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 félicitations 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 bénéfices 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.”