The Truce of God by George Henry Miles


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Page 6

He laughed triumphantly as he said this, and, sitting down upon the long
grass, began to caress an enormous hound that panted at his feet, as
unconcernedly as though the forest now contained nothing more formidable
than doves or lambs. His horse, thoroughly domesticated, strayed a
little from the dead boar, feeding as it went.

The youth took off his plumed bonnet, and, flinging back his long black
hair, fell into one of those light, smiling day-dreams which belong only
to the young and innocent. He built fifteen air-castles in as many
minutes. But at last he grew impatient; he sounded blast after blast;
still no answer came. The trees kept up their sleepy sigh, and the
sapless branches creaked, but no human voice, no human foot save his
own, broke the silence.

"Thou hast given me a goodly chase," exclaimed the youth, springing up
and addressing the boar, "and I shall wear this in remembrance of thee."

He drew his hunting-knife, and soon uprooted one of the monster's tusks.
Depositing the precious relic in a hunting pouch he wore at his side, he
mounted his horse, rather puzzled where to go.

"It is easier to get in this oaken field than to get out of it," said
our hunter, "but if the forest have an end, I'll find it. Now, my dear
loitering friends, we hunt each other."

Giving his horse the spur, and allowing the creature to choose its
course, he called on the lagging hounds, and dashed away as rapidly as
he had come. The wood was light as ever, and here and there sunbeam
lay, like a golden spear, along the ground yet the rich lustre of the
sky, wherever it was visible the hum of numberless insects, the fresh
flight of the awakened bird, and the freer and cooler breeze, warned the
youth that sunset was near. On went the noble steed, with steady step
and trembling nostril while his finely veined ears spoke so rapidly that
the rider could scarcely understand their language. They passed through
long lines of trees that opened into other lines, from one limited
horizon to another, yet all was green before and behind, to the right
and to the left, one interminable emerald. The light turned from a rich
gold to a golden red, and yet it played only on whispering leaves and on
the long grass at their feet. Still the youth felt no fear, but hummed
some old ballad, or drew a lively peal from his horn. He dismounted to
refresh himself at a spring that had nestled among some rocks, and was
murmuring there like a spoiled child. Having cared for the gallant
animal which had borne him so well, he stretched himself a moment upon
the green bank.

"Ha! what is that!" he exclaimed, bending forward to listen; "a
horseman? Let him come; friend or foe, I shall be glad to see him."

He was on his horse in a moment. As he turned to look behind, he saw a
gentleman, richly dressed, and admirably mounted, coming at full speed
from another quarter of the wood. The stranger was quite young, perhaps
a year or two older than our hunter, but certainly not over
twenty-three. The youth knit his brows as the horseman approached, and
eyed him keenly and sternly. When within a few yards of the spring, the
stranger dismounted and drew his sword. The youth did the same. His
handsome features were now distorted with anger and disdain, and it was
difficult to recognize in the fierce figure, that seemed the guardian
dragon of the fountain, the laughing boy who sat there so quietly a
moment before. The stranger appeared to return the bitter hatred.

"I have found you, Gilbert de Hers," he muttered; "your bugle has rung
your knell."

Gilbert replied but by a laugh of scorn, and the next instant their
swords gleamed in the air. But just as the two blades met with a sharp
clang, there came stealing through the wood the mellow sound of a
distant bell. It was like the voice of an angel forbidding strife. Those
soft, lingering notes seemed to have won a sweetness from the skies to
pour out upon the world, and, filling the space between field and cloud,
connected for a moment heaven and earth--for they wake in the heart of
man the same emotions more perfectly felt in paradise.

For many centuries after the destruction of the Roman Empire, when all
human institutions were swept away by the resistless torrent that poured
from the North, and the Church of God alone stood safe and firm, with
the rainbow of heaven around her, the stern warriors of Germany asserted
their rights, or redressed their wrongs with the sword, and scorned to
bow before the impotent decrees of a civil tribunal. A regular system of
private warfare gradually sprang up, which falsely led every man of
honor to revenge any real or fancied offence offered to any of his
kindred. The most deadly enmity frequently existed between neighboring
chiefs, and the bitter feeling was transmitted unimpaired from father to
son. The most dreadful consequences inevitably resulted from this fatal
installation of might in the outraged temple of justice. Until lately a
blind prejudice and a perverted history have charged this unfortunate
state of things to the pernicious influence of the Church of Rome. But
the wiser Protestants of the present day, considering it rather a poor
compliment to their faith to assign its birth to the sixteenth century,
are beginning to be awake to the powerful instrumentality of the
Christian Church in the regeneration of mankind, and the production of
modern civilization. Few, indeed, even with the light of history, can
form an adequate idea of the immensity of the task assigned to
Christianity in shedding light over the chaos that followed the
overthrow of Rome, in reducing it to order, and preparing the nicely
fitted elements of modern Europe.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Fri 10th Jan 2025, 7:47