Some days after the battle, Gilbert was summoned into Matilda's presence.
"I owe you more," she said, "than I can ever repay. Your former voluntary services and fidelity are enhanced by your brilliant exploits in this last victory. Be pleased to style yourself Governor of Modena."
Gilbert advanced a step, and sinking upon one knee, replied:
"Madam, I came to share in your generous devotion to our common Father, and to assist you as best I could. You are now—thanks to your own valor—victorious and secure. I must decline your bounty, for from this moment I renounce the soldier. Here is my sword, madam; since Rome and you no longer require it, I shall not need it; nowhere would I more willingly resign it than thus at your feet."
As the morning dawned, Gilbert de Hers, accompanied by a troop of horse, set out for Monte Cassino.
Gregory had retired to Salerno, where he passed his days in the contemplation of heavenly things, and in reading the lives of the Saints and ecclesiastical history. Gilbert soon heard of his increasing weakness. The sun that had poured its light over the world, despite the mists and clouds of error and vice, was setting at last. How his dying words bespeak the Saint: "My best-loved friends, I count my labors nothing. That which gives me confidence is the consciousness of having loved justice and hated iniquity!" When his assistants, groaning in anguish, adverted to their desolate condition after his death, he raised his arms to heaven, exclaiming, "I will ascend there, and plead your cause before a God supremely good!"
On the twenty-fifth of May, 1085, were uttered those memorable words that smote the forehead of guilty Europe as if with a burning hand: "I have loved justice and hated iniquity—therefore I die in exile."
* * * * *
Years passed by. Peace smiled once more in the lordships of Hers and Stramen. A new dwelling had risen from the ashes of Stramen Castle. The Church of the Nativity was repaired, and again rose in beauty over the faithful who flocked there to worship. Yet there was a stranger priest at the altar, and often after Mass the people would gather around a marble slab just before the altar, on which was written:
"Credo quod Redemptor meus vivit."
This was the tomb of Father Omehr; his epitaph was written and treasured in the hearts of all who knew him, and, transmitted from sire to son, required no foreign chisel to deepen the impression upon the living tablet.
The Lords of Stramen and Hers were often together, and were beloved by their vassals for their uniform courtesy and charity. Their hairs were whitening, and when Sir Sandrit walked to the churchyard he leaned upon Henry's arm.
* * * * *
Years passed by. Henry IV, worn down by misfortune and the rebellion of his eldest son, for his own offspring held up the poisoned chalice to his lips, had followed his sainted antagonist to the eternal tribunal, and his body had been cast out as excommunicated from its sepulchre. The male line of the Franconian emperors had expired in Henry V; Lothaire of Saxony, a zealous champion of Rome, had been raised to the throne. Time was revealing that Gregory VII was triumphant even in death, for the right of investiture was conceded to the Pope, and the celibacy of the clergy strictly enforced.
The Lords of Stramen and Hers were sleeping with their fathers. The hill on which the Pilgrim's Chapel stood was no longer crowned with a castle, but with a monastery occupied by Benedictine monks. The whole lordship of Hers was blooming under their munificent administration. Humbert, whose long locks had now seen eighty winters, still lived at the foot of the hill, surrounded by a goodly number of stalwart sons and fair-haired daughters. And sometimes in the long winter evenings, when the fire sparkled brightly and the old man was garrulous with joy, he would tell how he once entered a hostile castle as a minnesinger with a noble lover, and how the knight defied the angry father. Yet he never revealed that this knight was the generous abbot who now supplied them with the means of innocent mirth, who ministered to all their wants, and whose life was so meek and blameless. For Gilbert de Hers was abbot in the cells that had once been the halls of his sires.
And one word, reader. It was not after the Lady Margaret's death that he embraced the resolution of dedicating himself to God, but on the battle-field of the Elster, and over the corpse of Rodolph of Suabia. He had proved his sincerity in the wars of Matilda, and when he quitted the princess for Monte Cassino, it was to assume the habit of the novice.
* * * * *
One bright afternoon in the fall of 1126, two aged men were walking arm-in-arm toward the Church of the Nativity. One was attired as a Benedictine, the other as a knight. They stopped at the church and before a cluster of tombs. On one of the slabs was carved a Greek cross with a single tear under it, and beneath the tear the words:
"O crux sancta adjuva nos."
It was the resting-place of the Lady Margaret, between the graves of her father and mother. The monk and the knight knelt down and prayed. As they rose, the bells of the church announced the close of day, and ushered in the TRUCE OF GOD.
With their bosoms heaving with recollections of the past, Gilbert of Hers and Henry of Stramen went into the church where fifty years before they had met in youth and enmity, and they knelt together beside the grave of Father Omehr, with their hearts full of tenderness and hope and love, while the sun of ancient Suabia was setting, and the bells poured forth their silvery peal.