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

SIEGE OF CORINTH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The morning after our arrival at Tuebingen ” resumed Humbert.

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

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

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

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

Gilbert’s next question related to his paternal estate.

“The chapel stands uninjured,” said Humbert.

“And the castle?”

“The blackened walls alone remain!”

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

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

“Where is Herman now?”

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

“How fared Stramen Castle?”

“Even worse than your own.”

“And the church?” continued Gilbert.

“Was despoiled and fired.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the Suabians, opposed to three times their number, were beginning to retreat, when Otto of Nordheim, true to his word, emerged from the mist and fell upon the enemy’s flank.

“Well done, thou Saxon eagle!” exclaimed Rodolph, eagerly, seeing the discomfited foe staggering before this unexpected and vigorous attack. “Henry of Stramen, ride to the duke, and tell him he has won the day.”

Rodolph, surrounded by some of his barons, among whom were the lords of Hers and Stramen and Gilbert, was posted upon a little knoll, watching the progress of the fight, when Henry returned with Otto’s acknowledgments to the king.

“Sire!” said Albert of Hers, riding up to the monarch, “your cunning rival there has profited by this mist, and I think we may now turn it to our account.”

“How?” asked the king.

“The enemy has left his camp in our rear we may cross the river unperceived and surprise it. Give me five hundred men, and I will not leave him as much as would satisfy a peasant.”

Rodolph instantly acceded to the request, and commanded the Baron of Stramen to assist in the enterprise. Though somewhat loath to unite in any undertaking with his sworn enemy, Sir Sandrit had learned to subdue his personal prejudices for the welfare of Germany. And perhaps his desire to avenge his recent wrongs overpowered his aversion to the author of older injuries. He readily assented, and now, united for once, the rival clans of Hers and Stramen moved rapidly across the ice on their chivalrous mission. By a well-executed movement they came unperceived upon the guard. No quarter was given there; scarce a hostile soldier escaped. Sir Albert bade his men spare not the cowards whose swords were red with the blood of babes and mothers. Sir Sandrit, at the top of his voice, shouted, “Remember the castle!” Henry and Gilbert unrelentingly pursued the terror-stricken fugitives. When they returned to the captured camp, every article of luxury was gone. The vessels of gold and silver, which the Patriarch of Aquileia and many of the other nobles had brought to grace the revels of their king, were now in the hands of their rough victors, who brandished the precious goblets in the air, crying, “Death to the spoilers of Suabia!” The purple curtains, torn into shreds, were trailed in the clotted gore and dust. Before many minutes the pillage was as complete as the surprise. When nothing remained to slay or plunder, the barons gave the signal to retreat, and they recrossed the ice. Had they remained an instant longer, Henry IV would have fallen into their hands; for hardly had they left, before the monarch, flying from the battle-field, conducted by a guide named Louis, entered his ruined camp.

The battle was over when the detachment reached the scene of action. Folkmar, governor of Prague, had fallen, Henry had fled, and the Bohemians were routed with prodigious slaughter. The fugitives rallied under the walls of Wartburg. But they were speedily dispersed and pursued, until nightfall saved them from further molestation.

“The mist of Fladenheim is clearing away,” said Rodolph, pointing to the setting sun, which now broke out in unclouded splendor, as the fog vanished before a strong north wind. That day was like his life, most brilliant at its close. Otto now advanced, and the two monarchs embraced with mutual affection and esteem. Whatever rivalry there might be between them was forgotten in success.

Henry retired into Franconia and dismissed his army, and Rodolph again solicited the Pope to confirm his election.

The news of these victories imparted some consolation to the Lady Margaret’s breast, now torn with anxiety and solicitude. Her grief was not lightened because her own misfortunes were avenged in Henry’s adversity, but because the chances of peace were increased by Rodolph’s success. She was now incapable of relishing revenge. The feudal antipathies so long nourished and so early instilled as to be almost a part of her existence, were entirely, eradicated. From the evening of her interview with Father Omehr, before the now ruined Church of the Nativity, she had dedicated her life to the extinguishment of the feud between the houses of Hers and Stramen. For this she had prayed, for this she had toiled. But her labors were interrupted by the harsh music of war, by gong and tymbalon.

What could she do now? Nothing. Nothing? When she knelt before the altar at Tuebingen before the sun had risen, and the Countess of Montfort felt as if she had given shelter to an Angel, was she doing nothing? When she lingered in the oratory of our Blessed Mother long after the sun had set, and the menials passed by on tiptoe lest they should mar the celestial expression of her face, was she doing nothing? There had come a deeper lustre still into the Lady Margaret’s eye, and the blush on her cheek mingled not so freely with the pure white in which it was cradled. Perhaps her head was not so erect perhaps the line of the back had lost in firmness what it gained in grace. Already the men and women of Montfort had learned to love and bless her, and as she passed among them serenely and silently, like a spirit of light, and as they marked the strange transparency of her features, they would salute her with a feeling in which awe prevailed, and, after thoughtfully gazing at her awhile, transfer their glance to the skies. The Lady of Montfort loved to hear the maiden sweetly singing the Salve Regina, for which Humbert had invented or selected a melody of singular beauty, but often, when the hymn was concluded, the countess’s cheeks would be bathed in tears, and she would fold the Lady Margaret in her arms, and gaze up earnestly into her face.

Gilbert! Gilbert! come read this face of more than earthly beauty! See if the words that haunt you are chiselled there!