The Truce of God Part 20

"Yes."

"Will he soon be here?"

"He is scarce a mile off."

"It is well," she continued, lifting up her large black eyes; "G.o.d has designed it all! And now," she resumed, after a brief pause, "we must be alone until the baron comes."

At a signal from the missionary, Albert of Hers and the wondering peasants silently withdrew.

The half hour that elapsed before Sir Sandrit's appearance, seemed like an age to the Baron of Hers, who in an agony of suspense paced up and down the clearing before the cottage. At last, however, the two n.o.blemen and Henry of Stramen were admitted.

Bertha was sitting upright in bed, supported by Father Omehr, who beckoned to Henry to a.s.sist him. There were traces of recent tears upon her furrowed cheeks, and her form seemed to dilate as she gazed at the n.o.bles before her.

"Listen to me, Baron of Stramen!" she began, looking full at the n.o.ble, in whom surprise was gaining a temporary mastery over grief; "listen, for it is G.o.d's mercy that permits me to speak and you to hear! Twenty years ago I was young and beautiful. I was loved by your brother and by him who stands at your side."

Albert de Hers turned pale as death, and drawing the ring from his finger, advanced a step, saying hoa.r.s.ely, "Are you the Bertha to whom I gave this ring?"

She took the trinket in her hand, and after examining it over and over, replied:

"I _am_ that Bertha. But how did you get this?"

"From the Duke Rodolph, to whom you gave it."

The woman knit her brows, as if struggling to recall some confused impression, and at length said: "Yes, I did give it to him; I remember now. Where is he?"

"In heaven, I trust," replied the Lord of Hers.

At the word heaven, the tears started in the eyes of the poor creature, and she hung her head. The silence was profound and painful. She was the first to break it.

"Interrupt me no more," she said, suppressing her emotion. "Hear me through. Robert of Stramen and Albert of Hers were rivals for my love, and they began to hate each other bitterly on my account. I loved neither, for I had promised to marry Albert of the Thorn, and I loved him as much as my vain heart was able to love anything. But I was weak enough to receive the presents they gave me for the sake of wearing the finery, and my lover was pleased, because we were poor. My Lord of Stramen, do you remember the day we brought you your brother's corpse?"

The baron shuddered.

"On that very morning--oh! how distinctly do I see it--I was sitting in the ravine, not far from my mother's house, when a wild boar pursued by hounds rushed madly by me. As I stood trembling, a horseman followed, dashing along at full speed. He reined up when he saw me. It was the Lord of Hers. He began to smile, and asked me to forgive him the fright he had given me, and, untying a scarf which he wore around his waist, threw it over my shoulders. Then he put this ring on my finger and galloped off, crying he must not miss the stand. This much you know, Albert of Hers, but you do not know what followed. Was it not as I have said?"

The n.o.ble nodded.

"O G.o.d, strengthen me to reveal all!" continued the now agitated woman.

"I began to walk down the ravine, when I met Albert of the Thorn. I showed him my presents, and we sat down at the foot of a pile of steep rocks, beside a little spring. Albert was arranging the scarf about my neck, when Sir Robert of Stramen suddenly stood before us. His face was pale with rage, and his lips were all foaming. I screamed at his awful appearance. I knew well that he hated my betrothed, and had threatened his life if he married me. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the scarf from my neck, and shaking it at me, said: 'I know very well from whom this came!' Then, turning upon Albert, he cried: 'And for you, who pretend to love her, to connive at his guilt! You shall pay for your baseness with your life!'

He stopped here, as if rage had choked him, and drew his sword. Albert sprang quickly up the ledge of rocks, and Sir Robert followed. I saw Albert stoop, pick up a large fragment of rock, and hurl it--I saw Sir Robert fall, and then I grew sick and dizzy, and fainted. When I recovered, Albert was watching me, trembling and livid. I looked around, and there was Sir Robert, stretched out stiff and still and b.l.o.o.d.y. He had worn nothing but a light cap on his head, and the stone had made a fearful dent in his temple. I knelt beside him, and prayed, and chafed his hands, and brought water from the spring and poured it upon his face. I hoped he would come to life, even if he would only revive to kill me. It was all in vain. He grew cold: he was dead. Again I looked at Albert--he was shaking like a leaf. 'Bertha,' he said, 'I am a lost man! When Sir Sandrit knows this, I cease to live.' I saw his danger, which did not until then occur to me, and I lost my concern for the dead in my fears for him. I loved him better than anything in the world, and the devil, who knew my heart, suggested a scheme for his preservation.

The scarf of the Lord of Hers, which bore some family device, was grasped in the dead man's hand, and I saw at once how strongly that circ.u.mstance implied the n.o.ble's guilt. I concealed the ring he had given me in my pocket. 'Come!' I said to Albert, 'let us take the body to Sir Sandrit, and tell him that we found it in a spot from which we had just seen the Lord of Hers depart.' He refused at first, and would not touch the body, but by argument and entreaty, I prevailed upon him to be guided by me.

"Sandrit of Stramen, you know the rest. You know that we swore to have seen the Lord of Hers ride away from the fatal spot just before we found the body. It was the fact; but my lover and I were perjured in the sight of G.o.d. I do not wish to lighten my crime before men, when it is written out so plainly against me before Angels. I was a perjured woman--perjured through love and fear. I heard you swear vengeance. I wept, but I was silent. I saw your fury and your wars. My heart bled, but I was silent. There was no rest, no sleep, no peace for me. It was not my husband's death that drove me mad. Oh, no! It was remorse. There were spectres all around me--I trembled before the innocent, fled before the guilty. The caresses of my child that died at my breast tortured me. I felt as though my breath had withered and defiled it.

Every hour was full of misery--day and night there was a gnawing at my heart. At last my mind gave way, and the justice of heaven struck him with death and me with madness!"

Bertha paused an instant, quite exhausted, then again exerting herself, she said:

"I do not ask you to forgive me--but forgive each other."

"They have forgiven each other already," said Father Omehr. "They are friends."

"Friends?"

"The Lady Margaret reconciled them on her death-bed."

"The Lady Margaret dead!"

"She was buried this morning."

"Yes," said Bertha, "it was to her funeral I was going. Yes, she is dead--the beautiful, the young, the innocent--she has been praying for me in heaven."

At these words a smile beamed over her sharp features, and she sank gradually back in bed, lowered by Henry and the missionary.

The proud Lord of Hers was, in spirit, in sackcloth and ashes. He attributed the existence of the feud to his indiscretion and guilt, and reproached himself with all its pernicious consequences. He saw in the wreck before him the fruits of his sin; Bertha's misery and madness seemed wholly his own unhallowed work. The strong man shuddered at the consequences of his folly, and beat his breast, and wept like a child.

Sandrit of Stramen also accused himself of having caused the feud by his rash credulity, and driven Bertha to perjury and insanity by his impetuous and uncontrollable temper. For, he reasoned, had she reposed any confidence in his justice and charity, she would have told the truth.

Henry of Stramen saw that all his brilliant achievements against the family of Hers were only unjustifiable murders and robberies, and his haughty spirit was humbled and contrite.

Father Omehr saw their contrition, but he was entirely absorbed in the penitent Bertha.

Bertha lived three days after the revelation, constantly engaged in prayer and acts of contrition. Her profound sorrow affected and edified the missionary and all the neighborhood. On the third day she received the Viatic.u.m, and expired in the arms of the Baron of Stramen, who, together with the Lord of Hers, had repeatedly a.s.sured her of their complete forgiveness. Her last words were: "I know she is praying for me in heaven."

She was buried, as she desired, near the Lady Margaret, with nothing but a rude wooden cross to mark her grave.

On the day after her burial, Father Omehr and the three n.o.bles set out for the Castle of Hers. Humbert had already fitted up for his lord some rooms which had been only partially consumed, and Albert of Hers had prevailed upon the baron and his son to remain with him until they could find suitable lodgings at home. The reconciliation between the n.o.bles was complete; and at sunrise the next day they could be seen kneeling together before the altar of the Pilgrim's Chapel, eating the Bread of Life. If the Angels rejoice at such a sight, how much greater must be the joy of the Saints!

But where was Gilbert, that he could not share in the blessed feast?

The Middle Ages abound in characters better ent.i.tled to our consideration and esteem than the cla.s.sic magnates of Greece and Rome.

There is not in pagan antiquity such a combination of virtue, constancy, fort.i.tude, and valor as was presented in Matilda of Tuscany, "the heroine of the Middle Ages." She devoted herself to the cause of the Holy See as early as 1604, and her life was a series of sacrifices cheerfully made for the security of the Church. While wondering at her heroism, you love her for her charity, and revere her for her piety. Let Catholics read her life, and they will embalm her in their hearts. Her unvarnished actions are a n.o.bler eulogy than even the unfading wreath flung by a master's hand on the grave of the martyred Marie Antoinette.

At the time of the battle of the Elster, this pious defender of the Faith was sorely pressed by the Lombards, who sided with the emperor.

The imperial troops had gained a victory at Mantua, which revived the drooping royal cause.

When Gilbert de Hers parted from his father and friends, he turned his horse's head to Matilda's camp. The partisans of the heroic princess took little notice of the nameless knight who came among them without follower or page, and whose shield was simply blazoned with an azure cross. He was silent and reserved, shrinking from observation and mirth, and either engaged in meditation or prayer.

The gloomy aspect of the future was also capable of furnishing the youth with sufficient food for reflection. The death of Rodolph spread consternation over Saxony and Suabia: both circles were crippled by internal dissensions, and unable to profit by their victory. Inspired by this, and by his rival's death, and encouraged by the att.i.tude and successes of the Lombards, Henry meditated an invasion of Italy, and the conquest of Rome itself. He reorganized a powerful army, and penetrated Lombardy, leaving Frederick of Hohenstaufen to hold Suabia in check, while Saxony was convulsed by the rival schemes of Otto and Herman.

Never before had the Holy See seemed in such imminent danger. England and France looked coldly on, and the emperor of the East sympathized with his brother of Austria.

Gregory alone awaited the storm calm and fearless, relying upon the sacredness and justice of his cause, neither dismayed nor discouraged by the fickle course of human events. He deplored the spirit which arrayed itself against truth, but he found in the recollection of the trials of the Apostles and their successors abundant consolation for himself and his friends. Florence, Padua, Cremona, Milan had fallen before the Austrian invader. Lucca swelled the triumphs of the tyrant. Fortress after fortress was wrested from Matilda; Henry sat down before the gates of Rome at last, in the plains of Nero and opposite the fortress of St.

Peter. Yet the sublime Pontiff displayed no symptom of uneasiness, though half of Europe was against him.

Gilbert's first impulse was to fly to Rome, but the approaches to the city were all in possession of the enemy. The n.o.ble Matilda could ill spare a good lance, and the Romans then displayed so much resolution and gallantry, that the German army was repulsed in every a.s.sault. To the young knight's heart, wounded by the siege of Rome and misfortunes of Matilda, the tidings of the reconciliation at home were like a sweet balsam. And though the blessed intelligence was blended with the account of the Lady Margaret's death, it was not the less welcome. Gilbert had long since ceased to regard the Lady Margaret with human love. He revered her as one sacred to heaven, upon whom death had already set the seal of eternity, and, far from weeping over her early grave, he exulted at her triumphant flight to the judgment-seat of G.o.d.

Two long years crept by, and the imperialists were still before Rome.

Gilbert looked anxiously for succor to Suabia and Saxony, but the sudden death of Otto of Nordheim laid his hopes in the dust, and Henry, for the third time, invested the eternal city. Hitherto, the Romans, encouraged by the Pope, had made an heroic resistance, and the besiegers had suffered incredibly from their desperate sallies, as well as from the diseases that decimated them. But the fidelity of the citizens was beginning to totter beneath the protracted warfare, and many sighed for a period to their calamities. Henry failed not to profit by these dispositions, and poured in thirty thousand golden florins to inflame them.