The truce of God: A tale of the eleventh century

by George H. Miles

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.