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."