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!"