"It is the blood of Hers!" she cried, exultingly.
The maniac's face assumed a look of savage triumph.
"Then will I keep this blood-stained instrument as a precious jewel.
Farewell, Bertha; you shall hear from me soon."
She passed rapidly through the narrow aperture by which she had entered, leaving Bertha in blank amazement, utterly unable to comprehend what had passed.
Emerging from the dark ravine, the Lady Margaret rode straight toward the old castle of Stramen, whose gray towers retained their sombre majesty, which the merry sun could not entirely dispel. It was not long before she passed the drawbridge, sped through the massive gate, and reined in her palfrey upon the ample terrace; when, having thrown her bridle to an attendant, she proceeded at once to her chamber, and summoned Linda, the old domestic, to her side.
"You are skilled in such matters, Linda," she said, producing the knife, before the faithful neif had finished her salutation; "is there poison on this blade?"
Linda took the knife, and having examined it attentively, returned it to her mistress; after which she left the room, making a signal that she would soon return. After the lapse of a few minutes, she reappeared with a vessel of boiling water, which she placed upon a marble slab. Then taking from her pocket a piece of polished silver, and at the same time receiving the knife, she plunged them both into the hissing liquid. As the lady of Stramen, eagerly watching the experiment, stood bending over the water with her back to the door, she was not aware of her father's presence. He had entered unperceived, and was contemplating in some surprise the mysterious operation going on before him. He could scarce repress a laugh, for there was something ludicrous in Linda's very wise and consequential manner, as she knelt over the kettle, while his daughter, equally absorbed, her hat yet untied, continued in an attitude of profound attention beside her.
When the water had cooled, the old woman with a trembling hand drew out the silver—it was bright as ever!
"It is venomless as the bill of the turtle-dove," she exclaimed, with the importance of an oracle, looking up at her mistress.
"May I ask the meaning of all this, without being referred to the prince of magic for an answer?" said the Baron of Stramen, stepping forward; and he added, addressing Linda, who in her surprise had nearly overturned the vessel: "Do you wish to be hung for a witch?"
The old woman slunk terrified into a corner, but Margaret hastily replied:
"You are already informed, sir, of the violation of the truce of God, which occurred this morning. Our magic consisted only in the discovery that there was no poison upon the knife which inflicted the wound."
"I cannot but think," rejoined her father, "that you have displayed an unnecessary interest about the result. That young stripling has cost me more lives than he numbers years; and though I could not connive at Bertha's attempt to assassinate, I certainly do not see much reason to rejoice at his escape."
It may have been that Margaret quailed a little beneath her father's rigid scrutiny, but without embarrassment she returned:
"If I had been born and bred to arms, if my breast were accustomed to the coat of mail, if my hand could wield the battle-axe, I might anxiously crave, or coldly behold the murder of a foe confiding in our generosity and in our plighted faith to the Church; but I have never worn the gauntlet, or drawn the sword; my heart has never exulted at the gladsome sight of an enemy's blood, and I scorn to ascribe the interest I may have shown, to a wish of having the sweet assurance that a scion of Hers would perish like a dog, when in reality I hoped to find the weapon venomless."
"Spoken like a woman, as you are," muttered the knight. "I would have you feel otherwise, but God has given you your sex; I cannot change its nature."
The Baron of Stramen was a tall, powerful man, whose vigor fifty years had not impaired. His face was stern, though not repulsive, and free from any approach to vulgarity. A man of strong passions, yet the strongest of all was an unvarying love for his daughter, on whom seemed to have centered all the tenderness of which he was capable. On the present occasion, he put an end to further controversy by drawing Margaret to his side, and giving her an exquisitely wrought head of Gregory VII.
"Treasure it, my child," he said, "it is the faithful likeness of a wonderful man—a man who may one day, with a few stout hearts to second his energy, chastise the impious tyranny of the house of Franconia!" He spoke with deep feeling, and, after pacing the room, with his arms folded upon his broad breast, abruptly stalked through the door, apparently absorbed in some momentous question.
No sooner had he gone, than Margaret turned to Linda, who still occupied the corner, and dismissed her with a message to Father Omehr. When alone, she knelt down before an ivory image of the Blessed Virgin and prayed—not to the polished ivory—but to the Mother of purity whose intercession it suggested, with a fervency and constancy which only they venture to ridicule who cannot record the virtues of Mary without a sneer.
Though not apprehensive, Father Omehr was pleased to learn from Linda that the knife had not been poisoned. Gilbert's eye brightened at the intelligence, though he had not given utterance to his fears—fears they were—for even the young and brave recoil in terror from death, when it assumes a form and hovers near in a detested shape. Having informed the youth that a messenger had been despatched to his father, the priest left Gilbert in charge of the sacristan, and proceeded on his daily errand of mercy through the neighborhood. By men like him, fervent, fearless, faithful, the rude Northern hordes were induced to abandon their idolatry, and embrace the faith of the Church of Rome. These noble missionaries slowly but surely prepared the canvas on which were afterward laid, in colors of enduring brightness, the features of Christian civilization.
When Father Omehr returned, Gilbert was asleep. The sacristan put in his hands a letter from a distinguished prelate, informing him of the nomination of Henry, canon of Verdun, by Henry IV.
"O God, protect Thy holy Church!" exclaimed the missionary, crushing the paper in his excitement. "If the ministers of God become the creatures of the king, despotism and irreligion must inevitably ensue. How long will virtue be accounted a crime? Shall every faithful shepherd be supplanted, to make room for the wolf of lay investiture, the instrument of a lustful tyrant, raised by simony, and upheld by royal favor?"
Gilbert's light slumber had been broken by the voice of his benefactor. As soon as Father Omehr saw the youth awake, he approached him, and inquired, with great kindness of manner, whether he felt better.
The youth replied in the affirmative.
"I have discovered," continued the other, "that you have richly deserved this wound. You killed with your own hand the husband of the woman who stabbed you, and though the chance thrust of an affray, it was noted, and communicated to Bertha by an eye-witness, one of the combatants. This is her revenge—but how inadequate to her suffering!"
"It is, indeed," said Gilbert, replying to the last remark, which had been particularly emphasized. His companion could not conceal the satisfaction with which he hailed this reply, as an omen of regret, and of a right apprehension of his former violence. But the youth was drowsy, and prudence forbade a longer conversation. At the close of the evening service, the lady of Stramen was seen to exchange a few words with her venerable pastor, but she did not enter the cell.
The gorgeous sun of ancient Suabia was beneath the horizon—but Gilbert slept upon his couch; the moon had lit her feebler torch, and walked silently beneath the stars—yet not until midnight did Gilbert awake. All was profoundly still. The dim light of the taper at his bedside revealed only the motionless figure of the sacristan, and the outline of a crucifix hanging against the wall. His eyes involuntarily closed, and in a moment he stood before his father, in the oaken halls of Hers—his retainers were around him—the horses pranced merrily—the bugle sounded—"On to the chase!" was the cry. He opened his eyes—the crucifix became more distinct.
He knelt before a prince, and arose a knight—a broidered kerchief streamed from his polished casque—the herald, in trumpet tones, proclaimed his prowess—the troubador embalmed his deeds in immortal verse—the smiles of high-born damsels were lavished upon him—the page clasped his sword at the mention of his name. He opened his eyes—the crucifix, and the sacristan!
A form of beauty was before him—at first, haughty and disdainful, but gradually assuming a look of interest and pity—it bent over him, and poured a balm into his wound, with a prayer for its efficacy—but the figure lifted its finger with a menacing air, and pointed to a snake, hissing from its hair—a mist settled around him, and the apparition was gone. He opened his eyes—the taper burned brighter—the crucifix became more distinct.
Gilbert was now fully awake. His wound was more painful than it had yet been, and in vain he endeavored to win back the repose so lately enjoyed. Nor was corporal uneasiness his only annoyance. Father Omehr's revelation of the motives by which Bertha was actuated, had left a more painful impression upon his mind than his monitor perhaps desired. Though the priest had not directly attributed the woman's insanity to her husband's death, Gilbert too clearly understood that such was the fact. His was too generous a heart, not to deplore bitterly so terrible a calamity, of which he was—however unintentionally—the cause. He felt no resentment for his misguided assailant—he would willingly have exposed himself to a second attack, could he have thus restored her reason. The memento of the crucifixion—that Catholic alphabet, the crucifix—held up unto his soul the wondrous truth that God had voluntarily suffered, for the sake of man, all that humanity can endure; and the youth interiorly acknowledged that the errors of his life were but imperfectly balanced by the inconvenience he then experienced.
It is not in the pride of health and youth, surrounded by pleasure, and strangers to care, that a heart, wedded to the world, is apt to prostrate itself in humility before the Author of life; but in danger and affliction, we learn to mistrust our self-sufficiency, and feel our complete dependence upon an invisible and almighty power. We are much more disposed to appeal to heaven for protection, than to return thanks for repeated favors. It is not to be wondered at, then, that Gilbert sought relief in prayer; there is nothing more natural to one who prefers the consolations of religion to the staff of philosophy. He was far indeed from that exalted perfection of loving God for Himself alone; but who can predict what may spring from the mustard-seed?
By the first gray light of the morning Father Omehr was bending over his youthful charge: Gilbert was fast asleep.
CHAPTER III
Fit to govern!
No, not to live. O nation miserable,
With an untitled tyrant, bloody-sceptred,
When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again?
MACBETH.
The third Friday after Gilbert had been wounded, he mounted his horse, and, accompanied by Father Omehr, set out for the Castle of Hers, which lay some four leagues distant to the south.
"You are sad, Father," said the youth, who felt all the exhilaration of returning strength, heightened by the freshness of the morning.
"It is true, my son; for though in all the trials of this pilgrimage I endeavor to turn to God the cheerful face He loves to see in affliction, I am sometimes weak enough to tremble at the gloomy period before us. We are upon the eve of a tremendous struggle. You may not be aware of it, for you are unaccustomed to watch events which govern the future for good or evil; but the firmness of our Holy Father, and the increasing recklessness and impiety of the emperor, must create an earthquake sooner or later."
"My father," replied Gilbert, "has imputed to His Holiness a want of firmness."
"Alas, with how little reason! He who, when seized by Cencius and his armed assassins at the altar of St. Mary Major—bruised, and dragged by the hair to the castle of his assailant—yet remained calm and unmoved, with the face of an Angel, neither imploring mercy nor attempting an ineffectual resistance—cannot be accused of a want of firmness. The matchless benevolence—the heart which melts at the first symptom of repentance—the clemency which led him, while his wounds were yet fresh, to pardon Cencius, prostrate at his feet—have also induced him to hearken to the promises of King Henry and accept his contrition."
"But is it not almost folly to trust the royal hypocrite to whom Suabia pays so heavy a tribute? I wish that when his infant majesty fell in the Rhine, there had been no Count Ecbert nigh to rescue him!"
"Is it not rather an exalted charity, of which you have no conception, and a Christian forgiveness which puts to shame your last ungenerous wish?"
"I can have no sympathy or pity for him who has loaded with insult a princess alike distinguished for beauty and virtue."
"You mean the queen, his wife. But tell me, when he endeavored to procure a divorce from Bertha, who prevented the criminal separation? Was it the boasted chivalry of Suabia? No! Peter Damian, the Pope's legate, alone opposed the angry monarch, and told him, in the presence of all his courtiers, that 'his designs were disgraceful to a king—still more disgraceful to a Christian; that he should blush to commit a crime he would punish in another; and that, unless he renounced his iniquitous project, he would incur the denunciation of the Church and the severity of the holy canons.' The result was the reconcilement of Henry with Bertha, in Saxony. And though Alexander was Pope, Peter received his instructions from Hildebrand. But there is a wide difference between your hostility to Henry of Austria and the resistance of Gregory VII to his encroachments: your motives all flow from human considerations, and seek a human revenge; his, on the contrary, proceed from the knowledge of his duty, to God, and breathe forgiveness: you seek the king's destruction and your own aggrandizement—Gregory, the king's welfare, and the independence and prosperity of the Christian Church."
We will no longer continue a conversation which, to be intelligible to all, would require a more intimate acquaintance with the history of the times than can be obtained from the books in free circulation among us. Though Gregory VII has been reproached by all Protestants, and by some Catholics, with an undue assumption of temporal power, and an unnecessary severity against Henry IV of Austria, it is certain that, in his own day, he was charged by many of his own friends, particularly, in Saxony and Suabia, with too tender a regard for a monarch who violated his most solemn engagements the moment he fancied he could do so with impunity, and whose court, already openly profligate, threatened to present the appearance of an Eastern seraglio. A hasty glance at the prominent facts of the dispute will leave us in doubt whether to admire most the dignified and Christian forbearance of the Pope while a hope of saving his adversary remained, or the unwavering resolution he displayed, even to death in exile, when convinced that mercy to the king would be injustice to God.
No sooner had Gregory assumed the tiara, than he addressed letters to different persons, in which he assured them of his earnest desire to unite with Henry in upholding the honor of the Church and the imperial dignity; to accomplish which he would embrace the first opportunity of sending legates to Henry, to acquaint the king with his views. But, while proferring his love, he declared that, if Henry should venture to offer God insult instead of honor, he would not fail in his duty to the Divine Head of the Church through fear of offending man. So, in a letter to Rodolph, Duke of Suabia, who at that time was known to be secretly hostile to the king, Gregory declared that he entertained no ill feeling whatever for Henry, but simply desired to do his duty.
There were two evils which Gregory was resolved to extirpate: lay investitures, and the incontinence of the clergy. When the power of appointing to benefices was usurped by the civil power, the emperor was sure to fill the highest places in his gift with creatures of his own. The inevitable result of this was to create two classes of prelates—one of lay, the other of ecclesial investiture. Its ultimate effect was to render the Church completely depend upon the State, and to change and corrupt its very source with the varying vices of libertine despots. It was found (and how could it be otherwise?) that the protégés of the emperor studied only how to please him; and that, in serving the State and the prince, they became indifferent to the Church. Selected to serve a particular purpose, or chosen in consideration of a valuable donation, the lay nominee had been sure to fulfil the object for which he was elevated, or to indulge the avarice or ambition which had craved the appointment. It was in attempting to remedy this fatal innovation that Gregory found himself repeatedly thwarted by Henry; and yet he had been censured by those who lament the worldliness of a portion of the medieval clergy, for striking at the root of the evil.
After repeated provocation, the arm of the Pope is uplifted to strike; but Henry, awed by his menaces, and by an insurrection in Saxony, hastens to avert the blow by an unreserved submission and the fairest promises. He confesses, not only to have meddled in ecclesiastical matters, but to have unjustly stripped churches of their pastors—to have sold them to unworthy subjects guilty of simony, whose very ordination was questionable—and implores the Pope to begin the reform with the Cathedral of Milan, which is in schism by his fault.
Gregory pardons him; and, in 1074, holds his first council at Rome against simony and the incontinence of the clergy. It was in this year that Henry, already pressed by the Saxons and Thuringians, found himself threatened by Salomon, King of Hungary. In this emergency, he has recourse to Gregory, who, by an eloquent letter, calms the indignant Hungarian.
With the year following, the campaign against Saxony begins. This brave but turbulent people had risen against the towns in possession of Henry, and burned the magnificent Cathedral at Hartzburg. Here again the Pope secured to the king the powerful assistance of Rodolph, Duke of Suabia, in conjunction with whom the royal army obtains a decisive victory at Hohenburg. But once in security and crowned with success, the graceless monarch forgets his submission, and exclaims, "It does not befit a hero, who has vanquished a warlike people, struggling in defence of what they hold most sacred, to bow humbly down before a priest, whose only weapon is his tongue!" Faithless to his recorded vow in the hour of danger, he nominates Henry, canon of Verdun, to fill the see vacated by the Bishop of Liège; and, soon after, calls to the see of Milan, Theobald, his own chaplain, in place of the murdered Herlembaud. Thus repeatedly deceived, Gregory must strike at last, or sacrifice the independence of the Church of God to human weakness.
It was in the pause between these new indignities and the consecration of Hidolphe in the archbishopric of Cologne, that Father Omehr and Gilbert rode slowly on toward the Castle of Hers.
The conversation naturally turned from the consideration of impending evils, to the miserable feud actually existing between the two houses of Hers and Stramen.
"I sincerely wish it were ended," said Gilbert, in reply to a vehement denunciation just pronounced by his companion. "I could willingly forgive all the injuries I have received at their hands, when I remember the kindness of the Lady Margaret."
The priest looked quickly up in the young man's face, but Gilbert was gazing with an abstracted air upon the blue outline of the beautiful Lake of Constance, which just began to appear to the south.
"It were far better," he said, commanding the youth's attention by taking his hand—"it were far better to forgive them when you remember the prayer of your dying Jesus for His persecutors, than out of gratitude to the ordinary courtesy of a pitying damsel."
Gilbert made no direct reply, nor did he return the glance of his friend, which he well knew was upon him.
"I could wish," he began, after a considerable pause, "before leaving your hospitable roof, to have expressed to the Lady Margaret my deep sense of the interest she deigned to display in my regard, and which I fear has done more to soften my feelings toward her father, than the nobler and holier motive you have mentioned."
There was a humility in this that pleased the good missionary; but he saw with pain and uneasiness the direction which the ardent mind of the youth was evidently taking, and instantly rejoined:
"Did you know the Lady Margaret better, you would spare yourself that regret. In her charitable attention to your wants, she overcame a natural repugnance to yourself. She would rather miss than receive any return you can make, and is always more inclined to set a proper value upon the solid and eternal recompense of God, than attach any importance to the empty and interested gratitude of man."
Gilbert's eyes were bent again upon the Lake of Constance. They were now at the foot of a long, high hill, which they began to ascend in silence. Gilbert pressed his horse rather swiftly up the gradual ascent, and they soon gained the summit.
"What is the Danube to that splendid lake!" cried the mercurial stripling; "and what is there in all the lordship of Stramen to vie with this!"
The view now opened might excuse his excitement, even in a less interested person. The Castle of Hers, though built for strength, presented a very different appearance from that of Stramen: its outline was light and graceful, and it seemed rather to lift up than cumber the tall hill that it so elegantly crowned. It was situated upon the border of the lake, which, by trouvère and troubadour, in song and in verse, in every age and in every clime, has been so justly celebrated. A few miles to the southwest the mighty Rhine came tumbling in; who, as the German poets say, scorns to mingle his mountain stream with the quiet waters of the lake. We will attempt no further description, for fear of spoiling a finer picture, which must already exist in the eye of the reader, created by more skilful hands.
As the horsemen neared the castle, they saw a knight, followed by a few men, dashing down the hill. Gilbert knew his father, and hastened to meet him. Their meeting was manly and cordial. The baron stopped but to embrace his son, and hastened to welcome Father Omehr. He dismounted, and imprinted a kiss upon the old man's still vigorous hand.
"I should be childless now," he said, "but for your kindness; and you know that words would but mock my feelings."
The tears in the baron's eyes expressed more than a long oration.
Father Omehr only replied, with a laugh, "You must blame your son's indiscretion, and not applaud me!" Thus saved from a formal and unsatisfactory conversation, the knight remounted his horse and led the way to the castle.
Upon the slope of the hill, half-way between the castle and the lake, was a chapel built of white stone, which had stood there, according to tradition, from the ninth century. It was said to have been erected by Charlemagne, on his second expedition against the Saxons. The Baron of Hers had ornamented and repaired it with much taste and at great expense, until it was celebrated throughout the circle of Suabia for its richness and elegance. It had been dedicated to Mary the Morning Star, as appeared from a statue of the Blessed Virgin surmounted with a star, and was called the Pilgrim's Chapel. It was in charge of Herman, a priest, who had studied at Monte Cassino under the Benedictines, with Father Omehr, whom he loved as a brother. They had spent their period of training and had been ordained together; and, for forty years they had labored in the same vineyard, side by side, yet seldom meeting. When they did meet, however, it was with the joy and chastened affection which only the pure-minded and truly religious can know; and they would recall with tears of happiness the scenes of other days—the splendid convent, whose church shone like a grotto of jewels and precious stones—the learned and devout monk, and the theological difficulties over which they had triumphed hand in hand.
After taking some slight refreshment (for the baron could ill brook a refusal of his cheer), Father Omehr left the father and son to each other, and began to descend the path to the chapel. Herman had gone to administer the last Sacraments to a distant parishioner. Father Omehr knelt down in the chapel and awaited his return. It did not seem long before his brother missionary entered through the sacristy and knelt beside him. The little chapel was very beautiful, with its branching pillars, supporting clusters of Angels carved in stone. The images of the Saints served to awaken many fine emotions—and the principal statue of Our Lady, which the artist had designed to represent the immaculate purity of the Mother of God—gave an indescribable sweetness to that consecrated spot: but more beautiful still, and more acceptable to God, were the two holy men who, bent with age and grown gray in the service of a heavenly Master, bowed down together before the altar of the Most High, and for a time forgot each other in the contemplation of the majesty and infinite goodness of Him they served.
At length they rose; and when in the open air gave way to the impulse of human love, which until then had yielded to a loftier feeling.
There was a room in the Castle of Hers in which Herman spent the hours not required for the active duties of his ministry, and to this the two friends retired. There for more than an hour, they discussed topics of mutual interest—compared the condition of their flocks—and wandered back to Naples and Monte Cassino. The introduction of this last subject seemed to remind Herman of something he had forgotten; for he started up and went to a shelf, which was filled with extracts he had been permitted to make from the celebrated library of the convent, and taking down a small piece of parchment, gave it to his companion. It was an illuminated manuscript of the Salve Regina.
"It was sent me yesterday across the lake by a Benedictine monk," he said, when Father Omehr had finished reading and raised his eyes in wonder and delight.
"And who has written it?"
"A namesake of mine—a Benedictine. It was not seen until after his death, when the manuscript was discovered in his cell. What is more remarkable is that the monk was distinguished for nothing but his piety, and had never made any pretension to learning or accomplishment."
Much to the surprise of Herman, his friend, though deeply moved by that beautiful effusion of Catholic piety, seemed not to give the entire attention which it so eminently deserved.
"Listen!" he said, repeating the lines. "What melody! what tenderness! what love! You certainly must feel its exalted piety?" he added, appealing to Father Omehr.
"I do, indeed; but you perceive that I am disturbed. In brief, then—for
I could not bring myself to say until now—Anno of Cologne is dead."
Anno, Archbishop of Cologne, was revered throughout Europe in the eleventh century for his virtue and wisdom. It is said of him that, when others slept, he rose, filled with a holy zeal, and visited many churches, carrying with him his pious offerings. In the halls of kings, says the poet who celebrates his virtues, he sat with the haughtiness of the lion; in the hut of the peasant, he stood with the humility of a lamb. So obnoxious was he to the king, that Henry at one time assaulted him sword in hand; and he was only saved from death by the interposition of a monk. Alone, he founded five monasteries, including that of Siegberg, his favorite residence, where he died, and where his tomb was long pointed out to the traveller. He was said to have emitted a light, the splendor and beauty of which spread around like the lustre of a precious stone in a ring of gold.
"O God, the giver of all!" exclaimed Herman, after a pause, "in taking him to Thyself, do not leave us desolate!"
Father Omehr then described the fearful ulcers which had tormented Anno's body, and the celestial visions and brilliant apparitions that delighted his soul and foreshadowed the bliss awaiting him in the life to come.
"But let us not weep for him whose epitaph is in the mouths of the widow and the orphan, and whose soul is in the hand of God!" said the pious chaplain of Hers, grasping the hand of his friend.
"Not for him I weep," was the reply; "nor yet for the bereaved people of
Cologne." The missionary paused, unable to proceed, and then hurriedly
exclaimed, "Who is to be his successor? Who is to appoint him?—Gregory
VII or Henry of Austria!"
"He will not dare!" ejaculated the other, who not until this moment clearly understood his more keen-sighted friend.
"He who has dared to fill the sees of Liège and Milan may not scruple to dishonor the see of Cologne! But let us pray and hope; for suffer what we may, we cannot be conquered."
This long interview was here terminated by the bell of the Benedictine, summoning to dinner. The Baron of Hers was noted for his fine person and his polished address, and saluted them with even more than his usual politeness as they entered the dining-room. He was the only one of the group who seemed at ease; for the two missionaries could not forget the death of Anno—and Gilbert, from some cause or other, had lost his sprightliness.
"I fear," said the knight to Father Omehr, "that you have half made a traitor of Gilbert, for he will no longer let me abuse my friends at Stramen, but sides with them against me. It is hard to fight our battles all alone, and against our friends, after forty."
"The Lady Margaret, who dressed his wound, must be blamed—not I," replied the priest.
The handsome face of the Baron of Hers, in an instant, became black as night, and as quickly recovered its former mildness; but the change, apparently, was not noticed by him who had caused it.
"I have heard," resumed the knight, in a careless tone, "that the young lady possesses much virtue, intelligence, and beauty, and is wise enough to prefer the cloister to the court."
"You have not been misinformed; yet her health is so feeble, that the grave will probably anticipate her choice of either."
It was not until the close of the meal that the Lord of Hers was informed of the death of the Archbishop of Cologne, and from that time until they rose the conversation turned wholly upon the venerated and saintly prelate.
Toward sunset they descended the hill and walked along the picturesque banks of the lake. The noble sheet of water stretched away to the south far as the eye could reach, burnished by the sun, and forming part of the horizon.
"This lake of ours," said the baron, "has obtained a reputation which the best man cannot expect—and, indeed, would not desire: no one has ever breathed a word against it."
"There is a boat!" interposed Gilbert, pointing to a speck in the distance, which his father discovered after a long search, and was invisible to their two older companions. They stood in the shadow of some trees, and watched the object as it increased in size and gradually assumed the undeniable outline of a boat. It came from the direction of Zurich, and pointed directly to the castle. As it neared, they could distinguish four stout rowers and a person seated in the stern. With increased speed it seemed—for it was now within hailing distance—the boat darted straight to where they were standing; and, before it was made fast, the gentleman in the stern sprang ashore, and, removing the cloak in which he had been enveloped, discovered the princely features of Rodolph, Duke of Suabia. Rodolph was descended from the counts of Hapsburg, on the father's side—and, on the mother's, from the illustrious family of Otto the Great. He was styled King of Arles, and resided for the most part at Zurich. He was connected with Henry of Austria by a double tie, Matilda, his first wife, having been the sister of the king, and Adelaide, to whom he was then married, being the sister of the queen. But, though thus allied to Henry, he neither loved nor respected him. Once, indeed, the emperor had summoned him to court, on the charge of entertaining projects hostile to the house of Franconia, but Rodolph, well knowing the treacherous character of the monarch, and always a hero, boldly refused, preferring the fortune of arms to the fate of an investigation. Subsequently, filled with horror at the impiety of the Saxons in burning the Cathedral at Hartzburg, hallowed by numerous relics, and filled with the rich offerings of the faithful, he had united with Henry to chastise their sacrilege. At the battle of Hohenburg, in the van—the privilege of Suabia—he distinguished himself above all others by his impetuous valor, and only left the field when covered with wounds. Rodolph was equally remarkable for the size and beauty of his person, and the elevation of his soul. The Teutonic antiquities contain many songs of the Minnesingers, in which he is invested with all the qualities of mind and heart and body that can adorn the knight; but one fault is imputed to him—ambition. His subjects almost worshipped him, and his power is said to have been built upon their hearts. So conspicuous was he among his brother dukes, that, at the Diet of Gerstungen, in 1073, he had been offered the imperial crown, but he declined it unless awarded by the unanimous suffrages of the confederation.
Between him and the Baron of Hers a close friendship of long standing had existed, which had been interrupted by the baron's refusal to accompany him the preceding year in the expedition against Saxony. This refusal had been dictated by the knight's invincible repugnance to Henry, and by the politic move of conciliating all who opposed the emperor. Since the battle of Hohenburg they had not met.
After receiving the formal salutation due to his rank, Rodolph cordially embraced the Lord of Hers, and extended his regards to Gilbert, who could not sufficiently admire the hero of Hohenburg.
"But for your father's obstinacy," he said to the youth, "you would now be a knight. But I will see you win your spurs yet."
The greetings over, they all began to ascend the hill. The duke would not pass the chapel without entering. The pavement upon which they knelt had been worked with many a rich and curious device; but time and the knees of the faithful had worn away most of the finest tracery. At the foot of one of the columns still remained this fragment of an inscription:
Hoc pavimentum … feci … ductus amore Dei.
This was the spot upon which the duke loved to kneel. Before rising, he drew from under his robe a golden chalice, and gave it to Herman, who was beside him. The priest took it and carried it to the sanctuary.
"I would almost give the decade of Jura," exclaimed Rodolph, as he approached the castle gate, "to know who made that superb pavement."
"It resembles more the pavement of a cathedral than the simple floor of a chapel," said Father Omehr. "I wish we had such an one to our little church at Stramen."
"Trust that to your successor," replied the duke; "you have given him the walls, the pillars, the windows, and the roof, and are well entitled to a pavement and alabaster altar at his hands."
They were now at the gate, into which were cut two niches containing statutes of SS. Victor and Apollinaris. The bars, which yielded to every stranger and to every peasant, flew open before the high-born group, and the almoner, as he recognized the duke, bent his knee in reverence. They mounted a heavy flight of stairs, and, traversing an arched gallery, were ushered into the principal hall. This large room was hung with solemn tapestry, reaching from the ceiling to the floor. The characteristic piety of these ages displayed itself in the beautiful recesses in the walls, adapted to the reception of holy water, and in the devices upon the floor and ceiling, which always conveyed some pious meaning. The walls were covered with paintings chiefly relating to the exploits of the lords of Hers, or filled up with heraldic blazonry.
In the cathedral or in the castle, in the monastery or in the chapel, durability was the principal object of the architect. It is true that the genius of the age contrived to combine the greatest strength with the greatest elegance; but durability was the great end. The pious men of the Middle Ages did not erect mere shells, which, though sufficient for their own brief lives, would crumble over their posterity; but looked to the wants of future generations. And, then, there was a reliance upon posterity which is neither felt nor warranted now. Thus, in the minor Church of the Nativity in the lordship of Stramen, which had been designed by Father Omehr, and which had exhausted the revenues of the barony, the missionary had conceived it upon a scale to which his present means were insufficient, but to which the charity of another generation would be adequate. This was always the case with the cathedrals. Even the castles themselves had so many rooms set apart for recluses and wanderers, that it was easy to convert them into monasteries; and the Castle of Hers, with very little alteration, would have made an excellent convent.
Rodolph was about to throw himself into one of the large high-back chairs of state; but yielding a graceful respect to the aged priests, he motioned them to be seated, and placed himself between them.
"You are rather pale, my lord duke, from your wounds," said the baron, as an attendant entered with some wine-cups—"and I beg you to accept from my son a draught of the vintage you used to relish."
Rodolph received the goblet from the youth, and replied, as he raised it to his lips, "How I missed you at Hohenburg!"
"I would have given my lordship," returned the baron, "to have seen you outstripping all the chivalry of Austria, and charging where none dared to follow!"
"My fair cousin, the Margrave Udo, would have atoned for the thrust at my face, which made me see more stars than were ever created, had you been at my side."
"But to aid you was to assist Henry; and I was loth to break our league with Saxony."
"That league was merely defensive, and they broke it by aggression and sacrilege."
"But we could not punish their crime without strengthening the power of that greater criminal, the emperor."
"You acted uncharitably," said the duke; "but you judged aright, and I have forgiven you."
"For which; my liege," replied the baron, "I cannot be too grateful."
"Listen," continued the King of Arles, "ye true pastors of the Church of God, and you, Albert of Hers, that Henry of Austria has nominated a successor to Anno of Cologne!"
At this announcement Herman and the knight sprang to their feet, while their looks expressed their horror and surprise. But Father Omehr kept his seat, and said calmly:
"Will your highness inform us more fully?"
The duke resumed: "A messenger, post haste from Goslar, brought me the news this morning at Zurich. Henry refused to meet the Pope in council to take measures for the purification of Milan, Firmano, and Spoleto, and has thus replied to the threat of excommunication. The nominee is Hidolph, who is attached to his own chapel, a man of no merit whatever, but devoted to the emperor; and whose principal endeavor it has been to remedy by art the unprepossessing exterior which nature has given him."
"I know him," said Father Omehr. "Is he yet consecrated?"
"No! All Germany is indignant at the choice, and the people of Cologne are imploring the monarch to make another appointment."
"It will serve but to confirm the nomination," said the priest of
Stramen.
"What remains to His Holiness?" inquired Rodolph.
Slowly and solemnly the missionary pronounced the single word:
"Excommunication!"
"Henry is preparing for it!" exclaimed the duke, rising and addressing the Lord of Hers; "he convened at Goslar all who respected his summons—among whom was the Duke of Bohemia: and he has liberated Otto of Nordheim, my adversary at Hohenburg, and received him into his most secret councils. It must come, my friend," he added, grasping the baron's hand; "we shall not be separated here; and, if I mistake not, we have in Gilbert one who is not to be awed by the lion of Franconia!"
Father Omehr beheld with sorrow the meaning glances of the proud nobles, as they eagerly joined hands; and he read in the animated features of the hero of Hohenburg that the impending excommunication would be the signal for a revolt. He rose, and, exchanging a few words in an undertone with Herman, explained the necessity he was under of returning at once to the Castle of Stramen.
"I will accompany you," said the duke, "if you will delay your departure a few minutes."
Father Omehr expressed his assent, and retired to the chapel with Herman, leaving the two knights in close converse. Gilbert ran to order the best horse for the duke, and to see that his venerable benefactor should want nothing to carry him safely over the intervening hills. After exchanging many kind adieus, Rodolph and the missionary, near the close of twilight, started for the Castle of Stramen.
CHAPTER IV
…Simonis leprosam
Execrate hæresim,
Sacerdotum simul atque
Scelus adulterii,
Laicorum dominatus
Cedat ab ecclesiis.
ST. PETER DAMIAN.
The King of Arles and the missionary rode along without an escort, and felt none of the fears that the traveller of the times is often made to entertain for his personal safety. They did not apprehend any violence, and their only preparation for the expedition had been a recommendation to God through Our Lady and the Saints. It is as purely imaginative in historians and novelists—and it is difficult indeed to distinguish the one from the other—to surround every castle with a wall of banditti, as to station in Catholic countries of the present day, a robber or an assassin behind every tree. In the Middle Ages, the stranger could wander from castle to castle with as little danger as the nature of the country permitted; even in times of war, the blind, the young, the sick, and the clergy were privileged from outrage, though found on hostile territory. And in war, peace, or truce, the pilgrim's shallop was a passport through Christendom; he was under the special protection of the Pope, and to thwart his pious designs was to incur excommunication. Even amid the terrors of invasion, the laborer was free to pursue his occupation, and his flocks and his herds were secure from molestation; for it was beneath the dignity of the man-at-arms to trample upon the person or property of the poor unarmed peasant. Such were the principles recognized even in the eleventh century; and though we witness frequent departures from these admirable provisions, we must be careful not to mistake the exception for the rule, or to impute to the spirit of the age a violence and contempt of authority common to all times, and found alike in Norman and Frank, American and Mexican. To balance these infringements of regular warfare or "blessed peace," we often meet with instances as beautiful as the march of Duke Louis, the husband of St. Elizabeth, into Franconia, in 1225, to obtain reparation for injuries inflicted on a peddler.
"I hope the Baron of Stramen has lost none of his vigor," said the duke; "we were together at Hohenburg, and I may need him at my side again. His son Henry, too, whom I knighted before the battle, and who won his spurs so nobly, how is he?"
"They were both well," replied Father Omehr, "when I saw them last, and were anxiously expecting a visit from their liege."
"And the Lady Margaret, from whom not a knight can boast a token, though all are striving to obtain one?"
"She has not altered since you saw her," answered the priest; "she was always rather frail, but I do not see that she grows weaker."
"You cannot imagine," interposed Rodolph, "how much it grieves me to be unable to reconcile these two families whom I so dearly love, and who, in the camp or in the chamber, have proved themselves so devotedly attached to me. I cannot even ask of one in the hearing of the other, without giving offence or receiving a bitter answer. In all things else, they are obedient as this horse to his rein; but the moment I speak of reconciliation, the stubborn neck is arched, and will not relax either for threats or entreaties."
"Your grief cannot equal mine," returned the missionary, "and I confess, that without the hope of obtaining assistance from heaven, I should despair of ever softening the determined animosity of the Baron of Stramen. The Lord of Hers, perhaps, might be induced to throw enmity aside, if his adversary relented; but he cannot be persuaded to sue for peace, especially when his supplication might be unavailing."
"I cannot believe," continued the duke, "that my friend of Hers could have killed Robert of Stramen, since he most positively denies it. It is true that their relations were anything but amicable, yet Albert of Hers would scorn to take a knight at a disadvantage, and would not attempt to conceal the result of a mortal struggle. If Robert of Stramen fell by his hand, it must have been in fair combat; and if in a fair tilt, there is no motive for concealment."
"But the circumstances are strong enough to amount to conviction in an angry brother's eyes. A woman, who has since lost her mind, named Bertha, her father, and her husband, all swore to have seen Sir Albert ride away from the spot a short time before the body was found; and the scarf of the Lord of Hers was clutched convulsively in the dead man's hand. The wound upon the head resembled that produced by hurling a mace, and was of such a character that the head could not have been protected by any steel piece. I do not consider this conclusive against the Lord of Hers, or even incapable of explanation; but real and unequivocal guilt itself could not justify the untiring malignity of the Baron of Stramen. His brother's soul would be much better honored by his prayers, than by imprecations and the clash of steel; we cannot avenge the dead, for their bodies are dust, and their souls absorbed in things eternal; and Sandrit de Stramen is but making his brother's misfortune the occasion of his own temporal, and perhaps eternal injury. I wish, indeed, this criminal work of vengeance could be stopped."
"Yes," replied the duke, "they had better husband their energies, for if
I read the future aright, Suabia will have need of every nerve."
Rodolph paused here; and as his companion did not reply, they rode on in silence.
"I have a plan," exclaimed the duke, with singular vivacity. "But tell me first, has that young Gilbert seen the Lady Margaret?"
In reply the missionary briefly narrated the events of which the reader is already in possession. "Then," pursued the King of Arles, eagerly, "I have strong hopes of success. Listen to me, holy Father: the maiden is beautiful and virtuous, the youth fair and knightly, and I can so represent one to the other, as to create an attachment strong enough to insure to filial love a victory over parental hate. It is fair, I think, to employ the bodily graces of these young persons against the mental deformity of their parents—to array the child against the father, when we seek the triumph of innocence over sin."
"Your highness is inclined to be romantic," rejoined the priest.
"Only the circumstances are romantic, and they seem to have shaped themselves; my plan is practical enough. Tell me—what think you of it?"
"Briefly, then, I think your project impracticable."
"Impracticable! You cannot know, Father, all that love and youth will dare; but I, whose earthly life has given me experience in such matters, have seen the impossibilities of sober minds yield to the irresistible energy of two plighted hearts. Oh, no; it is not impracticable."
"I will grant you," replied the missionary, "that these two young persons might be brought to love each other, that they might marry in spite of family opposition, but the result would make your romance a tragedy."
"How so?" inquired the duke. "May we not deem without impiety that God, in His mercy, has designed them for the extirpation of this miserable feud, and has drawn out of the stern parents themselves the instruments by which their hearts may be softened?"
"It is impossible," said Father Omehr, "for us to discover by any human means what the mercy of God may appoint; all we can do is to ask for light to guide our steps, and to exercise the reason with which He has endowed us. I have good ground to believe that any approach to tenderness, on the part of the children, would widen the breach between the fathers. And were such the case, the consummation of your plan would give only a new and horrible feature to the present discord, by severing the bond between child and parent. For, unless I am much deceived, the lords of Hers and Stramen would turn away in disgust from children whom they would consider, not only to have disobeyed them, but to have proved faithless to their race. In this view, I can not suppose that heaven indicates the path to final reconciliation through fresh dissension. The hearts of the parents can not be softened in the way your highness proposed, and that must be the first step in your plan. Besides, I have little confidence in the agency of a human and selfish love to reach an end that ought to be gained by purer motives. I have discovered, from observation, what the power you spoke of will dare; I know its greatness and its littleness."
"I must tax my ingenuity for a more auspicious scheme," resumed Rodolph of Suabia, "for I begin to be distrustful of my first. I was a little romantic, I confess; but it is thus we give the rein to some solitary impulse of youth, lingering, like a firebrand, among our more matured resolves."
They had ridden slowly, and were now on the brink of the ravine, three miles from the Castle of Stramen. The waning moon and the bright starlight showed them a white figure standing in the road, a few paces from the mouth of the gorge.
"Who is that before us?" asked the noble.
"Bertha, the poor crazy woman, who swore to the presence of the Lord of Hers at the spot where Robert de Stramen was found," whispered the priest, and he advanced to where she stood.
"I heard your horse's hoofs, Father," she said, "and I came to get your blessing."
"And you shall have it, Bertha," he answered, extending his hands over her head. "Good night," he added, seeing that she did not move.
"Who is this you have brought us?" continued the woman, pointing to the duke.
"That," replied Father Omehr, "is Rodolph, Duke of Suabia, and King of
Arles."
Bertha approached the duke, knelt down, and kissed his hand. She then walked slowly up the ravine.
"A singular being," exclaimed the duke, as they gave their horses the spur, for it was growing late. "I have not seen any one thus afflicted for many years, and it is always a painful sight."
The two horsemen were now at the church, but they passed it and kept on to the castle; and hearty was the welcome of the noble duke to the halls of Stramen castle. Sir Sandrit's eyes gleamed with delight as he saluted his liege; Henry's cheek flushed with pleasure when Rodolph, the flower of German chivalry, spoke of his youthful prowess at Hohenburg; the Lady Margaret loved the duke for the praises he heaped upon her brother. Nor were the domestics gazing idly on; but kept gliding to and fro, and hurrying here and there until the genial board was spread, and the fish, fresh from the Danube, smoked, and the goblet gleamed.
As it was near midnight when they sat down, Father Omehr felt at liberty to leave the room without ceremony. The Lady Margaret stayed no longer than courtesy demanded, when she rose and retired to her chamber. This young lady had always been noted for her piety and her charities to the poor, whose wants she was sure to discover and supply. Under the skilful and fervent training of Father Omehr, she had learned to repress a spirit, perhaps naturally quick and imperious, and to practise on every occasion a humility very difficult to haughty natures. There was even some austerity in her devotion; for she would subject herself to rigorous fasts and to weary vigils, and deny herself the luxuries that her father delighted in procuring for her, little dreaming that they were secretly dispensed to the sick of the neighborhood. She never failed to hear Mass, unless prevented by sickness or some other controlling cause, but every morning laid a bunch of fresh and fragrant flowers upon the altar of our Blessed Mother. And who shall say that the sweet lilies of the field, the roses and the violets, colored with the hues of the dawn, and freshened in the dew of the twilight, when offered and consecrated by the homage of an innocent heart, are not grateful to her whose purity they typify! Yet there was a lurking family pride in Margaret's heart that she could not entirely eradicate, and a sleeping antipathy to the house of Hers that at times betrayed itself to her watchful self-examination. The reader must not imagine that, when she told the missionary at Gilbert's bedside that had the youth fallen in battle she perhaps would rejoice, she actually desired such an event. She spoke to one who knew her better. She felt this antipathy, but did not know its extent; and, with the humility of virtue, she feared that, although engaged in an act of charity, there might be the fiend of revenge at the bottom of her soul. Margaret de Stramen was not blind to her imperfections, and she did not hesitate to impute to herself an inclination to the un-Christian hate so cherished by her family. But she endeavored to overcome it by prayer, by the Sacraments, by penance, and by pondering the splendid example of Jesus of Nazareth.
The Lady Margaret was not one of those fair and fanciful creations, endowed with such exquisite sensibilities as to perceive and return the admiration of a young knight-errant with whom she had been associated by any romantic circumstance. Nor was her disposition of that impulsive kind which will permit the impression of a moment to overthrow the prejudices of years. But to her joy and surprise, she found that, far from rejoicing at Gilbert's misfortune, she had regretted it; and regretted it, not merely because it might stigmatize the fair name of Stramen, but also in obedience to an elevated generosity that sickened, ungratified, at the sight of obtained revenge. She had been almost constrained to render assistance to the youth; and there are some who think the sting of a favor worse than the fang of an injury, and are more disposed to forgive after having benefited. With the facility peculiar to a gifted woman, she had read in Gilbert's face the ingenuousness and goodness of his heart, and though she did not ascribe to him any exalted qualities, she admitted that it was not easy to believe him guilty of cruelty or meanness. In a word, the sympathies of the woman were now arrayed against family pride and family prejudice, and a trial still more dangerous and severe awaited her piety and resolution.
In the morning, after hearing Mass, she found the duke and her father in close conversation, while her brother was busily preparing for some important event. It was soon evident that Rodolph was about to depart, and that Henry was to accompany him; for the grooms led to the door two handsome and stalwart steeds, richly caparisoned, and four mounted men-at-arms rode up and halted upon the terrace, where they waited motionless as statues of steel.
When their private conference was over, the duke advanced, and took the Lady Margaret by the hand. "I am selfish enough," he said, "to deprive you of your brother for a few weeks, to assist me by his counsel, and protect me by his arm, should it be necessary, in a little adventure we have resolved to undertake."
"I am too true to you, my lord," replied Margaret, "to desire my brother's society when you request his assistance. Were I a young knight, I should esteem it no light favor to march—no matter where—as an escort to Rodolph, Duke of Suabia."
"And I, fair maiden," returned the duke, "could wander to the end of the world with such a companion."
"I hope you may not find Henry so agreeable as to carry you so far, for
I expect to welcome you back in a week."
"If I consulted my pleasure," said Rodolph, "I should not be absent a day, but my duty may detain me a month. I will not offer an apology for so long a stay, because I fear that before sunset you will have ceased to think of me, or remember me only in connection with your brother."
"A noble duke," replied the lady, "whose name is heard wherever the minstrel tunes his harp, whose word was never plighted in vain, whose sword was never stained in an unrighteous cause, whose arm and purse are ever at the command of the poor and persecuted, whose courage and clemency, wisdom and piety, so well entitle him to the love of all his people, is not so easily forgotten."
"I assure you, on my honor," exclaimed Rodolph, "that I value your words more than all the songs of all the minstrels I ever heard. I would I were worthy your praise; but you have inspired me to deserve it. Farewell! I see that Henry is impatient, and we must not lose the early morning."
He bade adieu to the baron and his daughter, and turned to mount his horse, when Bertha touched his arm, and placed in his hand something enveloped in silk. Bertha said not one word, but she looked earnestly up in Rodolph's face, and then walked away as swiftly and silently as she came. The duke could not help remarking the wild beauty of her pale and wasted face, and remained some moments gazing after her with a painful interest. He removed the silk and found that it contained a ring garnished with a stone of rare value. He started as his eye fell upon the trinket, for he remembered that years ago he had given it to the Lord of Hers. How could it have come into Bertha's possession, was the question that naturally occurred to him; but the answer came not so readily as the question. While the duke was thus pondering, Henry had embraced his father and sister, and leaped upon his horse. Rodolph mounted slowly, after examining the girths with his own hand; and the little troop, waving a parting salute, swept over the drawbridge, and were soon lost among the trees.
About the same hour, or a little earlier, the Lord of Hers, with a small retinue, had set out in an opposite direction, but on the same mission. Rodolph had long seen that King Henry's unprincipled ambition threatened the liberties of religion and of Austria, and he only paused for the Papal excommunication to throw off all allegiance to a monarch who could not be safely trusted. That excommunication was impending, and, as may be easily conjectured, the duke was making a rapid circuit of his dominions, to unite his barons more closely to his interests; to warn them to prepare for the approaching struggle; to confirm the weak and wavering in their fidelity; inspire the resolves of those who were true and firm, and make all the pulses of the circle of Suabia throb in concert to the action of one grand moving power. To gain time, the Lord of Hers had been despatched to the provinces bordering upon the Rhine with letters from Rodolph to the principal barons there, while the duke himself, with Henry of Stramen, followed the Danube.
For many months there had been no active warfare between the hostile houses, though the feud had lost none of its venom. But age was stiffening the impetuosity of the old barons; and their sons, no longer urged on by the battle-cry of their sires, listened with more attention to the advice and representations of their spiritual instructors. Gilbert of Hers was not inclined to take an injury to his breast, and hug it there; but the bold and frequent incursions of Henry of Stramen had induced him to retaliate rather in a spirit of rivalry than of revenge. Henry of Stramen inherited all his father's implacability, but he had often yielded to his sister's solicitation to dedicate to the chase the day he had devoted to a descent upon the lordship of Hers. The troubled condition of Germany had also diverted the chiefs from the disputes of their firesides to the civil wars of the empire; and neither the Lord of Hers nor the Baron of Stramen gave much attention to aught else than the league that Rodolph was forming against Henry IV of the house of Franconia.
Gilbert, left almost without a companion—for the good priest Herman, whose time was divided between his pastoral duties, his prayers, and his studies, saw him but at intervals—found time to hang very heavily upon his hands. He thought the old reaper weary and sluggish, for the scythe flies fast only when we employ or enjoy the moments. The autumn blast was beginning to lend a thousand bright colors to the trees, and the giddy leaves, like giddy mortals, threw off their simple green for the gaudy livery that was but a prelude to their fall—for the beauty that, like the dying note of the swan, was but the beauty of death. It was the season of all others for the chase, that health-giving but dangerous pastime, which our ancestors pursued with almost incredible eagerness, hunting the stag or the boar, over hill and dale, bog and jungle, through every twist and turn, as their Anglo-Saxon descendants now pursue the flying dollar.
But Gilbert often declined the invitation of the forester to fly the falcon, rarely indulging in his favorite amusement. He preferred to wander along the borders of the magnificent Lake of Constance, or to loiter among the neighboring hills, and watch, from some bare peak, the broad-winged vulture sailing slowly and steadily through the skies. He would watch it until it became a mere speck in the blue distance: we may often catch ourselves gazing after receding objects as though they were bearing away a thought we had fixed upon them. His wound was nearly well, and the freshness of health was again in his cheeks; but his spirit had lost a part of its sprightliness, and he seemed to have grown older. He did not evince his former relish for the manuscripts of Herman, but his visits to the chapel were more frequent and lasted longer. Thus, day after day, he would study the lake, the clouds, and the cliffs, neither fearing an attack from the men of Stramen, nor meditating one against them.
We shall leave him in his inactivity, to trace the progress of events which form one of the most important and exciting periods in history.
Rodolph was not a moment too soon in concentrating his power; for Henry IV, flushed with his recent victory over the Saxons, had called at Goslar a diet of the princes of the empire, under the pretext of deciding, in their presence, the fate of their Saxon prisoners. Only a small minority of the princes obeyed the summons; but the real object of the king became evident when he made them swear to exalt, upon his own death, Conrad his son, a minor, to the throne. In the meantime, the news of the nomination of Hidolph, as successor to the sainted Anno, had spread to Rome. The Pope beheld with profound sorrow the obstinacy and ambition of the king. Henry was not to be driven from his purpose by the universal contempt this nomination excited, and he replied to the repeated remonstrances of the citizens of Cologne, that they must content themselves with Hidolph or with a vacant see. And his firmness triumphed over the popular indignation; for Hidolph was invested by the king with the crozier and the ring, and finally consecrated Archbishop of Cologne.
But his victory was not complete. He had yet to cope with an adversary more formidable than popular opposition; one who would not yield to temporal tyranny the watch-towers and guardian rights of spiritual liberty. That adversary was Gregory VII. Already the tremendous threat had issued: "Appear at Rome on a given day to answer the charges against you, or you shall be excommunicated and cast from the body of the Church." But the infatuated monarch, too proud to recede, hurried on by his impetuous arrogance, and by the unprincipled favorites and corrupt prelates who shared his bounty, loaded the Papal legates with scorn and contumely, and drove them from his presence.
He did not even wait for the sentence of excommunication to fall, that now hung by a hair above his head, but began the attack, as if resolved to have the advantage of the first blow. Couriers were despatched to every part of the empire, with commands to all the prelates and nobles upon whom he could rely, to assemble at Worms, where he promised to meet them without fail. Twenty-four bishops and a great number of laymen hastened to obey the summons. The conventicle sat three days, and the following charges were formally preferred against the Pope: "That he had by force extracted a solemn oath from the clergy not to adhere to the king, nor to favor or obey any other Pope than himself; that he had falsely interpreted the Scriptures; that he had excommunicated the king without legal or canonical examination, and without the consent of the cardinals; that he had conspired against the life of the king; that, in spite of the remonstrances of his cardinals, he had cast the Body and Blood of our Lord into the flames; that he had arrogated to himself the gift of prophecy; that he had connived at an attempted assassination of the king; that he had condemned and executed three men without a judgment or an admission of their guilt; that he kept constantly about his person a book of magic."
So palpably absurd and false were these charges that three of the assembled prelates refused to sign an instrument for the deposition of a pontiff, so little conforming to the ancient discipline, and unsupported by witnesses worthy of belief. Nor were Henry's machinations confined to Germany, but he ransacked Lombardy and the marches of Ancona for bishops to sign these articles of condemnation, and even aspired to infect Rome itself by presents and specious promises. But the golden ass could not then leap the walls of Christian Rome.
Gregory's principal accuser was the Cardinal Hugues le Blanc, whom he had previously excommunicated. This ambitious man rose in the council and taunted the Pope with his low extraction, at the same time charging him with crimes that were proved to be the offspring of calumny and error. He produced a forged letter, purporting to come in the name of the archbishops, bishops, and cardinals, from the senate and people of Rome, inveighing against the Pope, and clamoring for the election of another head of the Church. Encouraged by imperial patronage, and stimulated by a desire to rid himself of disgrace by sullying the hands that had branded him, the excommunicated cardinal did not hesitate to call the Pope a heretic, an adulterer, a sanguinary beast of prey. The emperor himself knew Gregory too well to believe such a tissue of absurdity; but he hoped to find others more credulous than himself.
Upon the accusations already specified, and the invectives of Hugues le Blanc, the assemblage of prelates at Worms resolve upon the deposition of Gregory VII. It is then that Henry steps forth, as the life and soul of the conventicle, armed with its decree, and addresses an insulting letter to the Pope, inscribed "Henry, king by the grace of God, to Hildebrand." In this letter, the decree of the conventicle is lost in the insolence of the king. "I," is the language of the missive, "I have followed their advice, because it seemed to me just. I refuse to acknowledge you Pope, and in the capacity of patron of Rome command you to vacate the Holy See." Can the most jaundiced eye, can the man who learned, even in his boyhood, to loathe the name of Hildebrand, read these expressions without confessing that the king was the aggressor, and that if the Christian Church had a right to expect protection from its appointed head, Gregory VII was called upon to vindicate the majesty and liberty of religion so grossly outraged in his person? Surely it will not be asserted at this day that the head of the State, by virtue of his temporal power, should be the head of the Church; or does that beautiful logic still exist, which denied an absolute spiritual supremacy in the successor of St. Peter, yet admitted it as an incidental prerogative to the crown of England? But we have yet to see the last act of this attempted deposition.
A clerk of Parma, named Roland, was charged with the delivery of this letter, and the decrees of the conventicle of Worms. A synod had been convoked in the Church of Lateran, and the Pope, surrounded by his bishops, occupied a chair elevated above the rest. Roland's mission had been kept a profound secret, and, when he appeared before the conclave, not a prelate there could guess his purpose. They had not heard the voice that had gone forth from Worms. But they did not long remain in suspense. Turning to the Pope, the envoy thus began "The king, my master, and all the ultramontane and Italian bishops, command you to resign, at once, the throne of St. Peter and the government of the Roman Church, which you have usurped; for you cannot justly claim so exalted a dignity without the approbation of the bishops and the confirmation of the emperor!" Then addressing the clergy, he thus continued: "My brothers, it is my duty to inform you, that you must appear before the king at the approaching festival of Pentecost, to receive a Pope from his hand; for the tiara is now worn, not by a Pope, but by a devouring wolf!"
Receive a Pope from the king! receive from Cæsar what he must usurp to bestow! Had Gregory flinched, the independence of the Church would have been sacrificed, and her acknowledged inability to cope with royal vices would have permitted every European monarch to change his queen with his courtiers. Henry IV would have had his successor to Bertha; Philip Augustus his Agnes de Méranie; and Henry VIII his Cranmer and his scaffold without one moment's opposition.