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Page 5
In the quiet churchyard on the slope of his beloved Mountain, in a
simple grave, over which the green hills of Maryland keep guard, not far
from the class-rooms and the chapel he loved, rest the mortal remains of
the author of "The Truce of God." It is not necessary to describe him.
Those who read this simple but romantic and stirring tale of the
eleventh century which he wrote three-quarters of a century ago, cannot
fail to catch the main features of the man. They will conclude that in
George Henry Miles, religion and art, the purest ideals of the Catholic
faith and the highest standards of culture and letters, are blended in
rare proportion.
JOHN C. REVILLE, S.J.,
_Editor-in-chief_.
THE TRUCE OF GOD
CHAPTER I
Of ancient deeds so long forgot;
Of feuds whose memory was not;
Of forests now laid waste and bare;
Of towers which harbor now the hare;
Of manners long since changed and gone;
Of chiefs who under their gray stone
So long had slept, that fickle fame
Hath blotted from her rolls their name.
SCOTT.
Reader! if your mind, harassed with the cares of a utilitarian age,
require an hour of recreation; if a legend of a far different and far
distant day have aught that can claim your sympathy or awaken your
attention; if the "Dark Ages" be to you Ages of Faith, or even lit with
the gray morning-light of civilization, come wander back with me beyond
the experimental revolution of the sixteenth century, to the time when
the Gothic temples of the living God were new.
It was the eleventh century: the sun shone as brightly then as now; ay,
and virtue too, though sympathy for a lustful tyrant has stamped the age
with infamy. Through an extensive forest in Suabia, as the old chronicle
from which I copy relates, a gallant youth was urging on, with voice and
rein, a steed that seemed as bold and fiery as his rider. The youth's
flashing eye, and the spear in his hand, told clearly enough that the
boar was before him. On he went, as if the forest were his element, now
bending low beneath the knotted bough, now swerving aside from the stern
old trunk which sturdily opposed his progress, and seemed to mock him as
he passed. On he went, as if danger were behind and safety before him;
as if he galloped to save his own life, not to risk it in taking a
boar's. An angry bark and a fearful howl rang in the distance, and the
hunter's bugle sounded a merry blast. On he went, faster than before,
and now as if he sought his mortal foe. The boar was at bay; monarch of
the wood, he had turned to defend his realm, and his white tusks were
soon red with the blood of the noble hounds who fearlessly disputed his
right. The youth leaped from his horse with the speed of thought. Bred
to the chase, the well-trained animal stood firm while his master
cautiously, but with the calmness of the victor of a hundred frays,
advanced against the bristling monster. Quitting the dogs for this new
assailant, the boar came madly on; the huntsman sank upon one knee, and
so true was his eye, and so firm his hand, that the heart of the savage
was cloven by the spear. The youth rose to his feet, dizzy from the
shock, and, springing nimbly upon the grim body of his prostrate victim,
his fine form swelling with the rapture of his recent triumph, brought
his horn to his lips, and again its notes went ringing merrily through
the woods.
Echoes, like fading memories, growing fainter and fainter as they
receded, gave the only response.
"Where can they be?" said the youth, "their steeds were fleet. Out of
sight and out of hearing! How completely I have beaten them."
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