Much to the surprise of Herman, his friend, though deeply moved by that beautiful effusion of Catholic piety, seemed not to give the entire attention which it so eminently deserved.

"Listen!" he said, repeating the lines. "What melody! what tenderness! what love! You certainly must feel its exalted piety?" he added, appealing to Father Omehr.

"I do, indeed; but you perceive that I am disturbed. In brief, then—for I could not bring myself to say until now—Anno of Cologne is dead."

Anno, Archbishop of Cologne, was revered throughout Europe in the eleventh century for his virtue and wisdom. It is said of him that, when others slept, he rose, filled with a holy zeal, and visited many churches, carrying with him his pious offerings. In the halls of kings, says the poet who celebrates his virtues, he sat with the haughtiness of the lion; in the hut of the peasant, he stood with the humility of a lamb. So obnoxious was he to the king, that Henry at one time assaulted him sword in hand; and he was only saved from death by the interposition of a monk. Alone, he founded five monasteries, including that of Siegberg, his favorite residence, where he died, and where his tomb was long pointed out to the traveller. He was said to have emitted a light, the splendor and beauty of which spread around like the lustre of a precious stone in a ring of gold.

"O God, the giver of all!" exclaimed Herman, after a pause, "in taking him to Thyself, do not leave us desolate!"

Father Omehr then described the fearful ulcers which had tormented Anno's body, and the celestial visions and brilliant apparitions that delighted his soul and foreshadowed the bliss awaiting him in the life to come.

"But let us not weep for him whose epitaph is in the mouths of the widow and the orphan, and whose soul is in the hand of God!" said the pious chaplain of Hers, grasping the hand of his friend.

"Not for him I weep," was the reply; "nor yet for the bereaved people of Cologne." The missionary paused, unable to proceed, and then hurriedly exclaimed, "Who is to be his successor? Who is to appoint him?—Gregory VII or Henry of Austria!"

"He will not dare!" ejaculated the other, who not until this moment clearly understood his more keen-sighted friend.

"He who has dared to fill the sees of Liege and Milan may not scruple to dishonor the see of Cologne! But let us pray and hope; for suffer what we may, we cannot be conquered."

This long interview was here terminated by the bell of the Benedictine, summoning to dinner. The Baron of Hers was noted for his fine person and his polished address, and saluted them with even more than his usual politeness as they entered the dining-room. He was the only one of the group who seemed at ease; for the two missionaries could not forget the death of Anno—and Gilbert, from some cause or other, had lost his sprightliness.

"I fear," said the knight to Father Omehr, "that you have half made a traitor of Gilbert, for he will no longer let me abuse my friends at Stramen, but sides with them against me. It is hard to fight our battles all alone, and against our friends, after forty."

"The Lady Margaret, who dressed his wound, must be blamed—not I," replied the priest.

The handsome face of the Baron of Hers, in an instant, became black as night, and as quickly recovered its former mildness; but the change, apparently, was not noticed by him who had caused it.

"I have heard," resumed the knight, in a careless tone, "that the young lady possesses much virtue, intelligence, and beauty, and is wise enough to prefer the cloister to the court."

"You have not been misinformed; yet her health is so feeble, that the grave will probably anticipate her choice of either."

It was not until the close of the meal that the Lord of Hers was informed of the death of the Archbishop of Cologne, and from that time until they rose the conversation turned wholly upon the venerated and saintly prelate.

Toward sunset they descended the hill and walked along the picturesque banks of the lake. The noble sheet of water stretched away to the south far as the eye could reach, burnished by the sun, and forming part of the horizon.

"This lake of ours," said the baron, "has obtained a reputation which the best man cannot expect—and, indeed, would not desire: no one has ever breathed a word against it."

"There is a boat!" interposed Gilbert, pointing to a speck in the distance, which his father discovered after a long search, and was invisible to their two older companions. They stood in the shadow of some trees, and watched the object as it increased in size and gradually assumed the undeniable outline of a boat. It came from the direction of Zurich, and pointed directly to the castle. As it neared, they could distinguish four stout rowers and a person seated in the stern. With increased speed it seemed—for it was now within hailing distance—the boat darted straight to where they were standing; and, before it was made fast, the gentleman in the stern sprang ashore, and, removing the cloak in which he had been enveloped, discovered the princely features of Rodolph, Duke of Suabia. Rodolph was descended from the counts of Hapsburg, on the father's side—and, on the mother's, from the illustrious family of Otto the Great. He was styled King of Arles, and resided for the most part at Zurich. He was connected with Henry of Austria by a double tie, Matilda, his first wife, having been the sister of the king, and Adelaide, to whom he was then married, being the sister of the queen. But, though thus allied to Henry, he neither loved nor respected him. Once, indeed, the emperor had summoned him to court, on the charge of entertaining projects hostile to the house of Franconia, but Rodolph, well knowing the treacherous character of the monarch, and always a hero, boldly refused, preferring the fortune of arms to the fate of an investigation. Subsequently, filled with horror at the impiety of the Saxons in burning the Cathedral at Hartzburg, hallowed by numerous relics, and filled with the rich offerings of the faithful, he had united with Henry to chastise their sacrilege. At the battle of Hohenburg, in the van—the privilege of Suabia—he distinguished himself above all others by his impetuous valor, and only left the field when covered with wounds. Rodolph was equally remarkable for the size and beauty of his person, and the elevation of his soul. The Teutonic antiquities contain many songs of the Minnesingers, in which he is invested with all the qualities of mind and heart and body that can adorn the knight; but one fault is imputed to him—ambition. His subjects almost worshipped him, and his power is said to have been built upon their hearts. So conspicuous was he among his brother dukes, that, at the Diet of Gerstungen, in 1073, he had been offered the imperial crown, but he declined it unless awarded by the unanimous suffrages of the confederation.

Between him and the Baron of Hers a close friendship of long standing had existed, which had been interrupted by the baron's refusal to accompany him the preceding year in the expedition against Saxony. This refusal had been dictated by the knight's invincible repugnance to Henry, and by the politic move of conciliating all who opposed the emperor. Since the battle of Hohenburg they had not met.

After receiving the formal salutation due to his rank, Rodolph cordially embraced the Lord of Hers, and extended his regards to Gilbert, who could not sufficiently admire the hero of Hohenburg.

"But for your father's obstinacy," he said to the youth, "you would now be a knight. But I will see you win your spurs yet."

The greetings over, they all began to ascend the hill. The duke would not pass the chapel without entering. The pavement upon which they knelt had been worked with many a rich and curious device; but time and the knees of the faithful had worn away most of the finest tracery. At the foot of one of the columns still remained this fragment of an inscription:

Hoc pavimentum ... feci ... ductus amore Dei.

This was the spot upon which the duke loved to kneel. Before rising, he drew from under his robe a golden chalice, and gave it to Herman, who was beside him. The priest took it and carried it to the sanctuary.

"I would almost give the decade of Jura," exclaimed Rodolph, as he approached the castle gate, "to know who made that superb pavement."

"It resembles more the pavement of a cathedral than the simple floor of a chapel," said Father Omehr. "I wish we had such an one to our little church at Stramen."

"Trust that to your successor," replied the duke; "you have given him the walls, the pillars, the windows, and the roof, and are well entitled to a pavement and alabaster altar at his hands."

They were now at the gate, into which were cut two niches containing statutes of SS. Victor and Apollinaris. The bars, which yielded to every stranger and to every peasant, flew open before the high-born group, and the almoner, as he recognized the duke, bent his knee in reverence. They mounted a heavy flight of stairs, and, traversing an arched gallery, were ushered into the principal hall. This large room was hung with solemn tapestry, reaching from the ceiling to the floor. The characteristic piety of these ages displayed itself in the beautiful recesses in the walls, adapted to the reception of holy water, and in the devices upon the floor and ceiling, which always conveyed some pious meaning. The walls were covered with paintings chiefly relating to the exploits of the lords of Hers, or filled up with heraldic blazonry.

In the cathedral or in the castle, in the monastery or in the chapel, durability was the principal object of the architect. It is true that the genius of the age contrived to combine the greatest strength with the greatest elegance; but durability was the great end. The pious men of the Middle Ages did not erect mere shells, which, though sufficient for their own brief lives, would crumble over their posterity; but looked to the wants of future generations. And, then, there was a reliance upon posterity which is neither felt nor warranted now. Thus, in the minor Church of the Nativity in the lordship of Stramen, which had been designed by Father Omehr, and which had exhausted the revenues of the barony, the missionary had conceived it upon a scale to which his present means were insufficient, but to which the charity of another generation would be adequate. This was always the case with the cathedrals. Even the castles themselves had so many rooms set apart for recluses and wanderers, that it was easy to convert them into monasteries; and the Castle of Hers, with very little alteration, would have made an excellent convent.

Rodolph was about to throw himself into one of the large high-back chairs of state; but yielding a graceful respect to the aged priests, he motioned them to be seated, and placed himself between them.

"You are rather pale, my lord duke, from your wounds," said the baron, as an attendant entered with some wine-cups—"and I beg you to accept from my son a draught of the vintage you used to relish."

Rodolph received the goblet from the youth, and replied, as he raised it to his lips, "How I missed you at Hohenburg!"

"I would have given my lordship," returned the baron, "to have seen you outstripping all the chivalry of Austria, and charging where none dared to follow!"

"My fair cousin, the Margrave Udo, would have atoned for the thrust at my face, which made me see more stars than were ever created, had you been at my side."

"But to aid you was to assist Henry; and I was loth to break our league with Saxony."

"That league was merely defensive, and they broke it by aggression and sacrilege."

"But we could not punish their crime without strengthening the power of that greater criminal, the emperor."

"You acted uncharitably," said the duke; "but you judged aright, and I have forgiven you."

"For which; my liege," replied the baron, "I cannot be too grateful."

"Listen," continued the King of Arles, "ye true pastors of the Church of God, and you, Albert of Hers, that Henry of Austria has nominated a successor to Anno of Cologne!"

At this announcement Herman and the knight sprang to their feet, while their looks expressed their horror and surprise. But Father Omehr kept his seat, and said calmly:

"Will your highness inform us more fully?"

The duke resumed: "A messenger, post haste from Goslar, brought me the news this morning at Zurich. Henry refused to meet the Pope in council to take measures for the purification of Milan, Firmano, and Spoleto, and has thus replied to the threat of excommunication. The nominee is Hidolph, who is attached to his own chapel, a man of no merit whatever, but devoted to the emperor; and whose principal endeavor it has been to remedy by art the unprepossessing exterior which nature has given him."

"I know him," said Father Omehr. "Is he yet consecrated?"

"No! All Germany is indignant at the choice, and the people of Cologne are imploring the monarch to make another appointment."

"It will serve but to confirm the nomination," said the priest of Stramen.

"What remains to His Holiness?" inquired Rodolph.

Slowly and solemnly the missionary pronounced the single word:

"Excommunication!"

"Henry is preparing for it!" exclaimed the duke, rising and addressing the Lord of Hers; "he convened at Goslar all who respected his summons—among whom was the Duke of Bohemia: and he has liberated Otto of Nordheim, my adversary at Hohenburg, and received him into his most secret councils. It must come, my friend," he added, grasping the baron's hand; "we shall not be separated here; and, if I mistake not, we have in Gilbert one who is not to be awed by the lion of Franconia!"

Father Omehr beheld with sorrow the meaning glances of the proud nobles, as they eagerly joined hands; and he read in the animated features of the hero of Hohenburg that the impending excommunication would be the signal for a revolt. He rose, and, exchanging a few words in an undertone with Herman, explained the necessity he was under of returning at once to the Castle of Stramen.

"I will accompany you," said the duke, "if you will delay your departure a few minutes."

Father Omehr expressed his assent, and retired to the chapel with Herman, leaving the two knights in close converse. Gilbert ran to order the best horse for the duke, and to see that his venerable benefactor should want nothing to carry him safely over the intervening hills. After exchanging many kind adieus, Rodolph and the missionary, near the close of twilight, started for the Castle of Stramen.



CHAPTER IV

...Simonis leprosam Execrate haeresim, Sacerdotum simul atque Scelus adulterii, Laicorum dominatus Cedat ab ecclesiis.

ST. PETER DAMIAN.

The King of Arles and the missionary rode along without an escort, and felt none of the fears that the traveller of the times is often made to entertain for his personal safety. They did not apprehend any violence, and their only preparation for the expedition had been a recommendation to God through Our Lady and the Saints. It is as purely imaginative in historians and novelists—and it is difficult indeed to distinguish the one from the other—to surround every castle with a wall of banditti, as to station in Catholic countries of the present day, a robber or an assassin behind every tree. In the Middle Ages, the stranger could wander from castle to castle with as little danger as the nature of the country permitted; even in times of war, the blind, the young, the sick, and the clergy were privileged from outrage, though found on hostile territory. And in war, peace, or truce, the pilgrim's shallop was a passport through Christendom; he was under the special protection of the Pope, and to thwart his pious designs was to incur excommunication. Even amid the terrors of invasion, the laborer was free to pursue his occupation, and his flocks and his herds were secure from molestation; for it was beneath the dignity of the man-at-arms to trample upon the person or property of the poor unarmed peasant. Such were the principles recognized even in the eleventh century; and though we witness frequent departures from these admirable provisions, we must be careful not to mistake the exception for the rule, or to impute to the spirit of the age a violence and contempt of authority common to all times, and found alike in Norman and Frank, American and Mexican. To balance these infringements of regular warfare or "blessed peace," we often meet with instances as beautiful as the march of Duke Louis, the husband of St. Elizabeth, into Franconia, in 1225, to obtain reparation for injuries inflicted on a peddler.

"I hope the Baron of Stramen has lost none of his vigor," said the duke; "we were together at Hohenburg, and I may need him at my side again. His son Henry, too, whom I knighted before the battle, and who won his spurs so nobly, how is he?"

"They were both well," replied Father Omehr, "when I saw them last, and were anxiously expecting a visit from their liege."

"And the Lady Margaret, from whom not a knight can boast a token, though all are striving to obtain one?"

"She has not altered since you saw her," answered the priest; "she was always rather frail, but I do not see that she grows weaker."

"You cannot imagine," interposed Rodolph, "how much it grieves me to be unable to reconcile these two families whom I so dearly love, and who, in the camp or in the chamber, have proved themselves so devotedly attached to me. I cannot even ask of one in the hearing of the other, without giving offence or receiving a bitter answer. In all things else, they are obedient as this horse to his rein; but the moment I speak of reconciliation, the stubborn neck is arched, and will not relax either for threats or entreaties."

"Your grief cannot equal mine," returned the missionary, "and I confess, that without the hope of obtaining assistance from heaven, I should despair of ever softening the determined animosity of the Baron of Stramen. The Lord of Hers, perhaps, might be induced to throw enmity aside, if his adversary relented; but he cannot be persuaded to sue for peace, especially when his supplication might be unavailing."

"I cannot believe," continued the duke, "that my friend of Hers could have killed Robert of Stramen, since he most positively denies it. It is true that their relations were anything but amicable, yet Albert of Hers would scorn to take a knight at a disadvantage, and would not attempt to conceal the result of a mortal struggle. If Robert of Stramen fell by his hand, it must have been in fair combat; and if in a fair tilt, there is no motive for concealment."

"But the circumstances are strong enough to amount to conviction in an angry brother's eyes. A woman, who has since lost her mind, named Bertha, her father, and her husband, all swore to have seen Sir Albert ride away from the spot a short time before the body was found; and the scarf of the Lord of Hers was clutched convulsively in the dead man's hand. The wound upon the head resembled that produced by hurling a mace, and was of such a character that the head could not have been protected by any steel piece. I do not consider this conclusive against the Lord of Hers, or even incapable of explanation; but real and unequivocal guilt itself could not justify the untiring malignity of the Baron of Stramen. His brother's soul would be much better honored by his prayers, than by imprecations and the clash of steel; we cannot avenge the dead, for their bodies are dust, and their souls absorbed in things eternal; and Sandrit de Stramen is but making his brother's misfortune the occasion of his own temporal, and perhaps eternal injury. I wish, indeed, this criminal work of vengeance could be stopped."

"Yes," replied the duke, "they had better husband their energies, for if I read the future aright, Suabia will have need of every nerve."

Rodolph paused here; and as his companion did not reply, they rode on in silence.

"I have a plan," exclaimed the duke, with singular vivacity. "But tell me first, has that young Gilbert seen the Lady Margaret?"

In reply the missionary briefly narrated the events of which the reader is already in possession. "Then," pursued the King of Arles, eagerly, "I have strong hopes of success. Listen to me, holy Father: the maiden is beautiful and virtuous, the youth fair and knightly, and I can so represent one to the other, as to create an attachment strong enough to insure to filial love a victory over parental hate. It is fair, I think, to employ the bodily graces of these young persons against the mental deformity of their parents—to array the child against the father, when we seek the triumph of innocence over sin."

"Your highness is inclined to be romantic," rejoined the priest.

"Only the circumstances are romantic, and they seem to have shaped themselves; my plan is practical enough. Tell me—what think you of it?"

"Briefly, then, I think your project impracticable."

"Impracticable! You cannot know, Father, all that love and youth will dare; but I, whose earthly life has given me experience in such matters, have seen the impossibilities of sober minds yield to the irresistible energy of two plighted hearts. Oh, no; it is not impracticable."

"I will grant you," replied the missionary, "that these two young persons might be brought to love each other, that they might marry in spite of family opposition, but the result would make your romance a tragedy."

"How so?" inquired the duke. "May we not deem without impiety that God, in His mercy, has designed them for the extirpation of this miserable feud, and has drawn out of the stern parents themselves the instruments by which their hearts may be softened?"

"It is impossible," said Father Omehr, "for us to discover by any human means what the mercy of God may appoint; all we can do is to ask for light to guide our steps, and to exercise the reason with which He has endowed us. I have good ground to believe that any approach to tenderness, on the part of the children, would widen the breach between the fathers. And were such the case, the consummation of your plan would give only a new and horrible feature to the present discord, by severing the bond between child and parent. For, unless I am much deceived, the lords of Hers and Stramen would turn away in disgust from children whom they would consider, not only to have disobeyed them, but to have proved faithless to their race. In this view, I can not suppose that heaven indicates the path to final reconciliation through fresh dissension. The hearts of the parents can not be softened in the way your highness proposed, and that must be the first step in your plan. Besides, I have little confidence in the agency of a human and selfish love to reach an end that ought to be gained by purer motives. I have discovered, from observation, what the power you spoke of will dare; I know its greatness and its littleness."

"I must tax my ingenuity for a more auspicious scheme," resumed Rodolph of Suabia, "for I begin to be distrustful of my first. I was a little romantic, I confess; but it is thus we give the rein to some solitary impulse of youth, lingering, like a firebrand, among our more matured resolves."

They had ridden slowly, and were now on the brink of the ravine, three miles from the Castle of Stramen. The waning moon and the bright starlight showed them a white figure standing in the road, a few paces from the mouth of the gorge.

"Who is that before us?" asked the noble.

"Bertha, the poor crazy woman, who swore to the presence of the Lord of Hers at the spot where Robert de Stramen was found," whispered the priest, and he advanced to where she stood.

"I heard your horse's hoofs, Father," she said, "and I came to get your blessing."

"And you shall have it, Bertha," he answered, extending his hands over her head. "Good night," he added, seeing that she did not move.

"Who is this you have brought us?" continued the woman, pointing to the duke.

"That," replied Father Omehr, "is Rodolph, Duke of Suabia, and King of Arles."

Bertha approached the duke, knelt down, and kissed his hand. She then walked slowly up the ravine.

"A singular being," exclaimed the duke, as they gave their horses the spur, for it was growing late. "I have not seen any one thus afflicted for many years, and it is always a painful sight."

The two horsemen were now at the church, but they passed it and kept on to the castle; and hearty was the welcome of the noble duke to the halls of Stramen castle. Sir Sandrit's eyes gleamed with delight as he saluted his liege; Henry's cheek flushed with pleasure when Rodolph, the flower of German chivalry, spoke of his youthful prowess at Hohenburg; the Lady Margaret loved the duke for the praises he heaped upon her brother. Nor were the domestics gazing idly on; but kept gliding to and fro, and hurrying here and there until the genial board was spread, and the fish, fresh from the Danube, smoked, and the goblet gleamed.

As it was near midnight when they sat down, Father Omehr felt at liberty to leave the room without ceremony. The Lady Margaret stayed no longer than courtesy demanded, when she rose and retired to her chamber. This young lady had always been noted for her piety and her charities to the poor, whose wants she was sure to discover and supply. Under the skilful and fervent training of Father Omehr, she had learned to repress a spirit, perhaps naturally quick and imperious, and to practise on every occasion a humility very difficult to haughty natures. There was even some austerity in her devotion; for she would subject herself to rigorous fasts and to weary vigils, and deny herself the luxuries that her father delighted in procuring for her, little dreaming that they were secretly dispensed to the sick of the neighborhood. She never failed to hear Mass, unless prevented by sickness or some other controlling cause, but every morning laid a bunch of fresh and fragrant flowers upon the altar of our Blessed Mother. And who shall say that the sweet lilies of the field, the roses and the violets, colored with the hues of the dawn, and freshened in the dew of the twilight, when offered and consecrated by the homage of an innocent heart, are not grateful to her whose purity they typify! Yet there was a lurking family pride in Margaret's heart that she could not entirely eradicate, and a sleeping antipathy to the house of Hers that at times betrayed itself to her watchful self-examination. The reader must not imagine that, when she told the missionary at Gilbert's bedside that had the youth fallen in battle she perhaps would rejoice, she actually desired such an event. She spoke to one who knew her better. She felt this antipathy, but did not know its extent; and, with the humility of virtue, she feared that, although engaged in an act of charity, there might be the fiend of revenge at the bottom of her soul. Margaret de Stramen was not blind to her imperfections, and she did not hesitate to impute to herself an inclination to the un-Christian hate so cherished by her family. But she endeavored to overcome it by prayer, by the Sacraments, by penance, and by pondering the splendid example of Jesus of Nazareth.

The Lady Margaret was not one of those fair and fanciful creations, endowed with such exquisite sensibilities as to perceive and return the admiration of a young knight-errant with whom she had been associated by any romantic circumstance. Nor was her disposition of that impulsive kind which will permit the impression of a moment to overthrow the prejudices of years. But to her joy and surprise, she found that, far from rejoicing at Gilbert's misfortune, she had regretted it; and regretted it, not merely because it might stigmatize the fair name of Stramen, but also in obedience to an elevated generosity that sickened, ungratified, at the sight of obtained revenge. She had been almost constrained to render assistance to the youth; and there are some who think the sting of a favor worse than the fang of an injury, and are more disposed to forgive after having benefited. With the facility peculiar to a gifted woman, she had read in Gilbert's face the ingenuousness and goodness of his heart, and though she did not ascribe to him any exalted qualities, she admitted that it was not easy to believe him guilty of cruelty or meanness. In a word, the sympathies of the woman were now arrayed against family pride and family prejudice, and a trial still more dangerous and severe awaited her piety and resolution.

In the morning, after hearing Mass, she found the duke and her father in close conversation, while her brother was busily preparing for some important event. It was soon evident that Rodolph was about to depart, and that Henry was to accompany him; for the grooms led to the door two handsome and stalwart steeds, richly caparisoned, and four mounted men-at-arms rode up and halted upon the terrace, where they waited motionless as statues of steel.

When their private conference was over, the duke advanced, and took the Lady Margaret by the hand. "I am selfish enough," he said, "to deprive you of your brother for a few weeks, to assist me by his counsel, and protect me by his arm, should it be necessary, in a little adventure we have resolved to undertake."

"I am too true to you, my lord," replied Margaret, "to desire my brother's society when you request his assistance. Were I a young knight, I should esteem it no light favor to march—no matter where—as an escort to Rodolph, Duke of Suabia."

"And I, fair maiden," returned the duke, "could wander to the end of the world with such a companion."

"I hope you may not find Henry so agreeable as to carry you so far, for I expect to welcome you back in a week."

"If I consulted my pleasure," said Rodolph, "I should not be absent a day, but my duty may detain me a month. I will not offer an apology for so long a stay, because I fear that before sunset you will have ceased to think of me, or remember me only in connection with your brother."

"A noble duke," replied the lady, "whose name is heard wherever the minstrel tunes his harp, whose word was never plighted in vain, whose sword was never stained in an unrighteous cause, whose arm and purse are ever at the command of the poor and persecuted, whose courage and clemency, wisdom and piety, so well entitle him to the love of all his people, is not so easily forgotten."

"I assure you, on my honor," exclaimed Rodolph, "that I value your words more than all the songs of all the minstrels I ever heard. I would I were worthy your praise; but you have inspired me to deserve it. Farewell! I see that Henry is impatient, and we must not lose the early morning."

He bade adieu to the baron and his daughter, and turned to mount his horse, when Bertha touched his arm, and placed in his hand something enveloped in silk. Bertha said not one word, but she looked earnestly up in Rodolph's face, and then walked away as swiftly and silently as she came. The duke could not help remarking the wild beauty of her pale and wasted face, and remained some moments gazing after her with a painful interest. He removed the silk and found that it contained a ring garnished with a stone of rare value. He started as his eye fell upon the trinket, for he remembered that years ago he had given it to the Lord of Hers. How could it have come into Bertha's possession, was the question that naturally occurred to him; but the answer came not so readily as the question. While the duke was thus pondering, Henry had embraced his father and sister, and leaped upon his horse. Rodolph mounted slowly, after examining the girths with his own hand; and the little troop, waving a parting salute, swept over the drawbridge, and were soon lost among the trees.

About the same hour, or a little earlier, the Lord of Hers, with a small retinue, had set out in an opposite direction, but on the same mission. Rodolph had long seen that King Henry's unprincipled ambition threatened the liberties of religion and of Austria, and he only paused for the Papal excommunication to throw off all allegiance to a monarch who could not be safely trusted. That excommunication was impending, and, as may be easily conjectured, the duke was making a rapid circuit of his dominions, to unite his barons more closely to his interests; to warn them to prepare for the approaching struggle; to confirm the weak and wavering in their fidelity; inspire the resolves of those who were true and firm, and make all the pulses of the circle of Suabia throb in concert to the action of one grand moving power. To gain time, the Lord of Hers had been despatched to the provinces bordering upon the Rhine with letters from Rodolph to the principal barons there, while the duke himself, with Henry of Stramen, followed the Danube.

For many months there had been no active warfare between the hostile houses, though the feud had lost none of its venom. But age was stiffening the impetuosity of the old barons; and their sons, no longer urged on by the battle-cry of their sires, listened with more attention to the advice and representations of their spiritual instructors. Gilbert of Hers was not inclined to take an injury to his breast, and hug it there; but the bold and frequent incursions of Henry of Stramen had induced him to retaliate rather in a spirit of rivalry than of revenge. Henry of Stramen inherited all his father's implacability, but he had often yielded to his sister's solicitation to dedicate to the chase the day he had devoted to a descent upon the lordship of Hers. The troubled condition of Germany had also diverted the chiefs from the disputes of their firesides to the civil wars of the empire; and neither the Lord of Hers nor the Baron of Stramen gave much attention to aught else than the league that Rodolph was forming against Henry IV of the house of Franconia.

Gilbert, left almost without a companion—for the good priest Herman, whose time was divided between his pastoral duties, his prayers, and his studies, saw him but at intervals—found time to hang very heavily upon his hands. He thought the old reaper weary and sluggish, for the scythe flies fast only when we employ or enjoy the moments. The autumn blast was beginning to lend a thousand bright colors to the trees, and the giddy leaves, like giddy mortals, threw off their simple green for the gaudy livery that was but a prelude to their fall—for the beauty that, like the dying note of the swan, was but the beauty of death. It was the season of all others for the chase, that health-giving but dangerous pastime, which our ancestors pursued with almost incredible eagerness, hunting the stag or the boar, over hill and dale, bog and jungle, through every twist and turn, as their Anglo-Saxon descendants now pursue the flying dollar.

But Gilbert often declined the invitation of the forester to fly the falcon, rarely indulging in his favorite amusement. He preferred to wander along the borders of the magnificent Lake of Constance, or to loiter among the neighboring hills, and watch, from some bare peak, the broad-winged vulture sailing slowly and steadily through the skies. He would watch it until it became a mere speck in the blue distance: we may often catch ourselves gazing after receding objects as though they were bearing away a thought we had fixed upon them. His wound was nearly well, and the freshness of health was again in his cheeks; but his spirit had lost a part of its sprightliness, and he seemed to have grown older. He did not evince his former relish for the manuscripts of Herman, but his visits to the chapel were more frequent and lasted longer. Thus, day after day, he would study the lake, the clouds, and the cliffs, neither fearing an attack from the men of Stramen, nor meditating one against them.

We shall leave him in his inactivity, to trace the progress of events which form one of the most important and exciting periods in history.

Rodolph was not a moment too soon in concentrating his power; for Henry IV, flushed with his recent victory over the Saxons, had called at Goslar a diet of the princes of the empire, under the pretext of deciding, in their presence, the fate of their Saxon prisoners. Only a small minority of the princes obeyed the summons; but the real object of the king became evident when he made them swear to exalt, upon his own death, Conrad his son, a minor, to the throne. In the meantime, the news of the nomination of Hidolph, as successor to the sainted Anno, had spread to Rome. The Pope beheld with profound sorrow the obstinacy and ambition of the king. Henry was not to be driven from his purpose by the universal contempt this nomination excited, and he replied to the repeated remonstrances of the citizens of Cologne, that they must content themselves with Hidolph or with a vacant see. And his firmness triumphed over the popular indignation; for Hidolph was invested by the king with the crozier and the ring, and finally consecrated Archbishop of Cologne.

But his victory was not complete. He had yet to cope with an adversary more formidable than popular opposition; one who would not yield to temporal tyranny the watch-towers and guardian rights of spiritual liberty. That adversary was Gregory VII. Already the tremendous threat had issued: "Appear at Rome on a given day to answer the charges against you, or you shall be excommunicated and cast from the body of the Church." But the infatuated monarch, too proud to recede, hurried on by his impetuous arrogance, and by the unprincipled favorites and corrupt prelates who shared his bounty, loaded the Papal legates with scorn and contumely, and drove them from his presence.

He did not even wait for the sentence of excommunication to fall, that now hung by a hair above his head, but began the attack, as if resolved to have the advantage of the first blow. Couriers were despatched to every part of the empire, with commands to all the prelates and nobles upon whom he could rely, to assemble at Worms, where he promised to meet them without fail. Twenty-four bishops and a great number of laymen hastened to obey the summons. The conventicle sat three days, and the following charges were formally preferred against the Pope: "That he had by force extracted a solemn oath from the clergy not to adhere to the king, nor to favor or obey any other Pope than himself; that he had falsely interpreted the Scriptures; that he had excommunicated the king without legal or canonical examination, and without the consent of the cardinals; that he had conspired against the life of the king; that, in spite of the remonstrances of his cardinals, he had cast the Body and Blood of our Lord into the flames; that he had arrogated to himself the gift of prophecy; that he had connived at an attempted assassination of the king; that he had condemned and executed three men without a judgment or an admission of their guilt; that he kept constantly about his person a book of magic."

So palpably absurd and false were these charges that three of the assembled prelates refused to sign an instrument for the deposition of a pontiff, so little conforming to the ancient discipline, and unsupported by witnesses worthy of belief. Nor were Henry's machinations confined to Germany, but he ransacked Lombardy and the marches of Ancona for bishops to sign these articles of condemnation, and even aspired to infect Rome itself by presents and specious promises. But the golden ass could not then leap the walls of Christian Rome.

Gregory's principal accuser was the Cardinal Hugues le Blanc, whom he had previously excommunicated. This ambitious man rose in the council and taunted the Pope with his low extraction, at the same time charging him with crimes that were proved to be the offspring of calumny and error. He produced a forged letter, purporting to come in the name of the archbishops, bishops, and cardinals, from the senate and people of Rome, inveighing against the Pope, and clamoring for the election of another head of the Church. Encouraged by imperial patronage, and stimulated by a desire to rid himself of disgrace by sullying the hands that had branded him, the excommunicated cardinal did not hesitate to call the Pope a heretic, an adulterer, a sanguinary beast of prey. The emperor himself knew Gregory too well to believe such a tissue of absurdity; but he hoped to find others more credulous than himself.

Upon the accusations already specified, and the invectives of Hugues le Blanc, the assemblage of prelates at Worms resolve upon the deposition of Gregory VII. It is then that Henry steps forth, as the life and soul of the conventicle, armed with its decree, and addresses an insulting letter to the Pope, inscribed "Henry, king by the grace of God, to Hildebrand." In this letter, the decree of the conventicle is lost in the insolence of the king. "I," is the language of the missive, "I have followed their advice, because it seemed to me just. I refuse to acknowledge you Pope, and in the capacity of patron of Rome command you to vacate the Holy See." Can the most jaundiced eye, can the man who learned, even in his boyhood, to loathe the name of Hildebrand, read these expressions without confessing that the king was the aggressor, and that if the Christian Church had a right to expect protection from its appointed head, Gregory VII was called upon to vindicate the majesty and liberty of religion so grossly outraged in his person? Surely it will not be asserted at this day that the head of the State, by virtue of his temporal power, should be the head of the Church; or does that beautiful logic still exist, which denied an absolute spiritual supremacy in the successor of St. Peter, yet admitted it as an incidental prerogative to the crown of England? But we have yet to see the last act of this attempted deposition.

A clerk of Parma, named Roland, was charged with the delivery of this letter, and the decrees of the conventicle of Worms. A synod had been convoked in the Church of Lateran, and the Pope, surrounded by his bishops, occupied a chair elevated above the rest. Roland's mission had been kept a profound secret, and, when he appeared before the conclave, not a prelate there could guess his purpose. They had not heard the voice that had gone forth from Worms. But they did not long remain in suspense. Turning to the Pope, the envoy thus began "The king, my master, and all the ultramontane and Italian bishops, command you to resign, at once, the throne of St. Peter and the government of the Roman Church, which you have usurped; for you cannot justly claim so exalted a dignity without the approbation of the bishops and the confirmation of the emperor!" Then addressing the clergy, he thus continued: "My brothers, it is my duty to inform you, that you must appear before the king at the approaching festival of Pentecost, to receive a Pope from his hand; for the tiara is now worn, not by a Pope, but by a devouring wolf!"

Receive a Pope from the king! receive from Caesar what he must usurp to bestow! Had Gregory flinched, the independence of the Church would have been sacrificed, and her acknowledged inability to cope with royal vices would have permitted every European monarch to change his queen with his courtiers. Henry IV would have had his successor to Bertha; Philip Augustus his Agnes de Meranie; and Henry VIII his Cranmer and his scaffold without one moment's opposition.

But no sooner had Roland pronounced those last words, than the Bishop of Porto leaped from his chair, and cried out: "Seize him!" The prefect and nobles of Rome and the soldiers drew their swords, and, in their sudden fury, would have killed the audacious envoy, had not Gregory, repeating his magnanimity to Cencius, covered the clerk with his own body, and by his calmness and eloquence controlled the indignation and disgust of his too zealous friends.

"My friends!" he said, with all the dignity of human greatness, elevated and purified by the most exalted piety, "disturb not the peace of the Church. Behold the dangerous times, of which the Scripture speaks, are come, when men shall be lovers of themselves, covetous, haughty, and disobedient to parents. We cannot escape these scandals; and God has said that He has sent us like sheep in the midst of wolves. It is necessary for us then to combine the innocence of the dove with the prudence of the serpent. Now, when the precursor of Antichrist erects himself against the Church, he must find us innocent and prudent; these dispositions constitute wisdom. We must hate no one, but bear with the madmen who would violate the law of God. Remember that God, descending a second time among men, proclaims aloud: 'He who would follow me must forsake himself!' We have lived in peace long enough, and God wishes that the harvest should again be moistened with the blood of His Saints. Let us prepare for martyrdom, if it shall be needed, for the law of God, and resolve that nothing shall sever us from the charity of Jesus Christ."

The synod, in breathless interest, listened to the holy Pontiff, who then proceeded with wonderful composure to read the charges that had been preferred against him. Among Roland's letters was another signed, "Henry, king not by usurpation, but by the grace of God, to Hildebrand, false monk and anti-pope." This was couched, if possible, in language more insulting than the former. One sentence will show the temper of the document, and prove that the king was struggling to build up a monarchy of divine rights and appointment. "A true Pope, Saint Leo, says, Fear God! honor the king! But as you do not fear God, neither do you honor me whom He has appointed king." Can any expression more clearly indicate that Henry of Austria had resolved to crush a Pontiff who stood between him and unquestioned despotism, and that he aimed at a heaven- commissioned temporal power, often conceded, it is true, but never by Catholicity. The letter concludes with these words: "I, Henry, king by the grace of God, warn you, with all our bishops: descend! descend!"

When the Pope had finished reading the invectives of Henry and those who were weak enough to second his ambition, so great was the exasperation of the synod, that he adjourned it to meet the next day. When the morrow came, in the presence of one hundred and ten bishops, he recited his former indulgence to Henry, his paternal remonstrances, and his repeated proofs of love and goodness. The whole assembly rose in a body, and implored him to anathematize a perjured prince, an oppressor, and a tyrant, declaring that they would never abandon the Pope, and that they were ready to die in his defence. It was then that Gregory VII rose and pronounced, amid the unanimous acclamations of the synod, the sentence of excommunication against the emperor.

Thus went forth this awful thunderbolt for the first time against a crowned head. A dissolute and ambitious monarch had called upon the successor of St. Peter to yield up the keys, and lay the tiara at the feet of the lion of Austria, because that successor had declared an invincible determination to preserve the purity of the Church and its liberties, at the sacrifice of life itself. The tyrant struck in anger, and the Pontiff, incapable of yielding, gave the blow at last; for the temple of religion was insulted and invaded.

It is easy, when calmly seated at a winter's fireside, to charge Gregory VII with an undue assumption of temporal power. But he who will study the critical position of Europe during the eleventh century, must bow down in reverence before the mighty mind of him who seized the moment to proclaim amid the storm the independence of the Christian Church. Was not this resistance to Henry expedient? Yes! And to one who knows that the Church was the lever by which the world was raised from barbarism to civilization, and will confess, with Guizot, that without a visible head, Christianity would have perished in the shock that convulsed Europe to its centre, the truth is revealed, as it was to the master mind of Gregory, that had he pursued any other course, peace and unity, as far as human eye extends, would have perished with the compromised liberty of the Church of Rome. Let us rejoice, then, that this sainted Pontiff hurled against the Austrian tyrant the anathema on which was written—"The independence of the Church of God shall be sustained, though the thrones of princes crumble around her, or though her ministers are driven to seal their fidelity with death."



CHAPTER V

Fierce he broke forth: "And darest thou then To beard the lion in his den? The Douglas in his hall? And hopest thou hence unscathed to got No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms!—ho! warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall!"

MARMION

For three weeks the Lady Margaret had expected the duke and her brother; for three weeks Gilbert had impatiently awaited his father's return.

Toward the close of September, a group of young children might be seen clustering around an old man, at the edge of the forest, within a stone's throw of the Church of the Nativity. They were listening eagerly and delightedly to the patriarch they had surrounded, in whom we recognize Father Omehr. The faces of the infant band were bright with innocence and that happy alchemy which turns the merest toy to a costly treasure. There was a tender piety on the features of those children that moved the heart. Devotion lies upon the face of youth with a peculiar fitness. As we see it dwelling in that unsullied abode, we remember how the cheek of the Madonna is pressed against the infant in her arms. Their instructor seemed to have caught a portion of their light-heartedness. Sad recollections and gloomy anticipations were forgotten. The throes of the empire and dangers of the Church intruded not; for a moment, the aged missionary felt the elasticity of childhood, and, as his heart was as pure, his face became as bright as theirs.

"Perhaps you have thought, my children," the priest was saying, while his hand rested lightly upon the head of the nearest boy, "perhaps you have thought at times, that had you been little children at Jerusalem when our Saviour entered the city in triumph, and the people went forth to meet Him with palm-branches, you too would have run to welcome Him, and laid fruits and pretty flowers at His feet. Perhaps you have thought that you would have offered Him some refreshing drink as He tottered under His cross up the hill of Calvary; that you would have embraced Him and wept most piteously when He fainted away in agony. How delightful would it have been to receive a smile from your suffering Lord! You have still the very same opportunity, my children, you would have had at Jerusalem. You can still run to meet your Redeemer! He loves the flowers of a pure heart better than those which make the green fields as beautiful as the blue sky with its stars; and He values the tears we shed for our sins more than the pain we should have felt to see Him suffer. Still continue to bring the fruits and flowers of piety and obedience to your parents to Jesus, and you will be permitted to wait upon Him in heaven for all eternity.

"Go, now, and play! And when the bell rings, come quietly to the church."

Not until his little flock had dispersed did Father Omehr perceive that the Lady Margaret was standing almost at his side.

The Lady Margaret has changed since we saw her return the parting salute of Rodolph and Henry. Her cheek has grown brighter, but her brow is smoother and paler. Her face is sweeter than ever, though still more melancholy. It may have been the balminess of the afternoon, solicitude for her brother's return, or a transient feeling, that controlled the expression of the maiden's face, but it seemed to have still less of earth in its exquisite proportions, and her eye was softer and deeper.

It was Monday afternoon; and on this day every week, the missionary instructed the children of the neighborhood and prepared them for Communion. There still remained an hour before the time for evening service, and Father Omehr proposed to the Lady Margaret a walk along the shady avenue at the border of the forest. Disengaging herself from the children, who loved her and were clustering about her, she readily assented.

"Father," began the maiden, as they walked together, "when may we expect the duke?"

"Before long, I hope," replied the missionary; "the conventicle at Worms will decide at once which of his barons are for and which against him. I should not be surprised to see them returning at any moment."

"Are they in no danger from ill-disposed chieftains?" asked the lady.

"The duke will pass through a friendly country, and is too much loved and feared to be assailed in his own dominions. Your father, I presume, is not anxious about their safety?"

"Oh, no! He talks as if they were invulnerable."

"At least," returned the priest, "you should rest content with praying for them, and not distress yourself with idle fears."

A pause of some minutes ensued here, during which Margaret's mind seemed actively and painfully employed. She broke the silence by exclaiming, in a low but earnest tone:

"I have always been too much influenced by idle fears—my whole life has been a tissue of timidity."

"Do not accuse yourself unjustly, my child," said her companion; "we must beware, even in reproaching ourselves, that we do not despise the favors of God, and lose the grace of perseverance in virtue."

The fair girl was again silent, but she suddenly exclaimed, with much emotion:

"Year after year I felt a strong impulse to join the convent at Cologne, founded by the sainted Anno, but was withheld by a fear of my own weakness; I resolved to seek the cloister and forget the garb and customs of the world, but I feared that I might thus confirm my father in his indifference to religion and my brother in his antipathy to the house of Hers. The months kept gliding by, and still I was irresolute. I have prayed, with all the ardor I could command, for light to see my vocation; and if God have mercifully granted it, I wilfully remain blind. This self-made uncertainty and irresolution cost me many a pang; nor have I even the merit of patiently and cheerfully enduring what they inflict."

Margaret was violently agitated as she spoke, but was not entirely subdued by her excited heart, though more than one big tear went down her cheeks.

"Margaret!" said her venerable companion, stopping short and speaking so impressively that the maiden looked up through her tears.

"Margaret!" he repeated, as their eyes met, "you have done much to soften your father's anger and your brother's impetuosity, and your mediation has perhaps endeared you to heaven—but you can do more! Devote your life to the extinction of the feud between the houses of Stramen and Hers—look to the duty that stares you in the face, and fulfil that vocation before you seek another! Make peace between these houses the first object of your prayers, and the aim of all your efforts, and God will soon determine whether the cloister or the castle requires your presence in the accomplishment of your noble end!"

As Father Omehr concluded, the Lady Margaret, yielding to the impulse she had till then controlled, wept like a child. Yet it was not deeper dejection that made her sob as though her heart would break, but rather a sense of relief, and a sweet consolation that banished all spiritual dryness. Her instructor had often before suggested her obligation to consecrate herself to the task of healing the feud; but never had he so solemnly warned her, and never had she seen her duty so clearly.

"Be calm, my child," continued the missionary; "you can compose yourself in the church, while I prepare for the service. Prostrate yourself before the infinite majesty and goodness of God, and invoke His assistance, with a determination to accept with resignation whatever trial He may send. And forget not to supplicate the intercession of the Blessed Mary. Open your heart to her; beg her to discover and obtain its pious wants. She whom Jesus obeyed on earth, will not ask in vain in His eternal kingdom: God, who made her the medium of salvation to man while she remained a poor Jewish virgin, cannot deem her unworthy of being the channel of His choicest graces to us, now that she stands beatified in heaven!"

The Lady Margaret passed into the church and knelt before the altar. There she remained until the psalms were sung and the evening hymn was over. When she rose, her face was calm, and even joyous. There was no exultation in her look, but it was full of meek serenity. As she left the church, she met Father Omehr. She greeted him with a smile that told what a load was taken off her heart. There was gratitude, esteem, and a holy joy in that smile—it was full of tender and indescribable sweetness—it was an expression of the happiness and purity of her soul.

It was not the bright smile of youth, or the warm smile of affection; it had none of the witchery of woman, but much of the devotion of the Saint: beautiful as she was, and still more beautiful as it made her, it suggested the Creator, not the creature.

"We shall expect you to-night, Father," she said, pausing but a moment.

Father Omehr nodded, and dismissed the children, who had come for a parting blessing, while the maiden turned her palfrey toward the castle. She rode swiftly, for dark clouds were climbing up the knew the extent of his infatuation, he was revolving the feasibility of revealing his attachment. At last he had determined to embrace the first chance of declaring a love now past concealment.

At the same time that the Lady Margaret was speeding to Stramen Castle, Gilbert was standing on the top of a steep hill that rose abruptly some distance to the north of that on which the towers of his fathers were built. He found a pleasure in surveying the majestic masses of thick dark clouds, that slowly overspread the West and swallowed up the sun. There seemed to be a mysterious sympathy between him and the angry elements, or perhaps he felt flattered to find the deep thunder and arrowy lightning less potent than the feelings within his bosom. He laughed at the coming storm, while the eagle flew by with a shriek, and the cattle sought any casual shelter. But, as he was not ambitious of becoming thoroughly wet, he sprang down the hill when the big drops began to fall, and entered a neat cottage situated in the opening of a rich valley, that swept from the hills toward the lake.

"What! alone, Humbert?" said the youth. "Your wife and children are not out in this storm, I hope?"

"They are praying in the next room," replied the man, sinking his voice.

Gilbert turned to the window; but the rain was now pouring down in torrents, and he could discern nothing but the lightning. Humbert was a favorite with the Lord of Hers. He played upon the harp with more than common skill, and could personate the regular minnesinger to perfection. His stock of ballads was inexhaustible, and some of his original songs might well compare with his borrowed lore. Besides this, he was a daring huntsman, an expert falconer, and a trusty follower.

"Humbert!" exclaimed the youth, in a searching whisper, "would you like to play the minnesinger in this storm?"

The retainer smiled and replied, "Yes, if I were a bull, and could bellow the lay."

But Gilbert answered, without relaxing a muscle, "You will not be called upon to play until you can be heard."

"Then we might as well wait until to-morrow," said the other, with great sangfroid, looking over Gilbert's shoulder at the rain.

"But understand me!" muttered the youth, rather sternly; "I am in earnest! Will your harp weather this storm?"

"Yes," returned Humbert, still playfully, "if we loosen its strings: I have a water-proof case for it. But I have no water-proof case for myself; and being compelled to brace my nerves for the encounter, they will be apt to snap."

"You incorrigible trifler, can you disguise yourself as well now, as when you palmed yourself upon us all for the minstrel Guigo?"

"Certainly."

"And can you array me as your harpbearer, and alter this face and form of mine?"

"With much more ease than I can play the minstrel in this storm."

"Then do it at once," said Gilbert.

"My lord!"

"Yes!"

"Where?"

"Here!"

"When?"

"Now!"

Humbert eyed the young noble with a comic surprise.

"Had we not better wait until the rain abates?"

"It is abating now," replied Gilbert.

It was true: the first frenzy of the storm was over, and there was coming a pause in its wild career.

"There!" resumed the youth; "you can ride to the castle and bring two good horses before it begins again. Quick! I shall wait here."

"You had better wait upstairs, out of sight," suggested Humbert.

"You are right."

"This way, my lord;" and, followed by his retainer, the young noble ascended to a room that might have been called Humbert's studio. The latter, descending at once, called his wife, exchanged a few words with her, the import of which was to keep herself invisible, and, accustomed to a ready obedience, he leaped upon his horse and spurred for the castle. The distance was not greater than half a league, yet to Gilbert he was absent an age.

It was quite dark before Humbert had completed the disguises to his satisfaction. His own was a masterpiece in its way. He assumed a grace and a lightness that might well become a minstrel of no ordinary degree. The character of his face was completely changed, and was reduced, by means of long flaxen curls and other artificial additions, from frank manliness to almost feminine delicacy. The Lord of Hers himself could not have recognized his son in the drooping, swarthy, gypsy-looking figure that stood beside Humbert. Gilbert's head was enveloped in something like a cowl, and his whole figure was muffled up in a coarse brown cloak. Thus attired, he was to play the part of a Bohemian harp-bearer.

The moment the finishing touches were put, the impatient youth hurried the more cautious yeoman to the saddle. The rain had ceased to fall, but the sky was still overcast and threatening. Though the moon was more than half full, they had barely light enough to justify the rapid pace at which the noble led the way. It was a little out of character for the minnesinger to carry his own instrument when a harp-bearer was so near at hand. But Humbert knew how to sling the harp across his back, and Gilbert, a mere novice in the art, would have found the burden excessively embarrassing. Gilbert pressed forward without opening his lips or looking behind, until they had entered the lordship of Stramen. Humbert, respecting the humors of his superior, followed just as silently. But he began to grow anxious as they kept advancing, and he could not repress an exclamation of surprise as Gilbert halted on the brink of the ravine we have described before, within a league of the castle. They led their horses down into the gully and tied them to two stout trees.

"Give me the harp!" exclaimed the youth, commanding rather than entreating. Humbert surrendered the instrument without a word, and they emerged from the ravine. They walked on, side by side, still in silence; for Gilbert's mind was wrought up to the highest pitch, and held too thrilling communion with itself to notice his companion, except at brief intervals. But when they came within full view of the dim turrets of Stramen Castle, and the youth kept steadily advancing toward them, Humbert stopped short, and perceiving that Gilbert still advanced, he made bold to stay the rash stripling by touching his arm.

Gilbert started and stood still; then said, with cold contempt: "Do you flinch?"

"From what?" inquired the other, calmly.

"From that mass of stone."

"What have we to do with that?"

"Enter it before an hour."

"And die before an hour," replied Humbert.

"Or live," said Gilbert, rather to himself than to his attendant, and resuming his rapid advance.

Humbert stood awhile, rooted to the ground, in mute amazement at his lord's inexplicable behavior. But every moment was precious. He sprang forward, and again seizing Gilbert's arm, he threw himself on his knees.

"My dear lord!" he exclaimed, "I conjure you in the name of your father to desist from this madness, and to return! You are rushing upon certain destruction! You are flinging away your life! Remember it is Monday! The arm of our blessed mother, the Church, cannot protect you to-day! My wife and my children will be left without a father, and the lordship of Hers without an heir!" Here the honest yeoman burst into tears, but the youth's determination was taken. He disengaged himself from his follower's grasp, and said, resolutely, but kindly:

"Return!"

"And leave you to perish alone?" cried Humbert, springing to his feet. "No, no! I am no craven! And why should I return? To be reproached with having seduced my lord into danger, and then basely deserted him? If you advance, I go with you, though I cannot guess your object, or justify your seeming madness. But I implore you to remember your duty as a son and as a Christian, and not to take a step that will make your enemies exult and your friends tear their hair in sorrow!"

For a moment the noble stood irresolute; but the next instant he seized Humbert's hand with a vice-like grip, and whispered in his ear, "I must see the Lady Margaret!"

Without waiting for a reply, Gilbert strode forward. Before the drawbridge was gained, Humbert had recovered himself, and was prepared to put forth all his daring and skill to extricate themselves from the consequences of this perilous adventure.

"Ho! warder!" he cried, in a confident tone, "a minnesinger—Ailred of Zurich—and his harp-bearer, wet and fasting. Shelter in the name of God!"

Down came the drawbridge, and the portcullis rose and fell, leaving them on the other side of the moat, surrounded by the men of Stramen. They were conducted with much respect to a comfortable room in the castle, and the arrival announced to the Lord Sandrit de Stramen. The baron, who had heard of Ailred's rising fame, was delighted with the intelligence, and invited the minstrel to his principal hall. Humbert encased his harp, and having tuned it, delivered it to Gilbert. Then, with scrupulous care, having re-examined his costume, he ascended a flight of stairs, escorted by a serf, and ordered Gilbert to follow. They were ushered into a spacious room, hung with armor and broidered tapestry.

By a blazing fire were seated the baron and Father Omehr, and some paces behind them stood several attendants. Sir Sandrit rose and saluted the minstrel with much courtesy, and bade him warm himself at the genial hearth. Humbert received the baron's congratulations without embarrassment, and pledged his health in a brimming bowl. While the minnesinger and the noble were exchanging compliments, Gilbert kept a respectful distance, supporting the harp. He feared to look at the missionary, who sat, evidently little concerned about Ailred of Zurrich, wrapped in meditation. His heart had grown cold when, on entering the room, as he glanced around, he missed the Lady Margaret. Was she sick? Was the prophecy to be so swiftly consummated? He maintained his position unnoticed, save by the domestic who offered him wine, until the diligent seneschal had spread a long table, which soon presented a most tempting appearance. Venison, boar's flesh, fish, fowl, pastries of various kinds, and generous bowls of wine, proclaimed the hospitality of the proud baron. Father Omehr blessed the board, but declined participating in the repast.

Sir Sandrit forced the troubadour to sit at his side, while Gilbert occupied a seat at the lower end of the table, among the dependents of the house; for the arrival of a minstrel was one of those momentous occasions when the lord of the fee welcomed his retainers to his own board, and extended equal favor and protection to the highest and the lowest. Humbert's animation increased as the sumptuous meal progressed, while his naturally brilliant qualities, and a remarkable fund of wit and anecdote, so fascinated the baron that he was wholly absorbed in the charming Ailred. Gilbert sat silent and watchful, eating just enough to avoid observation. When the banquet was drawing to a close, the Lady Margaret entered the room, and glided to a seat beside the priest. The blood rushed to Gilbert's face with such a burning thrill, that he bent his head to hide his confusion. He trembled in the violence of his smothered emotion. It was some minutes before he dared to look up. Her face was exposed to his gaze, and he could see every feature distinctly. She was still the same—ay, more than the same—she was lovelier than ever. Regardless of discovery, he fixed his eyes upon the apparition that had haunted him so long, and was only recalled to a sense of his position by a loud call from the baron for the harp.

As he carried the instrument to the spot indicated by Ailred, the baron presented the minstrel to his daughter. Humbert behaved with becoming reverence. He took his station a few feet from the table, between Sir Sandrit and his daughter, and began to prelude with decision and great sweetness. Gilbert stood behind him, with his back to the baron and his face to the Lady Margaret. Humbert, emboldened by his reception, and perhaps inspirited by the wine, sounded the chords with admirable effect; and when the expectation of the audience was at the highest, he introduced a beautiful ballad, and raising his voice, sang the praises of Rodolph of Suabia. The baron and all his followers were listening intently to the minstrel, as, with a heaving breast and flashing eye, he recited the glory of Suabia and of her majestic duke. Even Father Omehr was carried away by the excited Humbert. But Gilbert's eyes and soul were riveted upon the Lady Margaret. What was the strain to him? he heard it not. The violent hopes and fears that had alternately shaken him, had given way to a silent rapture; the unnatural tension of his nerves was relaxed, and in spite of all his efforts, the tears gleamed in his eyes. When the lay was over, the room resounded with loud praises, and the baron threw a chain of gold around the minstrel's neck.

At this moment Margaret encountered Gilbert's eyes; she reddened with anger at first, but almost instantaneously became pale as death. Gilbert saw that he was recognized—he bent his head upon his breast, and prepared for the worst. But so completely had Humbert engrossed all eyes, that the maiden's agitation was not observed. She had penetrated the youth's disguise, and the discovery stunned her. She was bewildered, and could not determine what course to pursue. Humbert sounded his harp again, and began a wild romance. Concealing her agitation, she endeavored during the song to collect her thoughts. What embarrassed her most, was to divine whether Gilbert's purpose in his mad visit were hostile or merely a piece of bravado. But she resolved to take no step without mature reflection. She was deliberating whether she could communicate her secret to Father Omehr, without so surprising him as to excite remark, when he rose and left the room.

The Lady Margaret was detained to hear some verses improvised to herself, which she rewarded with a slight token; she then withdrew, without raising her eyes to Gilbert. After she had disappeared, the baron dismissed the guests and retained the minstrel. Seizing this opportunity, Humbert told Gilbert he might retire until he was called, and the youth passed out, leaving behind only a few favorite retainers with Sir Sandrit and the minnesinger. As the door closed behind him, Gilbert found himself in a long and dimly lighted corridor. He saw a black figure enter at the other end—it was Father Omehr.

"It rains too hard at present to venture out," said the priest, in passing, and he re-entered the hall to wait till the gust had exhausted itself.

Gilbert wandered along the arched gallery without any definite aim, yet expecting to see the Lady Margaret start from some secret niche. Suddenly his cloak was pulled so sharply, that he grasped his sword, which he had been prudent enough to conceal beneath the ample folds of his gown. As he turned, he saw a woman with her finger on her lips, but it was not the Lady Margaret: that shrivelled face and curved back belonged to Linda. The old neif, after thus enjoining silence, made a gesture for the youth to follow, and shuffled noiselessly before him. Gilbert's heart was well-nigh bursting with anxiety as they strode along. When they reached the point where the corridor branched off into many smaller passages, Linda entered one that opened through a sharp-arched door upon the top of a battlemented tower. The youth felt relieved by the cold, damp wind that drove through the aperture against his burning cheeks. As they reached a recess near the tower, Linda stopped and leaned against a buttress with her arms crossed on her breast. At this moment, Gilbert became aware of the presence of a third figure, muffled from head to foot in a mantle of fur; he felt that the Lady Margaret stood before him, but all his gallant resolutions melted away, and he remained mute and motionless, powerless to speak or act. Apparently unconscious of Gilbert's presence, the lady stepped within the recess and knelt before a statue of the Mater Dolorosa; the youth was awed and abashed: he began to consider his daring adventure an unwarrantable intrusion; he meditating kissing the hem of her garment and retiring with all his love unspoken. In the midst of his suspense Margaret arose and confronted him; her manner was formal and dignified without being cold or stern.

"Are you Gilbert de Hers?" she said, in an undertone, but her voice was firm and clear.

Gilbert bowed, but made no other reply.

"What is your motive in coming here?" pursued the maiden, still calmly.

The youth was silent, his eyes fixed on the pavement.

"Why have you come so mysteriously—in such a strange disguise?"

But still no answer came.

"Are you here," continued his fair questioner, with more emphasis, "on a hostile mission? Are you seeking vengeance on our house by stealth? Are you engaged in the prosecution of some criminal vow to injure us? Speak! Have you come to draw blood?"

"No, no!" muttered Gilbert, finding voice at last; "I bear your house no enmity."

"Beware!" said the lady. "Remember that for years you have been our professed and bitter enemy."

"I was your enemy. I solemnly declare myself one no longer."

"Then what has impelled you to this step? Is it an idle curiosity—a mere piece of bravado?" Gilbert made no reply.

"Is the object of your visit fulfilled? If so, fly at once! Your life is in danger—you cannot long escape detection—it is dangerous to tempt my father. Go! you will find none else here to listen to your denial of an inimical intent in this reckless deception."

"My object is but half fulfilled!" exclaimed the youth, throwing himself at the Lady Margaret's feet.

It would argue a poor knowledge of the quick apprehension of woman, to say that the maiden was entirely unprepared for such a movement; but the suddenness of the demonstration made her start. Gilbert's embarrassment had disappeared in his fervor. He no longer stammered and stuttered, but with unhesitating eloquence went through that ancient but ever fresh story, found in the mouths of all suitors in all ages. Linda stood with her eyes and mouth distended, looking as though she had been petrified just as she was about to scream. It was rather a poor omen for Gilbert that Margaret should have turned to the old servant, who had advanced a pace, and calmly motioned her back to her corner. The daughter of Stramen listened to Gilbert's passionate professions with the air of one who was hearing the same vows, from the same person, under similar circumstances for the second time. She could scarcely have foreseen this, but there is no estimating the power of anticipation it is the mother of much presence of mind and unpremeditated wit.

After reciting the history of his love from its dawn to its zenith, Gilbert began to conjure her not to slight his affection, and not to permit family prejudices to stand in the way of their union.

"It can never be sufficiently lamented," he said, "that the demon of revenge has so long separated our houses, which ought to be united in the closest ties of friendship. It is time for us to learn to forgive. We have been too long aliens from God, and wedded to our evil passions. We must fling aside the scowl of defiance, the angry malediction, the sword and the firebrand, and, like Christians and neighbors, contract an alliance that may edify as much as our discord has scandalized. I conjure you, in the name of the victims already made by our feud—of the numbers who must perish by its continuance—in the name of the holy Church whose precepts we have disregarded, of the God whose Commandments we have violated, not to dismiss me in scorn and anger. I have perilled my life, that I might end our enmity in love."

"I am most happy," interposed the Lady Margaret, availing herself of the first pause in his rapid utterance, "I am most happy," she repeated, in a voice of singular sweetness, "that our enmity may end in love—"

A smile of exultation shot over Gilbert's face, and a sound of joy trembled on his lips. This did not escape the maiden, for she instantly added:

"But not in the love you propose!"

The light was gone from Gilbert's countenance, and he stared wildly into the lovely and mournful face before him.

"Not in the love you propose," she resumed. Hitherto she had spoken seriously and without agitation, but now her whole manner was changed. Her cheek glowed and her eyes gleamed: a sudden animation appeared in every limb. She took a step forward, and bent over the still kneeling youth, fixing upon his a steady, penetrating gaze, as though she sought to read his inmost soul.

"Tell me, Gilbert de Hers," she said, "do you truly desire peace between us?"

"As I live," replied Gilbert, "yes!"

"Do you desire it for the love of God, and because our enmity displeases Him?"

"Yes."

"Then consecrate yourself to the attainment of that peace! Let no selfish motive spur you on! Look to heaven for your recompense, not to me I Aspire to eternal favor, not to mortal love! As for me—my days are numbered here!—but what remains of life, I devote to the same holy end. We will labor together, though apart, in a noble cause—our prayers shall be the same—our hopes the same—our actions guided by the same resolves! If I should die before our task is done—if my death fail to soften my father's heart—falter not in your enterprise! With the grace of God, I shall be with you still! Fix your heart there!"

Her trembling finger was raised to heaven as she spoke, and in the splendor of her pious enthusiasm, she seemed rather the guardian Angel of the youth than a daughter of earth.

Gilbert remained as one entranced—he did not even hear the sharp scream that burst from Linda, as Bertha, with her hair streaming wildly over her face and neck, darted toward them through the corridor, followed by a dozen men-at-arms.

"Fly! fly! my lady!" cried the terrified neif, setting the example.

But Margaret remained firm.

"Rise!" she said to Gilbert, who still knelt as if turned to stone. Alive to her voice, he sprang to his feet.

"Back!" cried the Lady Margaret to the leader of the party, who was now within a few feet of her.

"Pardon me, my lady," said the man, bowing deeply; "your sire has commanded us to arrest the harp-bearer."

The maiden reflected an instant, and then said: "Offer him no violence—take him before my father—I will accompany you."

Gilbert had drawn his sword, but at a sign from the Lady Margaret, replaced it in his belt, and suffered himself to be seized by two of the men of Stramen. Margaret led the way along the corridor, followed by Bertha, whose voice could be heard at times mingling with the clang of the heavy feet that waked a hundred echoes along the vaulted passage. Had Gilbert looked behind him as he left the ravine, he would have seen a female figure there—that figure had dogged him ever since. Bertha was again his evil spirit: with a peculiar cunning, she had followed him unobserved to the interview with the Lady Margaret, and then communicated her suspicions by gestures and broken sentences to the baron. Scarce knowing whether to credit the confused story of the unfortunate woman, Sir Sandrit had ordered Gilbert's arrest, rather to get rid of Bertha's importunity than as a prudent or necessary measure. When the youth entered the room with Margaret, Bertha, and his armed escort, the baron said, without any irritation:

"Is this a Bohemian, my daughter? Has he been telling your fortune?"

But the Lady Margaret was silent.

"Unmuffle that churl," pursued the knight, manifesting some impatience; "let us see what lurks beneath that sordid cowl."

"Hold!" cried the youth, arresting the lifted arm of his guard and uncovering his head with his own hand. "There is no motive for concealment now, sir," he continued, meeting without flinching the kindling eye of the baron. "I am Gilbert de Hers!"

At this bold declaration, Sir Sandrit started up, almost livid with anger, while the corded veins swelled in his menacing brow; Father Omehr clasped his hands, despondingly at first, and then, raising them as if in prayer, kept his eye fixed on the baron; the Lady Margaret bent her head in deep affliction, and Humbert involuntarily struck his harp. The single note sounded like a knell: a death-like silence ensued. Already four stalwart soldiers had secured Gilbert's arms, and with determined looks they waited but a signal from their chief: still the infuriated knight scowled at Gilbert, and still the latter firmly bore the storm.

"To prison with him!" at length exclaimed the baron. "Instant death were too good for the designing villain who has stolen like a snake into our midst. Away with the deceiver, who would stoop, to seek by a most unmanly stratagem the revenge he dared not openly attempt."

"The bravest of your name," retorted Gilbert, "has not yet dared to set foot within my father's halls."

"Because we murder not by stealth!" shouted Sir Sandrit, stung by the sarcasm.

"I meant no murder in coming here!"

"Aha! you find it easy to disguise your designs as well as your person!"

"I came to renounce the foe at your daughter's feet, and tell her that I loved her. I have done so—do your worst!"

While the youth was speaking, the maddened baron snatched a heavy mace from a man who stood by. Already the ponderous mass quivered in his powerful grasp, when his daughter, with a piercing shriek, threw herself upon his arm. After a vain effort to free himself, the ready knight seized the weapon with his left hand, and with wonderful adroitness and strength prepared for the blow. But the baron's arm was again arrested. Between the chieftain and the motionless object of his wrath stood Father Omehr. The mace must crush that majestic forehead, that benevolent eye, must steep those venerable hairs in blood, before it can reach the unfortunate Gilbert. Calm, but stern, the missionary, stood, superior to the frenzy of the noble.

"Forbear! In the name of God I command you—forbear!" Such was his exclamation, as, with one arm outstretched, he opposed his hand to the mace.

"Tempt me not!" cried the baron, growing pale, and stamping in his rage.

"Tempt not your God!" returned the fearless priest.

"Stand aside! Beware! You shelter a miscreant!"

"Beware yourself of the fiend at your heart!" replied the old man, maintaining his perilous position.

"Think not to thwart me always," resumed Sir Sandrit. "I have too long permitted your interference. Again and again have you thrust yourself between me and the objects of my wrath! You have ever sided with my inferiors—protected my serfs, and insulted their master."

"I have sided with mercy and with your better nature. You are a demon now—and seek what, if obtained, would make you even loathe yourself, and would, in the pure eye of God—"

A shrill blast of a bugle sounded at the castle gate.

"The duke! the duke!" exclaimed the Lady Margaret, throwing her arms around her father's neck.

The mace was still uplifted, the priest was still before it, Gilbert was still pinioned by the men of Stramen, and all was silent as the tomb, when Rodolph and Henry entered the room.

"Did you listen to that minion, Margaret?" said the baron to his daughter, without seeming to notice the presence of the duke.

"It is because she gave me no hope," interposed Gilbert, "that I am indifferent to your anger."

Rodolph, perceiving the difficulty at a glance, put his arm in his angry baron's and led him aside, while Henry advanced to his sister. After a long and vehement discussion, the King of Arles left the knight standing with his arms folded on his breast and his back to the group, and released Gilbert from the close grasp of his captors.

"Come with me," he said, in a whisper.

"Where?" inquired Gilbert.

"To the other side of the drawbridge?"

"But—I cannot leave Humbert," said the youth, pointing to the frightened minnesinger.

"He shall go with you—they care not for him."

At a beck from the duke, Humbert was at his side. "Follow me," said Rodolph.

But Gilbert lingered a moment to press Father Omehr's hand to his lips, and then the three passed silently, out of the apartment. They soon gained the terrace, where, to his surprise, Gilbert found his own horses that had been tied in the ravine. Bertha had brought them there. The two adventurers were conducted by the duke beyond the castle bounds. The clouds had passed away, and the moon and stars shone brightly.

"Away now!" cried the hero of Hohenburg.

Bidding the noble duke an affectionate farewell, Gilbert and his follower sprang to the saddle and galloped off. But the adventures of the night were not yet over. Hardly had they passed the ravine, before Humbert's quick ear detected the tramp of a horse behind them.

"Faster!" said Gilbert, putting spurs to the somewhat jaded animal he rode.

Faster they went, but the sound came nearer and nearer. Again Gilbert urged on his horse, and again the galled creature bounded forward, but the pursuing sound came faster than they. Humbert looked behind, and by the bright moonlight saw a solitary horseman advancing at a furious pace.

"It is but one man," said he.

"So much the worse!" replied the youth, without checking his speed.

"He must overtake us!" continued Humbert; "he gains at every leap!"

It was true. The horseman was almost on them.

"Fly not so fast, gentlemen!" he cried as he came up.

"I knew it was he," muttered Gilbert, halting.

"You have given me some trouble to overtake you!" said Henry of Stramen, with a bitter sneer, as he wheeled his swift horse, which had darted ahead, and confronted them.

"Had I been well mounted," answered Gilbert, "you should have had your trouble in vain!"

"I conjectured as much, from your determined flight," returned Henry.

Gilbert was stung to the quick, but he constrained himself to reply:

"With your permission, sir, we will ride on."

"My permission can only be obtained in one way, and that way should already have been embraced by a Suabian noble."

Saying this, the young knight leaped to the ground, and drew his sword.

"You will dismount, I trust!" he continued, as Gilbert sat steadily in his saddle.

"No! Let me pass, I entreat you!" said Gilbert, putting his horse in motion. But Henry of Stramen, with a sudden spring, caught the reins, and forced the animal well-nigh upon his haunches.

"I knew it!" cried Henry, with a bitter laugh. "You took advantage of my absence to insult my sister, but I returned too soon for your chivalry. Dismount! The truce of God covers not to-day. Dismount! Add not cowardice to deceit!"

This was more than Gilbert could bear. Quick as lightning he stood beside the challenger. It was but the work of a moment to throw off his coarse cloak and draw his sword. Having chosen his position, he awaited the assault of his adversary. Humbert looked on in breathless interest, while the two young nobles fought in the moonlight. For some minutes Gilbert maintained his ground, despite the furious efforts of his assailant. There was a strong contrast between the desperate energy of Henry and the calm courage of Gilbert. But at length the latter began to recede rapidly down a gentle slope. His antagonist recklessly pursued. The motive of Gilbert's retreat soon became evident. Henry's foot slipped on the long grass, slimy from the recent rain, and he fell at full length upon the ground. Before he could rise, Gilbert had mounted the far fleeter steed of his opponent.

"Return, coward! and see if chance will save you again!" shouted Henry, as he gained his feet.

"Your sister has saved you once, and she shall save you again!" answered Gilbert; and, without regarding the denunciations of the knight of Stramen, he called to Humbert, and resuming the road to Hers, was soon out of hearing of Henry's threats.



CHAPTER VI

No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, Become them with one half so good a grace As mercy does.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

The sentence pronounced at Rome against Henry IV of Austria spread consternation wherever it went; the resolute prepared for instant action, and the timid looked in vain for a peaceful asylum. There could be no neutrality, since not to serve the king was to serve his antagonist. Throughout the empire the stern challenge was ringing: "Are you for the Pope or for the king?" The gay and reckless champions of the court, the knights of the house of Franconia, and many a bold adventurer, crowded around the royal banner. Many a haughty prelate, too, seduced by avarice or ambition, urged on the monarch in his mad career.

But the enterprise of Rodolph and the Lord of Hers had been most happily timed, and the chivalry of Suabia were prepared to follow their martial duke at a moment's warning. That warning followed shortly after the date of the last chapter. Gilbert had gained his chamber as the morn was breaking, and had hardly time to review the exciting events of the night, before an attendant announced his father's arrival. The Lord of Hers had reached Zurich on his return, just as the tidings from Rome had been received; and without pausing an instant, he hurried across the lake to convey the intelligence to the King of Arles. The baron was himself too much excited with the momentous results at last developed, and the still more momentous sequel already shadowed forth in the uncertain future, to remark the nervous and somewhat jaded appearance of his son. His first words, after hastily embracing Gilbert, were: