"Where is the duke?"

"At Stramen Castle," replied the youth.

"When did he arrive?"

"Last night," answered Gilbert, without reflecting that he was, as effectually as possible, giving his father a clue to his hare-brained expedition with Humbert. It was well for him that the baron was too well satisfied with the information to inquire how it had been obtained; for, incapable of deceiving his parent, he would have been compelled, very reluctantly, to submit a brief account of his connection with Ailred of Zurich, the minnesinger. A chilly anticipation of the question struck him, just as the words escaped his lips, and his cheek tingled as the blood came creeping against it. But, to his great relief, his father, without noticing his confusion, turned to a soldier who stood behind him, and thus addressed him:

"Mount your best horse and ride for life and limb to Stramen Castle! Here!" continued the baron, taking a fold of parchment from his breast, as the man, prompt to obey without question or hesitation, bowed and was going; "this for his highness, the King of Arles. Guard it with your life from the enemies of the duke, and if you meet the serfs of Stramen, proclaim your errand. Away! spare neither spur nor rein!" cried the knight, as the man dashed fearlessly down the hill.

Rodolph of Suabia was scarcely less anxious to see the Lord of Hers, than the latter had been to acquaint the duke with Gregory's rigorous measures. He felt assured that the infamous conventicle at Worms must have been already met by the Pope, and he thirsted for news from Rome. He knew that the Lord of Hers would be first in possession of the facts, from his position along the Rhine; and anxious not to lose a moment in executing his plans, which were to be regulated by the action of the Holy See, he could scarcely be prevailed upon to defer till daylight his return to Zurich by the Castle of Hers.

The baron's envoy had not accomplished half the distance between the rival castles, before he met the duke, unattended, as was his wont, bearing rapidly down upon him. He was no stranger to the lordly bearing of the duke, for he had watched him in battle, when the strife was warmest and the fight most dubious. The moment he recognized him, he sprang from his horse, and uncovering his head and kneeling down, presented the parchment as Rodolph advanced. Without dismounting, the duke received the missive, and eagerly unrolling it, began to read. The instrument contained a narrative of the proceedings of the council and a transcript of the sentence of excommunication. The noble's eagle eye flashed at it scanned the page, and his broad bosom heaved. He struck his breast in his excitement, and brandishing the parchment in the air, exclaimed aloud, in a deep, tremulous voice: "Well done, thou noble Pontiff! Now, my brother Henry, the time has come, and heaven be the judge between us!"

With these meaning words Rodolph galloped on, unmindful of the soldier behind him. Yet it would seem he had not entirely forgotten the messenger, for when alighting at the Castle of Hers, he threw the man a largess such as had never fallen to his lot before.

The duke could not but smile when he saw Gilbert, and taking him aside, he whispered in his ear: "You will soon have an opportunity to display upon the battle-field the gallantry of the Bohemian harp-bearer, and to couch a lance for Suabia and the Lady Margaret!"

"But how can I thank you for—"

"Thank that generous priest and that noble girl!" said Rodolph, interrupting the youth; "I ran no risk in interposing: the Baron of Stramen was but cancelling an old debt; I intercepted a battle-axe that was descending upon him at Hohenburg, and I asked mercy for you, in requital."

After a long interview, the duke and Albert of Hers resolved to assemble the chiefs of the ducal party at Ulm, and to fix the fifteenth of October for a general meeting, at Tribur, of all who would take up arms against the king.

While the Lord of Hers was engaged in persuading the Duke of Bohemia and the bishops of Wuertzburg and Worms to repair to Ulm without delay, Gilbert was polishing his armor and exercising his barb. The stirring spirit of the times, the approaching honors of knighthood, with a golden chance of winning his spurs, assisted in diverting his mind from a melancholy contemplation of the hopelessness of his love. But even when brandishing his stout lance, or wheeling his good war-horse, he would hear those withering words: "The grave will anticipate her choice!" followed by the fatal echo which came from her own lips, in solemn confirmation of the prophecy: "My days are numbered here!" Nor could the dazzling dreams of young ambition shut out the still more delicious sight of the Lady Margaret, now kneeling before the Mater Dolorosa, now appealing to him with the pure emotion and wondrous beauty of an Angel, and now clinging to her father between him and the battle-axe.

While the stern Sandrit de Stramen was preparing his vassals for the impending strife, and literally converting the scythe into the sword—while he spared no expense or trouble in supplying his men with arms and horses, all gayly decorated to make a gallant show at Tribur—while the sturdy yeomen were leaving their ploughs in the field to pay their rent by the service of shield and sword—the Lady Margaret, uninfluenced by the war-like bustle, calmly pursued her meditations, her daily visits to the church, and her numberless acts of charity. She had a delicate and difficult duty to perform in soothing the proud mind of her brother, stung to the quick by his unlucky encounter with Gilbert. The young knight of Stramen was panting for an opportunity to retrieve his misfortune and wipe out his fancied disgrace. When in conversation with his sister, to whom he would outpour his passionate impulses, he pledged himself over and over again to bring the daring stripling to his knee, who had dared to insult her in his absence. To his fiery threats, Margaret would offer no direct opposition, for she feared to awaken an easily excited suspicion that she sympathized far too warmly with the culprit. This suspicion would have paralyzed her influence. She contented herself with pointing out the impossibility of settling a domestic quarrel at the present moment, and the imperative duty of considering rather the public weal than the gratification of a private inclination. And at times, when Henry appeared more tractable, and when, moved by her tender affection and earnest discourse, he exhibited a disposition more closely resembling her own, she would suggest what a nobler and better revenge it would be to seek an opportunity of saving Gilbert's life in the coming struggle. Henry's chivalrous nature was easily attracted by this suggestion, and he determined to prove his superiority over his rival, before attempting his ultimate revenge.

Father Omehr's duties increased as the fifteenth of October approached. The yeomen and vassals of Stramen recked little of their bodies, but they cared not to peril their souls. They feared not to expose their breasts to the arrow and lance, and to meet the powerful war-horse with unflinching spear; but they were solicitous, at the same time, to purify their hearts for the mortal struggle. This wise precaution indicates no craven spirit, for he who fears eternity the most, fears death the least. The good missionary beheld with a mournful eye the preparations everywhere making for a struggle apparently inevitable. He shared not in the ambition of Rodolph or the ardor of his barons; and he bitterly lamented the dire necessity which compelled blessed peace to disappear beneath the withering breath of war. Yet war seemed to be the unavoidable result of the excommunication, and the action of the Pope was necessary to preserve the purity and liberty of the Church. Deeply as he deplored the present crisis, he exclaimed, "Thy will, O God, be done! We have done what seemed to be our duty, be the consequences what they may!"

The empire was thus divided into two great parties. At first the partisans of the king were much more numerous and powerful, but their strength was daily diminishing, as conscience began to operate upon some, and fear upon others. The most marked and appalling chastisement was overtaking the fiercest calumniators of the Pope. It happened that, on a certain festival, the Bishop William, in the presence of the king, interrupted the Mass by a violent denunciation of the Pope, in which he called him an adulterer and false apostle, and assailed him with bitter raillery. Hardly had the ceremonies been concluded before the episcopal slanderer was struck down with a fatal malady. In the midst of the most excruciating torments of mind and body, he turned to the minions of Henry who surrounded him, and cried: "Go, tell the king, that he, and I, and all who have connived at his guilt, are lost for eternity!" The clerks at his bedside conjured him not to rave in that manner; but he replied, "And why shall I not reveal what is clear to my soul? Behold the demons clinging to my couch, to possess themselves of my soul the moment it leaves my body. I entreat you—you, and all the faithful, not to pray for me after my death!" With this he died in despair. The same day, the cathedral of Utrecht, in which he had preached, and the royal pavilion, were suddenly consumed by fire from heaven. Burchard, Bishop of Misne, Eppo of Ceitz, Henry of Spire, and the Duke Gazelon, were successively the victims of sudden and fatal misfortunes. Whatever may be the impression produced at the present day, it is certain that these examples and a great number of others, struck terror into the partisans of the king, and many prelates and priests threw themselves at the feet of the Pope and renounced their errors. Thus, Udo, Archbishop of Treves, repaired all penitent to Rome, and Herman of Metz began to waver in his hitherto steady fidelity to Henry.

While these causes were sapping the imperial power, Henry was unexpectedly menaced from another quarter. The two sons of Count Geron, William and Thiery, who had for some time secretly cherished the hope of regaining the lost freedom of their country, saw in the present confusion the moment for which they had sighed. They raised the standard of revolt, and were soon at the head of a band of young and noble chieftains, whose intrepid bearing and dauntless confidence inspired the nation with the desire and the hope of liberty. The escape of the two Saxon princes from Henry's hands and their arrival in Saxony gave an irresistible impulse to the movement, and the whole circle, animated by the same spirit, rose haughtily to throw off the heavy yoke, never patiently endured.

Rodolph lost not a moment in concentrating his forces and in profiting by this new defection. He had already secured the powerful assistance of Berthold of Carinthia and Welf of Bavaria, and could now oppose to the emperor the formidable league of Suabia, Carinthia, Bavaria, and a portion of Lombardy. His policy evidently was to conciliate the Saxons, and he deemed their impiety sufficiently chastised at Hohenburg. He took care to assure them that so far from having anything to apprehend from his opposition to their enterprise, they might rely upon his assistance and countenance.

Henry had long affected a contempt for the anathemas of Gregory and an unconcern he was far from feeling; but this formidable coalition burst the shell of his apathy and laid bare his uneasiness. He supplicates his nobles in the disaffected provinces to meet him at Mayence; but his earnest prayers are disregarded. Finding his advances indignantly rejected by the princes of Upper Germany, and seeing that his prelates were rapidly deserting him, he addresses himself to the task of conciliating the Saxons. He employs every artifice to excite Otto of Nordheim against the two sons of Geron—menacing Otto's own sons, whom he held as hostages, in case the father refused. But the noble Saxon replied, that he would stand or fall by his country. Though signally foiled in all his schemes, Henry was still at the head of a numerous and veteran army, and he boldly advanced upon the marches of the Misne, to give battle to the sons of Geron. The Saxons did not wait an attack, but sallied forth to meet the monarch. The Mulda, swollen with the recent rains, alone separated the hostile armies, when the king, seized with a sudden panic, ordered a hasty retreat, and fell back upon Worms, where he gave himself up to a lively regret and the gloomiest forebodings.

The Saxons exulting in their first success, wished to revive the league with Suabia; but first besought the Holy See to indicate which side they should espouse. Gregory's saintly and heroic reply displays the pure motives by which he was animated in excommunicating the king, and which continued to govern his conduct throughout the contest. He cannot recommend the anathematized monarch to the embraces of the Saxons—nor, on the other hand, does he entirely commend the self-interested zeal of Rodolph. He wishes to humble the king without exalting his adversaries— to reform the empire without a civil war. Had he possessed a particle of the lofty ambition which has sometimes been ascribed to him, this was the moment to attach the Saxons to the Suabian confederacy, and give a death-blow to the Franconian line. But instead of an animated exhortation to arms, in the name of outraged religion, the magnanimous Pontiff writes: "Forget not, I pray you, the frailty of human nature; and remember the piety of his father and his mother, unequalled in our time." Gregory's respect for Henry's parents seems to have inspired him with the charitable hope, which never deserted him, that the king would renounce his vices and return to virtue. It is well to keep this in view, since it is easier, after an inquiry into the struggle between them, to justify the severity than the lenity of the Holy See.

The fifteenth of October had at length arrived, and the eyes of Germany were eagerly directed to Tribur. The left bank of the Rhine was glittering with the chivalry of Upper Germany, and the legions of Suabia were encamped along the bristling river. Here might be seen the swarthy Bohemian, the stern Thuringian rider, the gay Loinhard, and the gigantic Swiss, all mingling together, and apparently indifferent as to where they might be led. Gilbert de Hers felt a new and ardent delight in gazing upon the long and dazzling array of helmets and spears. He longed for the hour when the whole mass would be in motion against a body as beautiful and powerful as itself. With far different feelings did Father Omehr behold the formidable battalia. He knew that the pomp of war, if often sung by poets, is oftener chronicled in hell. In the beautiful language of the age, he had been taught that "Peace is the language of heaven, for Christ, who came from heaven, spoke that language, saying, 'Pax vobis!' It is the language of Angels, who cried, exulting, 'In terra pax!' It is the language of the Apostles, who thus greeted every house they entered: 'Pax huic domui'" Were the hasty and unscrupulous penmen of our generation to draw their information from the writings of the Saints, instead of from martial legends or miserable perversions even of these, they would find the spirit of the Ages of Faith eminently pacific, and could be induced so to represent it. At least, the Church, the teacher and the regenerator of Europe, breathed nothing but "Peace!" Many holy doctors went so far as to condemn hunting, as being calculated to make men love war. And even the war-cry of the red-crossed knights was: "Mansuetudinem quaerimus et non bella!"

The nobles of the empire, the principal prelates who remained faithful to Rome, and the Papal legates, Siccard, Patriarch of Aquileia, and Altmann, Bishop of Passau, were assembled within the town in solemn council. Scarcely, however, had their deliberations begun, before Otto of Nordheim, at the head of the flower of Saxony, appeared among them and declared himself in their favor. Then former jealousies and wrongs were forgotten, and Otto and Welf and Rodolph, cordially embracing each other, devoted themselves to the execution of whatever enterprise the common cause might require. Seven days were consumed by the council in the discussion of the diseases, the wants, and the dangers of the State. In the meantime, Henry, apprised of the meeting, had hastened with his army to Oppenheim, and occupied the opposite side of the river.

When informed that his cruelty, his blasphemy, his perfidy were strongly exposed and unanimously condemned, and that he was denounced as a violator of law and propriety, false to the dignity of the Church, and faithless to the State, he implored the princes to accept his contrition, and offered to resign all but the insignia of royalty, with which he could not honorably part, and to give hostages for his future good behavior. But the council replied that they knew his sincerity too well to desire another proof of it; and that a perfidy so deeply rooted as his must be incurable. The messages of the monarch served only to inflame his opponents still more violently against him; and the princes, disgusted with his pretended submission, resolved to elect a new king, pass the Rhine, and attack the imperial troops. Henry, driven to despair, concentrated his forces upon a single point, and prepared to give battle, determined to conquer or die.

But here, again, the peaceful spirit of the Church interfered to prevent a scene of carnage, by withholding the Apostolical suffrage from the nominee to the imperial dignity. As in almost every battle chronicled by Froissart, the bishops at first passed from army to army, exhorting to peace, and studying to bring the point in dispute to an amicable adjustment, so at this moment the Papal legates and the bishops compelled the confederates to give the king to the end of the year to repent, if he complied with certain conditions, the observance of which was required for the peace and safety of Germany. The two most important of these conditions were, to retire from public life, and to seek, in person, at Rome, the raising of the interdict. It is impossible not to see in this arrangement the finger of Gregory, solicitous to avert bloodshed, and directed by his magnanimous and charitable repugnance to credit Henry's utter depravity.

There were some who regretted this peaceful result, among whom the stern Baron of Stramen was conspicuous for his open denunciation of the treaty nor could the polished Lord of Hers conceal his contempt for a compromise, which threw away a present advantage, in consideration of the fear-extorted oath of a perjured debauchee. Rodolph himself deeply regretted that the Pope would not consent to crown him king, a consummation he required before acting against his brother, lest he should be branded as a rebel. Even Gilbert and Henry of Stramen were crestfallen in the blight of all their budding hopes. Of all our Suabian friends, Father Omehr was the only one who rejoiced in this amicable termination of the council, and who devoutly returned thanks to God for averting a direful war, and proclaiming, in the favorite language of heaven, "Pax fiat!"

During two months and a half, Henry buried himself in solitude at Spire. Rodolph remained watchful and expectant, now at Zurich, and now in Saxony. All was calm in the lordships of Hers and Stramen. The Lady Margaret was lamenting the absence of Father Omehr, who had been summoned to Rome, and whose missionary duties were performed by the pious Herman.

The year of grace was drawing to a close, and the proud baron began to hope that the emperor would permit it to pass without observing the stipulation in the treaty to repair to Rome and ask pardon of the Pope. The new year had begun, and January was half over when the King of Arles was startled with the intelligence that Henry had purchased from Adelaide, the widow of the Margrave Otho, a free passage into Italy, and, in spite of snow and ice, had crossed the Alps, and was approaching the fortress of Canossa, whither Gregory had retired. At first it was rumored that the monarch had gone to depose the Pope, and the Duke of Suabia secretly exulted in the prospect of instant action. But it was soon ascertained that Henry presented himself in the character of a suppliant, and the result of his application was awaited with breathless interest.

Early in the spring of 1077, toward the close of a cold, bright day, Rodolph was seated in his palace at Zurich, surrounded by Albert of Hers and Gilbert, on one side, and on the other, by Sandrit and Henry of Stramen. This strange meeting, though unexpected and unwelcome to the hostile knights, was designed by Rodolph, who thought that by thus accustoming them to restrain their passions in his presence, and by distinguishing them with equal confidence, aid praising both sides in equal measure, he might control, in some degree, the antipathies he could not entirely subdue. But the barons maintained a stern, unyielding reserve, and Gilbert studiously avoided the disdainful gaze of Henry of Stramen. The lamps were scarcely lighted when a messenger from Rome was announced, and the next moment Father Omehr entered the room.

The nobles rose, and, greeting the venerable missionary respectfully and affectionately, conducted him to a seat, and gathered about him. When the attendants had been dismissed, and the duke invited him to proceed, Father Omehr thus began to describe the interview between the Pope and the king, to which he had been an eye-witness:

"I had the happiness to be with His Holiness when Henry was conducted by the noisy populace to the walls of Canossa; and though we knew not with any certainty whether the king's intentions were inimical or friendly, I could discover in the Pontiff's placid face neither hope nor fear. The first prayer presented by the royal suppliant, ascribed ambition and envy to the leaders of the coalition against him."

"Tyrant!" interposed the Lord of Hers, "he begins his penitence by a calumny."

"Our Holy Father only replied," continued the priest, "that the ecclesiastical law did not permit him to judge the accused in the absence of his accusers; and invited him, since he confided in his innocence, to meet his accusers at Augsburg, and abide by the Papal decision."

"Yes!" exclaimed Rodolph, eagerly. "And what said the king?"

"That the anniversary of his excommunication was approaching, and that unless the interdict were raised, his rights to the crown would be forfeited. Should the Pope receive him to favor at once, he promised to submit to whatever His Holiness might subsequently decree, and answer his accusers at Augsburg."

"Artful villain!" ejaculated Albert of Hers.

"But His Holiness remained inflexible," resumed the missionary. "At last, moved by the prayers and tears of those around him, he permitted Henry to approach him, to prove his penitence and atone for his contempt of the Holy See. The prince delayed not to avail himself of this grace; and the next morning presented himself at the inner gate of the castle, barefoot and in sackcloth, where he remained, fasting, from daybreak to sunset. This he repeated the second and the third day."

"Oh that I had seen him in that saintly guise!" cried the duke, with a short, disdainful laugh, while he rubbed his hands, and pressed the floor with his iron heel.

"Consummate hypocrite!" said the Lord Albert.

"Coward!" muttered the Baron of Stramen.

"I think I can hear his piteous cries now," continued Father Omehr, endeavoring to excite their compassion, "put forth at intervals: 'Parce, beate Pater, pie, parce mihi, peto, plane!'"

But the nobles only expressed extreme disgust.

"Finally," proceeded the priest, "the supplications of the saintly countess, Matilda, and of many holy men, induced our good Father to raise the anathema on these conditions, proposed to the king, still barefoot and numbed with cold."

A deathlike silence prevailed as the missionary began the enumeration:

"That Henry should appear at Augsburg—that the Pope should be the judge—that he should submit without resistance to the decision—that he should banish the excommunicated bishops and favorites—and if one of these conditions were violated, that his guilt would be deemed established, and the princes of the empire at liberty to elect another king."

The knights still sat in silence, as if spell-bound, while Father Omehr calmly went on with his narrative:

"The monarch swore to observe the compact inviolably. But to give additional solemnity to the oath, the Pontiff, while celebrating the Mass that followed the reconciliation, turned from the altar, and thus addressed the king: 'Do, if it please you, my son, as you have seen me do. The German princes are continually charging you with crimes for which they demand an interdict over you for life, not only from the seals of royalty, but from all communion with the Church or society. They demand your immediate condemnation; but you know the uncertainty of human judgments. Do, then, as I advise you, and if you are conscious of innocence, rid the Church of this scandal and yourself of these imputations! Receive this other half of the Host, that this proof of your innocence may silence your enemies, and I pledge myself to be your best champion in appeasing your barons and in arresting this civil war!'"

"And Henry?—" whispered Rodolph, trembling with excitement.

"Recoiled from a proof so terrible," answered the missionary.

The duke still occupied his chair, with his forehead knit, and his arms folded on his breast, but the Lord of Hers sprang to his feet and began to pace the room, and the Baron of Stramen brought his battle-axe heavily against the floor.

"Tell me," said Albert of Hers, addressing Father Omehr, "did not the Pope revoke his pardon at this evident insincerity?"

"No," was the reply.

"Then, may God forgive me," returned the excited knight, "but the mercy of His Holiness sounds like human folly!"

"It is weakness—cowardice!" muttered the Baron of Stramen.

The missionary smiled at cowardice in connection with the name of Gregory VII.

A bright smile now began to break over Rodolph's face, and he said, turning to his friends:

"My gallant knights, this is but an expedient of the king's to gain time, he will never confront us at Augsburg. We must prepare for a struggle more desperate than ever, and, before another day, I must set out for Saxony."

The prophecy of the King of Arles was soon verified. For five days after leaving Canossa, Henry kept his oath; on the sixth he broke it, and, with an armed band, prevented the Pope from appearing among the princes at the Diet of Augsburg.

Before another week had passed, the lordships of Hers and Stramen seemed almost deserted. Rodolph had passed into Saxony, to assemble an army there, leaving Welf, the Duke of Bavaria, and the Lord Albert, to collect the forces of Suabia. Rodolph had taken with him the Baron of Stramen, with his son, and Gilbert de Hers. Father Omehr, who had been secretly charged by the Pope to moderate the zeal of the King of Arles, had also followed the duke, commuting his flock and the Lady Margaret to the care of Herman. It was with a heavy heart that Gilbert saw the towers of Stramen fading in the distance, and felt that he was leaving, perhaps forever, a being to whom he was so deeply attached, without a word, a glance, or even a look. He had, however, evinced his solicitude for the Lady Margaret's welfare by solemnly charging Humbert to watch over her in his absence and protect her with his life.

The knights and burghers of Suabia were now assembling at Ulm. Scarce a man could be seen between the Danube and the Lake of Constance: mothers were working in the fields, with their children about them, and here and there some old or infirm vassal was seated at his cabin door. Little did the Lady Margaret dream, as she gazed from her lattice over the beautiful country, dipping down into the river, dotted all over with thriving cottages, from which the quiet smoke of peace was curling—little did she think, as she watched the green fields struggling through the melting snow, and fixed her eyes upon the Church of the Nativity, how soon those Cottages would flame, those fields be red with human gore, and that church be polluted by a hireling soldiery. Little did she think, when praying for the safety of her father and brother, that her own paternal castle would be the first victim of the war.



CHAPTER VII

The wild dog Shall flesh his tooth in every innocent. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows!

HENRY IV.

Shut out from Augsburg by the treachery of the emperor, Gregory VII retired to Canossa, where he resolved to let the affairs of Germany shape themselves for a time, while he awaited a more favorable moment for action. Nor was his gigantic mind occupied with Germany alone, and the movements there which menaced his life and the liberty and purity of the Church. Dalmatia, Poland, and England claimed his constant attention. With the most powerful monarch in Europe plotting his downfall, he contrived to win the love and obedience of Zwonomir, to force the rebellious Boleslaus from his throne, and to purify England still more from simony and incontinency.

As Henry's submission to the Pope had disgusted the bold who were ready to assist him, and repelled the timid who waited but a second call, so his shameless perjury and fearless defiance of Gregory at Augsburg reassembled his professional adherents, and inspired with new courage those who secretly clung to his cause. The mitres of Luinar, Benno, Burchardt of Lausanne, and Eppo of Ceitz again sparkled around him, and Eberhard, Berthold, and Ulric of Cosheim displayed their lances to confirm his resolution. In every country and in every age there must exist a large and powerful party prone to pleasure and license, which is easily arrayed against virtue, when the indulgence of their criminal passions is threatened. This party is ever formidable, especially when supported by a powerful king, nobly descended, and legally invested with the crown. A natural sympathy, too, had been awakened for the emperor, as numbed with cold he besought the pity of the Pontiff; and, with proverbial fickleness, men, in ascribing humility to the king, imputed arrogance to the Pope. Owing to these causes, it was not long before Henry found himself stronger than ever. Inflamed with new ardor, he loudly lamented his submission at Canossa, and cursing the hours of misery passed there, swore speedy vengeance against the presumptuous son of Bonizo the carpenter.

Rodolph had no sooner reached Forchheim, than it was announced that a general diet would be held there for the discussion of matters of vital importance to the Church and State, with the suggestion that the absence of the king would facilitate their deliberations. The Count Mangold de Veringen was despatched to the Pope, inviting him to sanction the diet by his presence, to aid them by his wisdom and intrepidity, and to take the helm of the tempest-tossed vessel of state. He was also commissioned to inform His Holiness of their determination to elect a new king. The Pope, in reply, conjured them not to be precipitate, and to wait his arrival before they acted.

There was one feature in the proposed diet to which Gregory objected—the attempted exclusion of Henry from any participation in it. This he endeavored to remedy by obtaining a promise from the emperor to attend the meeting in person. It was partly to avoid the appearance of partiality, but principally in the hope of reconciling the angry factions, that the Pope requested the presence of his unscrupulous antagonist. Henry not only recoiled from his engagement, but, by blocking up all the avenues to Forchheim, compelled the Pope to remain at Carpineta, unable either to enter Germany or return to Rome.

Bernard, cardinal deacon, Bernard, Abbe of St. Victor, and the celebrated Guimond, the Papal legates, announced to the confederates the desire of His Holiness that they should wait his arrival. But the assembled nobles dreaded the least delay. Already their cause was weakened by indecision, and a hostile army was in the field, receiving daily accessions. Though May had been fixed for the opening of the diet, so great was the impatience of Rodolph and his barons, that it was concluded in the middle of March. No sooner had the legates delivered their instructions, than deliberations were virtually begun. The chiefs directed all their efforts to induce the legates to sanction the election of a king, and confirm their choice. Guimond and his companions, faithful to their instructions, replied: "It were far better to await the arrival of His Holiness"; but they added, imprudently, "that they did not wish to oppose their advice to the wisdom of the princes, who knew much better than they what was most conducive to the interests of the State." Assuming an implied permission to act from these words of courtesy, the nobles proceeded at once to cast their votes. A scene of confusion ensued, created by the jarring of private interests. These were finally quelled by the interposition of the Papal legates, and the balloting proceeded without interruption. The vote of the bishops alone remained to be taken. The Archbishop of Mayence rose, and exercising his prescriptive title, gave the first voice for Rodolph of Suabia. Adalbert and the other bishops followed his example. Otto, Welf, Berthold, ranged themselves on the same side, and amid universal acclamations Rodolph was proclaimed king.

Something still remained—the Papal confirmation. There were some who were sad and mute amid the general rejoicings, and among them was Father Omehr. In vain had he implored Rodolph to postpone the session, at least until the appointed time would arrive: the King of Arles regarded the delay as suicidal. In vain, too, he conjured the legates to refuse their approval, at least until May, and begged them, with tears in his eyes, not to give the signal for civil war. All the princes and a majority of the bishops conceived that the denial of the Apostolic benediction would destroy the hopes of the Church party. They beheld in themselves the champions of the Church, and identified their own welfare with that of the Holy See; they believed that Gregory was only restrained by circumstances from granting the prayers of those who had sworn never to desert him; they maintained that although the Pope might not have permitted the election, he could not refuse to sanction their choice after it had been made. Moved by these passionate representations, and, perhaps, expecting to please the Sovereign Pontiff, the legates yielded, and confirmed the election of Rodolph.

When Rodolph heard that he had been called to the throne he shut himself up in his room and sent for Father Omehr. Scarce a minute elapsed before the missionary stood at his side. They gazed at each other in silence for some moments. The duke's lips were compressed, and his brow gathered into a deep frown. Mingled sorrow and hope were portrayed in the missionary's face, and his breast heaved with excitement.

"I am king!" said Rodolph, in a whisper, still scanning the priest, as though he would read his soul.

"Not yet!" was the reply.

"Who can prevent it?"

"God!"

"Most humbly would I submit to His gracious interposition," said the duke, bending his head devoutly; "but can any human power prevent it?"

"Yourself!"

Rodolph buried his face in his hands and with rapid, nervous gestures paced up and down the small apartment.

"Hear me!" he exclaimed, suddenly leading Father Omehr to a chair, and taking a seat beside him. "Hear me!" he repeated, bending forward until his lips almost touched his companion's ear, and the veins swelled in his throat and temples:

"I have toiled and sighed and prayed for this! Day after day, night after night, for years, this has been the aim of all my actions, ay, even the limit of my aspirations. Once to be king—oh! ever since I first clutched a lance I panted for it! In love, in sickness, in peace, in war, I never forgot that one surpassing object—the crown! Hear me on! It is now within my reach—I can touch it—and you ask me to resign it?—"

The duke paused a minute, his eagle eye flashing fire; then, with a vehemence almost appalling, he resumed: "You ask me to resign it—and I would, without a pang—gladly, cheerfully—this very instant! Yes—I swear to you—here in presence of my Creator, that I no longer covet the crown I have well-nigh worshipped; that, but for Germany and the Church, I would rather place it on Henry's perjured head than wear it on my own!"

"Then you will resign it?" said the missionary, eagerly.

Rodolph slowly shook his head and fixed his eyes upon the floor.

"Let no fears for the Church and your country restrain you," pursued the priest; "they both demand your refusal, not your acceptance."

Still Rodolph sternly shook his head.

"Then as you value honor, defer your decision until the appointed time—our Holy Father may still be with us—it is treacherous to deprive him of the opportunity of interfering, by thus anticipating by a month the day on which we invited him to meet us."

"It is too late for interference now," replied the duke, "and of what avail is it to pause on the brink when all the avenues from Carpineta are closed by Henry's minions?"

"Have confidence, I conjure you," exclaimed the other, passionately, "in the virtue and wisdom of His Holiness. Rest assured that he will find some means to avert bloodshed and yet preserve his See and the empire."

"War is inevitable!"

"Obey the Pope and trust in God. Beware how you take upon yourself to plunge the nation in war—to tear down the sacred barriers of peace—and open the floodgates for a thousand evil passions to deluge Germany with crime and blood! Can you foresee what may occur—what a month may develop—what new political combination the master mind of Gregory may devise for our preservation?"

"I must rather beware," returned the noble, "how I sacrifice the last hope of my country and the main support of religion by procrastination and criminal hesitation. If I refuse the crown, I disband my party. Men will leave us, and say we tremble, and before long we are at the tender mercies of the tyrant, for my resignation, while striking terror into our ranks, will infuse new courage into his. Then would I see my allies—the friends whom I seduced into rebellion and then abandoned—destroyed in detail—pursued, hunted down, exiled, and martyred before my eyes. No! come what may, I must accept."

"What is your situation now," rejoined the missionary, "that you have anything else to expect than defeat and disgrace? You know the emperor—you have seen his dauntless courage, his consummate skill, his desperate resolution. You know that he is at the head of an army more numerous and better disciplined than your own. And you must also clearly foresee that if the Pope—as he certainly will—shall condemn the policy of his legates, your efforts will want the principle of life which alone can bless them with success."

"If the prospect now is bad," said Rodolph, solemnly, "delay can only make it worse. And I believe that, could His Holiness see what is evident to us, he would command me to accept the crown, and place it with his own hands upon my head."

"You are mistaken—wofully mistaken, my lord. While a hope of averting anarchy and civil war remains, Gregory will not adopt the surest means of inflicting both. Trust in God for the future! Do not pursue what to the mole-blind vision of humanity seems expedient, when certain bloodshed is the result! Humble yourself before Him who alone can exalt and lay low! Confide in the efficacy of prayer! Think not that God will desert His Church or her champions!"

"I do trust in the future," answered the duke, "but not until I have embraced what reason dictates for the present."

"Do you hold your reason more enlightened than that of His Holiness?"

"He cannot see what I see. Urge me no more! It is too late to recede. I know well what dangers I incur by accepting the crown—and what disgrace I should earn in refusing it. Did I consult my inclinations, I should renounce the glittering ornament: but I will not have men to point at me covertly, and say, 'He faltered!' I will not endanger the noble barons who have devoted themselves to my advancement. If I have sinned in alluring them thus far, I will not deepen my guilt by betraying them. Though I knew that the crown which I am about to assume were like the gift of Medea, I would still set it on my temples: better pay the penalty of ambition by advancing than by timidly retreating, when boldness may remedy, and retreat is certain death!"

The tread of armed men was heard along the passage, and immediately afterward the Count Mangold entered the room.

"The diet awaits your highness' answer," he said, bowing deeply to the duke.

"I will follow you," said Rodolph, "and deliver it in person." Saying this, he strode proudly from the room, preceded by the count and his attendants.

As the door closed behind them, Father Omehr fell upon his knees. He knelt there with the tears streaming down his pale cheeks and his hands clasped in prayer, until a long loud shout announced Rodolph's acceptance. Then the trumpets' merry notes, mingled with the joyful clang of arms, went up to heaven together with the missionary's sighs. Father Omehr appeared scarcely to hear the martial revelry, but as the tumult increased, he rose and glided from the room.

Amid the congratulations of the bishops, nobles, and people, Rodolph proceeded in great pomp to Mayence, where he was to be crowned and consecrated the following day. It was after nightfall when Rodolph reached the palace prepared for his reception; and seizing the first moment to escape from the embraces of his friends, he retired early to his chambers, accompanied only by Gilbert de Hers. Rodolph had always evinced a strong partiality for Gilbert, which the youth repaid by the liveliest love and admiration. No sooner were they alone, than the duke threw himself dejectedly into a chair, and was soon plunged into a fit of gloomy abstraction. Gilbert stood motionless beside him, inwardly wondering at the silence and despondency of the man, who, a moment before, had been gayly exchanging felicitations with all who approached him.

"Sit down, my son," said the duke.

Gilbert mechanically obeyed.

"Do I seem happy?" asked Rodolph.

"No, my lord; are you unwell?"

"Do I seem overwhelmed with joy at my good fortune?"

"Has anything befallen you, sire?" inquired the youth.

"Yes!" cried the monarch-elect, seizing his wrist, "the gratification of my ambition!"

Gilbert started at the trembling tones and excited gesture of his companion.

"Gilbert," continued the duke, regaining his composure, "you see me in possession of all that I ever craved on earth. I am now legally invested with the imperial crown. It was not the peaceable enjoyment of the throne I asked, but permission to occupy it. I am gratified. With all my hopes realized—I never was more miserable than at this moment. I am not sad because I feel that my career is drawing to a close—that I shall be unsuccessful in the struggle for undisputed power: it is sufficient for me that I die a king. I tremble because I have discovered the impotence of earthly things to gratify the cravings of an immortal soul—because, in finding that I have a capacity of enjoyment not to be appeased by the highest dignities on earth, I begin to comprehend my immortality. I see what a shadow I have pursued—how madly I have neglected eternal happiness for temporal preferment. You, my son, are full of earthly hope, dreaming of the Lady Margaret, of minstrels' praises, and knightly fame. Do not think me harsh, if I pray God that you may speedily know their emptiness. You can never rise as high in this mundane atmosphere as I am now; but your soul is as immortal as mine, and would sicken over less renown, as I do over this."

Rodolph paused, and Gilbert, struck dumb with surprise, gazed up into his face.

"It is late, my son," he resumed, "and we must part. Is there anything you would ask before leaving me?"

"There is to be a tournament to-morrow," the youth faltered out.

"And you would take part, in spite of my discourse," said the duke, with a smile.

Gilbert's reddening cheeks answered for him.

"I must forbid you to couch lance to-morrow," said Rodolph, tenderly; "you shall receive your spurs at my hands when I am king, but let me be the judge of the time. And remember, my son," he added, detaining Gilbert as the latter was about to retire, "remember what you have seen this night. When men shall question my motives, and extol or condemn me, you may say that Rodolph of Suabia was inspired by ambition to seek the crown, but that when it was within his grasp, he would have turned from it in disgust, had not conscience and patriotism compelled him to wear it."

As Gilbert, deeply moved, kissed his hand and withdrew, Rodolph retired to an oratory into which his apartments opened. He had been there engaged in prayer for more than an hour, when the Archbishop of Mayence appeared, and, after a brief adoration, entered the confessional. There, in the silent hour of midnight, the king knelt before the priest, in obedience to the voice of that God who bequeathed us a Church to administer the Sacraments which He appointed for our salvation, and through which we can only attain it. When Rodolph sat again in his chamber, his brow was calmer and his eye softer and brighter.

The morning of the twenty-sixth of March dawned calm and bright. A warm sun suddenly interrupted a long-protracted spell of cold weather, the snow rapidly disappeared from the fields and streets, and the credulous saw a happy omen in the genial spring day that broke through the icy fetters of winter to greet the coronation. A splendid procession moved to the cathedral, and during the celebration of Solemn High Mass, Sigefroy, Archbishop of Mayence, crowned and consecrated Rodolph rightful king and defender of the kingdom of the Franks.

After the ceremony, the nobles assembled to witness the tournament, where the newly crowned monarch presided with a crowd of barons at his side. Gilbert stood at some distance from the royal person, and watched the tilting with all-absorbing interest. Henry of Stramen displayed so much address and managed his horse with so much skill that Gilbert could scarce forbear to join in the applause rendered by those around him. So intent was he upon the lists that a citizen by his side had, unobserved by him, severed the links of a massive gold chain which he wore around his neck, and had concealed it in his gown. But a page who had perceived the theft, throttled the culprit and drew the chain from its hiding-place. The man was ordered to prison, and Gilbert had forgotten the occurrence, when the assembly was disturbed by loud cries and imprecations from without. Gilbert quick as thought passed through the doorway and stood in the street. The bourgeois of Mayence were zealous partisans of Henry, and had already scowled upon the honors paid to his rival. The maltreatment of their townsman had kindled the spark of discontent to flame. They had attacked the soldiers of Rodolph, who, as was customary, attended the joust unarmed, and had rescued the thief. As Gilbert stood watching the tumult, he was singled out as the object of attack, probably at the direction of the citizen who had suffered in the attempt to steal his chain. The situation of the young noble, clad only in a velvet doublet and armed only with a light sword, was extremely precarious. Yet he did not dream of flight, but for a time kept his assailants at bay, slowly falling back upon the arena. A number of soldiers issuing from the pavilion gathered around him, but, shorn of their weapons, they could only parry without returning the blows of their adversaries, who were well supplied with stones and clubs.

Gilbert had not left the lists unobserved by Rodolph, who immediately despatched a page to watch his movements. When informed of his young friend's danger, he arose and cried in a loud voice:

"Gentlemen, we would not have you meddle in this affray: a party of my men have gone for their arms, and it will speedily be terminated. But the son of Albert de Hers is now overpowered by these boors. Let some one hasten to his rescue!"

Three young knights at once dismounted and passed out: the foremost bore in his crest a long dark plume.

The generous soldiers, who had hitherto received upon their defenceless bodies the blows aimed at Gilbert, were almost all beaten down, and in a few minutes more he would have been exposed comparatively unaided to the fury of the populace. His sword was shivered to the hilt, and though he drove back a giant who attempted to close with him, by dashing the guard in his face, he must have fallen beneath a club that swung over his head, had not a tall knight, completely clad in armor, striding before him, intercepted the blow, and dashed the assailant to the earth. A shower of blows saluted the youth's deliverer, but he bore them unflinching, and, vigorously plying his two-handed sword, cleared a space around the exhausted Gilbert. The two other knights arriving at this moment, the contest became more equal. But the mob were now displaying deadlier weapons, and Rodolph reluctantly resolved to command his chivalry to disperse the rabble, when his soldiers arrived with their arms. Inflamed by the loss of their comrades, the now formidable troops threw themselves upon the citizens, and pursued them with great slaughter to their homes. When the knights were left without an enemy, Gilbert advanced to embrace his deliverer. But the knight of the black plume stepped back a pace, and raising his visor, disclosed the features of Henry of Stramen, cold, haughty, and showing just the traces of a smile of disdain.

Gladly at that moment would Gilbert have fallen into his arms and entreated him to forget the past; but there were too many eyes to witness a repulse. He contented himself by saying:

"Sir, you have preserved my life, and with the grace of God you shall not repent it."

Henry made no reply, and they parted.

Gilbert was far too generous to regret an incident which laid him under such deep obligations to Henry of Stramen. He rejoiced that it had occurred, for it might remove the mortification produced by their late encounter, and diminish the mortal hatred with which he was regarded. He was also well disposed to welcome any accident that might give him a pretext for conciliating the house of Stramen. Henry perhaps secretly exulted that he had conferred a favor upon Gilbert that would gall his heart, while it poured a balm upon his own. Still he did not hold the youth in the same utter detestation as before.

On the next day, Rodolph, following an ancient custom, began a tour through his dominions.

Germany now presented the spectacle of a country claimed by two kings. To Gregory the party of the old king was heretical and odious—that of the new king pure and orthodox. Though all his sympathies were with the latter, he still openly blamed and deplored the conduct of his legates, and refused to acknowledge Rodolph as king. The Pope well knew what a delicate undertaking it was to depose a sovereign whom he had consecrated, and how fraught with danger such a precedent must be. His interest evidently called him to receive Rodolph at once into his arms, and had he done this, the result of the contest would have been very different. In the behavior of Gregory we discover, in addition to an insuperable aversion to countenance civil war, a disposition to endure the last extremity rather than dethrone a legitimate monarch, and perhaps a preference of Henry, for his parents' sake, to his rival.

Both kings prepared vigorously for the struggle which could not be long postponed. Henry's measures were admirably calculated to increase his power. He scattered rich benefices lavishly among the clergy, lured on the soldiers of fortune with tempting bribes, and granted enviable privileges to the seaboard towns. The citizens of Augsburg, after tasting his bounty, braved the menaces of his antagonist. Hordes of brigands from Bohemia were attracted to his camp by brilliant largesses and the prospect of an easy booty. The German cities, and particularly those along the Rhine, had always, pursuant to the policy of his ancestors, been the object of his peculiar favor, and the merchants of Worms were relieved from all imposts. The population of these cities was soon ranged under the banner of Henry, whose ranks increased so long as gold could buy, and the promise of license and plunder attracted.

Rodolph's policy served to diminish instead of swelling his numbers. He devoted himself, at the sacrifice of everything else, to gain the Pope to acknowledge him as king. He appeared the inflexible chastiser of simony and ecclesiastical corruption. The very day of his coronation he had obtained the dismissal of a simoniacal deacon. Everywhere he compelled the nominees of Henry to fly, and filled their places with zealous champions of the canonical discipline. At Constance and Zurich he drove the irregularly appointed bishops from their sees: he placed Lutold, a zealous champion of the Pope, over the monastery of St. Gall, which had been devoted to his rival. Many, frightened by these severities, deserted his standards, and others recoiled from the presence of so rigorous an enforcer of spiritual purity.

Thus, while the cause of Henry was flourishing under his criminal artifices, Rodolph was weakened by his honest severity. Yet there was this difference between the parties. The minions of Henry were goaded on by individual interests—the partisans of Rodolph by a common resolution to die in defence of a sublime principle; the first were incited by the hope of plunder, the lust of empire, ambition, avarice, or a lawless appetite for war—the last were animated by a love of liberty, and fought for future security from oppression; the one prepared to preserve unrighteous license and ill-gotten gains—the other were inspired by the hope of regaining the freedom of which they had been unjustly deprived, and by the resolve to regain their ancestral rights and to protect the outraged Church of God.

Albert of Hers with all his energy and address had not succeeded in extracting from Suabia more than two thousand men. With this small force he joined Rodolph, who was then encamped at the little village of Sommeringen, with scarce three thousand Suabians. Here they learned that Henry, at the head of twelve thousand effective troops, was advancing upon Suabia through Ratisbon. Rodolph soon heard of the atrocities of his rival, who abandoned the country to fire, sword, and rapine. Old men and women, pale with fear, came crowding into camp with thrilling tales of the brutality of the Bohemians and their associates. The war had begun; and Henry was devastating the region bordering on the Danube and the Rhine, from Esslingen to Ulm.

Though his force did not amount to half that of his opponent, Rodolph, enraged by the crimes he could not prevent, would have gone to meet his competitor, but for the unanimous opposition of his nobles. While the Suabian party were deliberating upon the best course to pursue, Henry, by a forced march, fell unexpectedly upon their rear. Taken by surprise and overpowered by numbers, they fled in all directions, and Rodolph, accompanied only by a remnant of his army, escaped with difficulty into Saxony. Suabia was now at the mercy of the victor.

Tidings of this disastrous defeat had not yet reached the Lady Margaret. The scanty intelligence she could occasionally glean was not such as to brighten the melancholy caused by the absence of her father and brother. Her fears thickened daily, as rumor, for once unable to exaggerate, divulged the massacres and impieties of the old imperialists. Her only relief was in the Sacraments, administered by the saintly Herman, and in prayer. The wives of the yeomen, not knowing when to expect the enemy, sought shelter in the castle with their parents and children. There were gathered the innocent, the aged, the young, the beautiful, and the Lady Margaret experienced some relief in administering to their wants and calming their anxiety. She did not rely much upon the few faithful soldiers who were left to guard the castle; but though womanly apprehension would often blanch her cheek, and her frame quiver as some recent deed of shame was unfolded, her confidence in God continued unabated.

One afternoon, as the Lady Margaret, surrounded by the inmates of the castle, was seated in the hall, Bertha, clad in a black mantle, stole silently into the room, and glancing wildly around, began to traverse the apartment with rapid strides. Her excited manner attracted much attention, and many anxious conjectures were made as to the cause of her meaning gestures. At length, stopping before the Lady Margaret, who watched her movements with a troubled eye, she sang, almost in a whisper:

The sunbeam was bright on their shields as they came, But dim on their blood-rusted spears; They gave up the hamlet to pillage and flame, And scoffed at the kneeling one's tears!

"Perhaps the enemy are upon us," said a graycoated palmer, who for some days had shared the bounty of the Lady Margaret.

At these words, a general murmur ran round the group, and then all was still as death.

Bertha resumed, in a louder tone:

They come—they come—the groan, the shout Of death and life ring wildly out! The sky is clouding at their cry, As they toss their reeking blades on high; Arm, gallants all! and watch ye well, Or to-morrow's chime will be your knell.

As she concluded the rough fragment, she extended her arm to the south, and shaking her finger menacingly, muttered, "They come!"

This thrilling announcement called forth more than one cry from the lips of the trembling listeners. To increase the panic, a groom burst into the room, and whispered something into the Lady Margaret's ear that made her start and turn pale as marble. Awhile she sat motionless and apparently sinking. But it was not long before her weakness disappeared, and her face assumed a serene, undaunted expression that imparted new hope to those who were sobbing about her. The wailing was hushed as she rose and said, calmly and without faltering:

"We shall probably be attacked in a few hours by an inferior force. Let us pray to God that we may be able to defeat their malice."

In uttering this she had fallen upon her knees, and the rest of the group, imitating her example, knelt beside her. When that solemn and fervent prayer was over, the voice of the gray palmer was again heard, as he cried:

"If any man here can still hurl stone, or thrust spear, let him follow me to the walls!"

About six, in whom age had not quenched the fire or strength of youth, and as many beardless youths, sprang up at the call, and accompanied the speaker out of the room.

Exclusive of this new force, the defenders of the castle were not more than twenty, yet so admirable were its defences that they might hold in check an attacking party of more than a hundred. The warder and his men were grouped together at the main gate, straining their eyes against the horizon, where the smoke of some cottages indicated the presence of the foe, when the palmer advanced and asked permission to assist them. This was readily granted, and the recruits were soon supplied with defensive armor and the usual weapons. The palmer wore his headpiece over his hood, and, with his breast-plate over his gown, which, tucked up with more than John Chandos' prudence, but half revealed the thigh-pieces beneath it, he was equally conspicuous and grotesque.

A body of mounted men could now be plainly seen rapidly advancing. They no longer stayed to desolate the humble dwellings in their path, but swept on against the stately castle which seemed to bid them defiance. The Lady Margaret was now among the soldiers, animating them to resistance. Guided by the palmer, to whom the command had been tacitly yielded, the men were busily engaged in carrying large stones up to the battlements over the archway.

"Who are our assailants?" asked the maiden, as with a firm step she mounted the wall.

The advancing troops rode up to the raised drawbridge, displaying as they came the picturesque costume and swarthy face of the Bohemian marauder. The Lady Margaret's cheek was now deeply flushed, and the haughty spirit of her race flashed within her eyes and curled her lip in scorn.

"They are not a hundred," she said to the palmer, who stood at her side.

In reply, the palmer pointed to a body of men-at-arms, then emerging from a clump of trees in which they had been hitherto concealed. Her color fell at the sight of this new force—yet only for a moment: the next instant her cheek resumed its glow. This column, about a hundred strong, approached slowly and cautiously, as if expecting a sally, until they too had reached the moat.

"We call upon you to open your gates!" exclaimed a knight, who rode a little in advance.

"To whom?" replied the Lady Margaret, in a loud voice.

"To your rightful king and master, Henry of Austria!"

"We do not own a monarch," she returned, "who has forfeited the crown, and our gates shall be closed against all who come in his name."

"You refuse to surrender?"

"Yes!"

"Prepare then, for we will force a passage!"

"We are ready, and invite you to begin!"

The animation which had hitherto supported the maiden gave way, and, all trembling, she descended the rough steps and returned to the castle.

The attack was at once begun. The assailants were not supplied with cross-bows or instruments for casting stones, and the palmer with the soldiers, who readily submitted to his command, could safely watch their operations from the battlements. Some with their battle-axes dashed into the moat and swam across to cut the chain which raised the bridge; but hardly had they reached the shore before they were struck down with stones hurled from the walls. The palmer's object was to hold out until nightfall, and create as much delay as was attainable. The sun was already half hidden behind the hills.

But the fall of the bridge now became inevitable. Their ammunition was exhausted, and three of the assailants, armed with axes, occupied the bridge, while others were arriving at intervals.

"Let us at least gain five minutes," exclaimed the palmer. "One sortie for the Pope and Rodolph of Suabia!"

The bars were withdrawn and the gallant band poured out.

"Suabia!" shouted the palmer, as he launched a heavy mace at one who was hewing at the chain, and felled him to the earth. With a well-aimed thrust he laid another at his feet, and so well was he seconded that the bridge was soon cleared. This gallant feat was greeted with cries of rage from their opponents on the other bank, many of whom, forgetting their heavy armor in their indignation, leaped into the water and sank, muttering idle imprecations. For some minutes the defenders held the bridge, but fearful of being intercepted, they made good their retreat and stood safe within the gate, without the loss of a man.

As further resistance was impossible, the bridge was abandoned to its fate, and was speedily lowered, amid the rejoicings and threats of the besiegers. It was now toward twilight, and the strong gate would baffle their efforts till dark. When that was won, the ballium and the inner wall could still be disputed.

"There is nothing to be done now," said the palmer to his companions; "and you had better go to the castle and take some refreshment, for we will soon have need of all our strength."

As they retired at his suggestion, he climbed to the crenelles and looked anxiously out upon the plain until the men returned; when, resigning the barbican to the warder, he went to receive the thanks of the Lady Margaret, who expressed her gratitude for his services by waiting upon him in person.

The assailants had cut down a tree which they used as a battering-ram against the gate; but the stern bars were yet unbroken. It was now pitch-dark. A thunderstorm had suddenly gathered, and the report of the distant bolt came upon the ear, mingling with the still more appalling clash of the beam against the gate.

Brief indeed was the repose of the palmer before he was again at the embrasures. Bold as he was, he trembled as a blinding flash poured a flood of livid light over the plain and castle. It was not the sudden bolt that awed him; but the lightning streamed upon a host of armed men, stretching away as far as the eye could reach. They were not half a mile off. Another flash leaped out, and revealed a forest of spears. "It is the king himself!" muttered the palmer; "we will be surrounded by a host! God assist us, or we are lost!"

Such were the sounds that trembled on his lips as he abandoned his post. Selecting the groom who had announced the enemy, he whispered to him:

"Do you wish to save your mistress?"

"With my life!" said the man.

"Then lead me to the postern gate."

In their impetuosity, the attacking party had neglected to blockade this avenue, before darkness prevented them from discovering it. The banks of the moat opposite the gate had been made shelving, so as to afford a means of retreat to the besieged, without giving any advantage to the besieger. When they had gained the postern and drawn back the bolts, the palmer said to his companion:

"Now, as you value life and honor, saddle the best three horses—one for yourself, one for your lady, the third for me—swim the moat, and wait till I come."

The groom promised obedience, and they separated—the groom to the stable, and the palmer in quest of the Lady Margaret. He found her in the midst of her dependents, praying in the oratory. It was a sight to make the heart bleed—that defenceless group, with tearful eyes and hands raised trembling to heaven, now starting as the iron gate groaned beneath the heavy blows, now glancing timidly around as the lightning streamed in upon them. The palmer stepped up to the maiden and drew her aside.

"You must fly with me!" he said.

"Why? Are we not safe?"

"Before one may count a hundred, we are surrounded by the whole army of the tyrant!"

This sudden and awful disclosure was too much for the frail maiden, already exhausted by watching and excitement. She grasped his wrist, and shuddering as she fixed her eyes on him, staggered forward, and would have fallen, had not the palmer caught her now unconscious form, and, raising it in his arms, passed from the room. Through the gallery, down the staircase, along the portico he passed, as swiftly as though he carried but a child. The wind came damp and cold against his cheek, the rain poured pitilessly upon his head, the arrowy lightning seemed to play around his feet, but manfully he hurried on with his precious charge. The gate was reached; he paused but an instant to hail the groom and take breath, then slid into the moat, and in a short space stood safe upon the other side. Here he staid but to envelop the maiden in his own heavy cloak, which he had snatched up when the rain began. As her consciousness was but imperfectly restored, the palmer mounted one of the horses and placed her before him. The groom, at his direction, sprang to the saddle and led the third animal.

When they were a little within the wood, the palmer exclaimed

"Can you find the road to Count Montfort's?"

The groom replied in the affirmative.

"Then take the lead, and strike it at the nearest point."

After groping for some minutes, they succeeded in hitting it, and, aided by the lightning, pursued their course as swiftly as the stormy night permitted.

The Lady Margaret was awakened to her situation only to pour forth torrents of tears. In vain the palmer tried to moderate her grief—she could scarcely be persuaded from returning.

The rain had now ceased, and as the clouds rolled away, they obtained light enough to continue their flight more rapidly and securely.

"Look!" cried the groom, as they stood on the top of a lofty hill. The palmer could scarcely repress an inclination to throttle his imprudent friend; for as the Lady Margaret turned her head, she saw a column of smoke and flame curling up, as if it warred against the skies.

"It is my father's castle!" she said. "Oh, what has become of those we left?" she added shuddering. "Let us trust in God!" murmured the palmer. Brighter and brighter grew the flame—higher and higher rose the lurid column. Still the Lady Margaret continued to gaze on the fiery pillar. At last the light suddenly expanded and burned awhile with intense brilliancy. It was but for a moment. Dimmer and dimmer grew the flame, and darkness soon settled over the ashes of Stramen Castle.

The palmer now placed the maiden upon the third horse, and led the way with his hand upon her bridle. Two hours more brought them to the fortress of Tuebingen, where the brave Count Montfort, though refusing to join Rodolph, had designed to hold out to the last against his perjured and sacrilegious rival. The palmer demanded admittance in the name of Albert of Hers, and instantly obtained it.

The generous countess received the daughter of Stramen with open arms, and the count swore first to protect and then to avenge her. Nor was the palmer forgotten. Despite his ridiculous costume, now soiled and torn and stained with blood, he exhibited no embarrassment when ushered into the presence of the noble group.

"The Lady Margaret would know her deliverer," said the countess.

The palmer removed his head-piece and threw back his hood.

"Do you remember me, my lady?" he asked, with a smile.

The maiden looked as one striving to recall a dream.

"Do you remember Ailred of Zurich, the minnesinger?"

Her cheek turned scarlet as she exclaimed, "Oh I how much I owe to you!"

"You owe me nothing, lady," returned Humbert.

"Is my life nothing?"

"If you prize that," was the reply, "reserve your thanks for him who made your safety my duty."



CHAPTER VIII

Hark to the trump and the drum, And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, And the flap of the banners that flit as they're borne, And the neigh of the steeds, and the multitude's hum, And the clash, and the shout, "They come, they come!"

SIEGE OF CORINTH.

Rodolph was received with open arms by the Saxons. Dukes, counts, barons and gentlemen hastened to Merseburg, where, at a grand festival in his honor, he was solemnly acknowledged king of the Saxons. On every side the Saxons were flying to arms against their old enemy, and the princes unanimously advised the new monarch to march against his competitor, who had been recently again anathematized by the Papal legates. Rodolph, burning to retrieve his defeat and to save Suabia from further desolation, hearkened eagerly to suggestions that chimed so well with his own inclinations. He tarried only to wait the reinforcements of Welf and Berthold, and, hoping to expedite their union with him, marched upon Melrichstadt in Franconia.

Henry was no sooner apprised of this intended junction, than he resolved to defeat it. Instantly evacuating Suabia, he led his powerful army toward Saxony. He had deployed twelve thousand peasants to cut off the two dukes, and advanced with the rest of his force to the banks of the Strewe. Before reaching the river, he ascertained that Rodolph was encamped on the opposite side. It now occurred to his unprincipled mind, that he might deprive his rival even of the warning which his open approach would give, by deputing a flag of truce to solicit a parley. The artifice succeeded. Scarcely had the deputation left the Saxon camp, before Henry began the attack. Unprepared for this treacherous movement, Rodolph had barely time to form his ranks and address a few words of encouragement to his troops. He was answered with a shout that attested the eagerness of his soldiers for the fray. Already the clang of arms, the cries of the living, and the groans of the dying were heard along the line. The army of Rodolph was drawn up in two divisions—one commanded by the king, the other by the valiant Otto of Nordheim. As the division of Otto was a little in the rear, that of the monarch was for a time exposed alone to the overwhelming numbers of the enemy. But nobly indeed was the brunt of the battle borne. Rodolph waited not the onset, but led on his columns to the charge. Then Suabian and Saxon darted forward shoulder to shoulder, and the lords of Hers and Stramen, side by side, shouted their battle-cries and hurled their followers upon the opposing ranks. Such was the ardor inspired by Rodolph that, at the first shock, two of Henry's columns were broken. But this advantage did not long avail against equal courage and superior numbers. Henry was at the head of the finest troops in the empire. But the consciousness of the sacredness of their cause made the soldiers of Rodolph invincible. Already Eberard le Barbu, the faithful counsellor of Henry, the Count of Hennenburg, Thibalt, and Henry of Lechsgemund had fallen around their lord. At this moment some bishops, retiring from the ranks of Rodolph, communicated a panic to those around them. It was in vain that Rodolph displayed the brilliant valor that had won him the name of the first knight of the times—that the Lord of Hers put forth his utmost skill, and the Baron of Stramen displayed his unrivalled strength. Menace and entreaty failed alike, nor could example or reproach recall the fugitives.

"Why does not Otto advance!" exclaimed Rodolph, who, by dint of almost superhuman exertion, had preserved his front still unbroken. "Unless I am supported within a minute, the battle is lost."

Hardly had the words escaped his lips, before the war-cry of Saxony—"St. Peter! St. Peter!" burst from three thousand throats, and the noble Otto and the Count Palatine Frederick could be seen leading on their troops, all fresh and panting for the fight. Borne down by this vigorous assault, the pursuing column fell back in confusion, and were routed with great slaughter. Rodolph, having rallied his men, rushed on to where the imperial standard was waving, and with his own hand cut down the banner of his rival. A cry now arose: "Henry is dead!" Dispirited and borne down, the troops of Henry turned and fled in confusion. They were pursued up to the gates of Wuertzburg, where the vanquished monarch found an asylum. The Saxons passed the night on the battle-field, amid hymns of praise and cries of joy.

In the morning, Rodolph, from his inferiority being unable to pursue his victory, reentered Merseburg in triumph; and Henry, unwilling to hazard another engagement, fell back upon Ratisbon to levy new troops.

Thus ended the battle of Melrichstadt: all night the waters of the Strewe, as they glided carelessly along, were red with the noblest blood in Germany.

Some hours after nightfall, when all the requisite precautions had been taken, Gilbert de Hers, unharmed, but worn out by the fatigues of the day, retired to his father's tent. He was alone, for the Lord of Hers was in council with the king. It was a sultry night in August, and, stripping off his armor, he threw himself upon a couch, and gazed languidly but steadily at the flickering watch fires. He had been knighted on the field by the king, and had nobly worn his spurs, but his thoughts were evidently not running on his own prowess or the praises of his monarch. A listless calm had succeeded his late excitement. His meditations were rather rudely interrupted by the entrance of a man who dashed aside the curtains of his tent and pressed the young noble's hand to his lips.

"Humbert!" exclaimed the astonished youth, springing to his feet; and embracing his trusty follower, he poured forth question upon question with such rapidity that Humbert did not even attempt a reply. When Gilbert had composed himself sufficiently to listen, the gallant retainer began to relate all that had occurred at the lordship of Stramen. Gilbert listened mute and breathless until informed of the Lady Margaret's safe arrival and princely reception at the fortress of Tuebingen. Then, forgetting his rank in his joy and gratitude, he threw his arms around his companion's neck, and forced into his hands the chain of gold which had nearly proved fatal to him at the tournament.

"The morning after our arrival at Tuebingen—" resumed Humbert.

"Yes—go on!" said the youth, who not until then had reflected upon the danger of her position, even at Tuebingen, and was eagerly drinking in the words of his companion.

"The morning after our arrival we saw Henry's whole army drawn out in the plain. We were summoned to surrender. The whole court replied: 'A Montfort holds no parley with a perjured king and false knight.' Instantly we were furiously assaulted on all sides. But the defences were complete and completely manned, and they fell back foiled at every point. For three long days we held the barbican against their united efforts. On the morning of the fourth they began to retire, and before sunset we were left without an enemy. When I found that my services were no longer required, I determined to return to Hers, and then seek you here."

"Had the Lady Margaret recovered from her fright and fatigue?" asked the youth.

"With the exception of a slight cough, brought on, I suppose, by the rain."

Gilbert's next question related to his paternal estate.

"The chapel stands uninjured," said Humbert.

"And the castle?"

"The blackened walls alone remain!"

"We shall be avenged!" cried the young knight, drawing a deep breath. "How was the chapel preserved?"

"Numbers of women and children had fled there for protection, and our good Father Herman, standing in the doorway, told the miscreants they must pass over his body. He would have fallen a victim to his zeal, had not the Duke Godfrey de Bouillon interposed and driven back his soldiers with loud reproaches."

"Where is Herman now?"

"Among his poor flock, who have lost almost all—endeavoring to procure them food and shelter, and exhorting them to patience and submission to the will of God."

"How fared Stramen Castle?"

"Even worse than your own."

"And the church?" continued Gilbert.

"Was despoiled and fired."

At this instant the curtain of the tent was parted again, and Father Omehr stood before them.

When informed of the fate of his church, the missionary calmly raised his eyes to heaven and repeated, in a clear, steady voice, those sublime words: "The Lord has given and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord!"

But when apprised of the position of his parishioners, who must inevitably have perished from the oldest to the youngest, the old man bent his head upon his breast, and, pressing his hands to his face, wept bitterly. He soon recovered his habitual resignation, and then, turning to Gilbert, said mournfully:

"Do you see, my son, that God is beginning to punish our feud?"

Immediately after his victory, Rodolph despatched messengers to the Pope to give him the intelligence, and implore him to recognize the king in the victor.

We always approach with veneration and extreme diffidence the character of this mighty man. It is difficult, indeed, to form an adequate idea of his moral grandeur. The better you study his views, the more you are astonished at his wisdom and fore-sight; the deeper your scrutiny of his motives, the higher your respect for his sanctity. His was an age of transition. The great question was still undecided: Shall liberty or tyranny prevail—barbarism or civilization? This question depended upon the answer to another: Shall the Church of God be free or become the creature of temporal power? Already William the Conqueror and Henry of Austria were trying to fetter the spouse of Christ—already the gulf was opening that threatened spiritual Rome with destruction. Then it was that Gregory VII saved the Church as Curtius saved the city; but while the pagan has been raised to the skies, the Christian has been insulted and belied.

Never can we sufficiently contemplate the spectacle of one man contending against the world! Not a chieftain, at the head of an army, subduing kingdom after kingdom, but a priest, without a carnal weapon, resisting a continent combined at once to crush him, and finally vanquishing by his death. Uninspired by ambition, assailed by every earthly motive, God alone could have directed, and God only could have upheld him. The Emperor of Austria had sworn to depose him, the Italians promised to assist his antagonist. With scarce a footing in Germany or Italy, cooped up on a barren peak, he wrestled with the haughty conqueror of England, humbled the pride of Nicephorus Botoniates who had usurped from Michael Paripinasses the empire of the East, and deposed Guibert the guilty Bishop of Ravenna. Yet amid these cares, such as human shoulders seldom knew before or since, he forgot not the objects to which he had dedicated his life—the punishment of simony and the preservation of ecclesiastical purity. It was in the attainment of these, that he arrayed kingdoms against him and died in exile at Salerno. Harassed and chained down as he was, the councils of Anse, Clermont, Dijon, Autun, Poietiers, and Lyons were thundering against simony and incontinency.

It would be presumptuous to offer a word in defence of the conduct of such a man, had not his actions been so grievously misstated, and his aims so ungenerously misinterpreted. It were as well to point out the sun when the eye is dazzled by its brightness.

Gregory received Rodolph's envoys with every mark of affection, but dismissed them, saying he could not comply with their request. The Pontiff's object was to keep royalty within its legitimate sphere, not to depose a particular king, and he wished to accomplish this with as little bloodshed as possible. He saw clearly enough that to declare for Rodolph would be to proclaim war to the knife. He also hoped that Henry would have recourse to his mediation after his defeat. He was again disappointed. His very friends now began to desert him, upbraiding him with ingratitude and coldness. The Saxons addressed him several epistles in which they threatened to abandon him. But less moved by their threats than their entreaties, the Pontiff accused them of weakness and insolence. There was another reason sufficient to deter him from confirming the nomination of Rodolph, had none other opposed it. All Italy, with few exceptions, espoused the cause of Henry, and waited only the pontifical coronation of his rival, to rise in open rebellion. When the history of the times is carefully studied, it will be confessed that the Pope's refusal to accede to Rodolph's request was dictated by the greatest wisdom, enlightened and purified by the greatest virtue and forbearance.

Still hoping to arrest the purple tide of civil war, Gregory despatched legate after legate to Henry, charging them to omit no lawful means to incline the monarch to peace, and induce him to abide by the decision of a diet which should be convened to judge between him and his rival. This was the pacific adjustment to which the Pontiff looked. But Henry remained deaf to all these remonstrances, constantly declaring that the sword alone must decide. He was again at the head of a powerful army, and burned to retrieve the lustre of his arms. Rodolph, perceiving that another battle was inevitable, prepared for it without delay. Each king was now in quest of the other.

They met near Fladenheim in Thuringia. As at Melrichstadt, the allied forces of Suabia and Saxony were drawn up in two divisions under Rodolph and Otto. The former occupied a steep hill on the bank of a deep stream, which separated the combatants. Otto with his Saxons was stationed in the van, and was to sustain the attack, while the division of Rodolph was to act as a reserve. It was a bitter cold day in January, and a thick mist had canopied the river. Under cover of this, Henry, by a retrograde movement, gained the rear of his adversary. Rodolph, unconscious of this, was anxiously listening for the din of battle as the fog partially obscured his view. Gilbert had never seen the new king's noble brow so calm and unclouded—he had never seen his eye flash so proudly and joyously, or the same sweet, buoyant smile upon his lips. But as the hostile army filed out into the plain, and Rodolph found that the enemy he had expected in front was in his rear, a deep frown for a moment dispelled his smiles. It was only for a moment. He saw that Henry was now between him and Otto.

"Ride to my noble Otto," he said to Gilbert, who was at his side, "and bid him charge at once." Before Rodolph had altered his array, Gilbert brought back the Saxon's answer:

"Otto of Nordheim declines to abandon the advantages of his position, and says he will not fail you, should you require his assistance."

"It is well," said the king, frowning slightly; "he will not fail us." Then turning to Albert of Hers, he said, in a whisper: "Otto wishes the glory, of deciding the day, as at Melrichstadt. Let us try that he may obtain the laurel of victory instead of the odium of defeat. Gentlemen!" he said, in a loud voice, exchanging cheerful smiles with the Suabian nobles around him, "you have now an opportunity of meeting face to face the desolators of your country. Soldiers!" he said, mingling among his troops, "there are the Bohemians who butchered your wives and families!" As the whole body clamored for the signal to begin, Rodolph gave the word, and the chivalry and yeomanry of Suabia swept rapidly down the hill. They were met at the base by the whole army of Henry. Still, nothing daunted, Rodolph displayed his impetuous valor, the lords of Hers and Stramen rushed on the destroyers of their castles, and Gilbert and Henry fought side by side, each trying to outstrip the other. At this moment, as Rodolph was tugging at his lance to draw it from a body of a knight he had pierced, it was seized by Vratislaus, Duke of Bohemia. As Vratislaus put forth all his strength to disarm his antagonist, Rodolph suddenly yielded up the weapon, and as the duke staggered back, sprang upon him with his sword. Timely succor alone saved the Bohemian.

"He will be rewarded for capturing my lance," said Rodolph, calmly. "Had not his friends been so fleet, he might have had his recompense in another world."