
* * * * *
Years passed by. Peace smiled once more in the lordships of Hers and Stramen. A new dwelling had risen from the ashes of Stramen Castle. The Church of the Nativity was repaired, and again rose in beauty over the faithful who flocked there to worship. Yet there was a stranger priest at the altar, and often after Mass the people would gather around a marble slab just before the altar, on which was written:
"Credo quod Redemptor meus vivit."
This was the tomb of Father Omehr; his epitaph was written and treasured in the hearts of all who knew him, and, transmitted from sire to son, required no foreign chisel to deepen the impression upon the living tablet.
The Lords of Stramen and Hers were often together, and were beloved by their vassals for their uniform courtesy and charity. Their hairs were whitening, and when Sir Sandrit walked to the churchyard he leaned upon Henry's arm.
* * * * *
Years passed by. Henry IV, worn down by misfortune and the rebellion of his eldest son, for his own offspring held up the poisoned chalice to his lips, had followed his sainted antagonist to the eternal tribunal, and his body had been cast out as excommunicated from its sepulchre. The male line of the Franconian emperors had expired in Henry V; Lothaire of Saxony, a zealous champion of Rome, had been raised to the throne. Time was revealing that Gregory VII was triumphant even in death, for the right of investiture was conceded to the Pope, and the celibacy of the clergy strictly enforced.
The Lords of Stramen and Hers were sleeping with their fathers. The hill on which the Pilgrim's Chapel stood was no longer crowned with a castle, but with a monastery occupied by Benedictine monks. The whole lordship of Hers was blooming under their munificent administration. Humbert, whose long locks had now seen eighty winters, still lived at the foot of the hill, surrounded by a goodly number of stalwart sons and fair-haired daughters. And sometimes in the long winter evenings, when the fire sparkled brightly and the old man was garrulous with joy, he would tell how he once entered a hostile castle as a minnesinger with a noble lover, and how the knight defied the angry father. Yet he never revealed that this knight was the generous abbot who now supplied them with the means of innocent mirth, who ministered to all their wants, and whose life was so meek and blameless. For Gilbert de Hers was abbot in the cells that had once been the halls of his sires.
And one word, reader. It was not after the Lady Margaret's death that he embraced the resolution of dedicating himself to God, but on the battle-field of the Elster, and over the corpse of Rodolph of Suabia. He had proved his sincerity in the wars of Matilda, and when he quitted the princess for Monte Cassino, it was to assume the habit of the novice.
* * * * *
One bright afternoon in the fall of 1126, two aged men were walking arm-in-arm toward the Church of the Nativity. One was attired as a Benedictine, the other as a knight. They stopped at the church and before a cluster of tombs. On one of the slabs was carved a Greek cross with a single tear under it, and beneath the tear the words:
"O crux sancta adjuva nos."
It was the resting-place of the Lady Margaret, between the graves of her father and mother. The monk and the knight knelt down and prayed. As they rose, the bells of the church announced the close of day, and ushered in the TRUCE OF GOD.
With their bosoms heaving with recollections of the past, Gilbert of Hers and Henry of Stramen went into the church where fifty years before they had met in youth and enmity, and they knelt together beside the grave of Father Omehr, with their hearts full of tenderness and hope and love, while the sun of ancient Suabia was setting, and the bells poured forth their silvery peal.