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Page 66
"He is down!" screamed Gilbert, in agony, hewing his way toward the
king. Rodolph was alone against a host, while his horse sank up to his
knees in the marshy ground. Before succor could arrive, a sword had
cloven through the monarch's wrist, and his right hand fell to the
ground.
"It is the hand that I raised when swearing allegiance to Henry,"
muttered Rodolph, bitterly. With tears in his eyes, Gilbert struggled to
reach the king, who, unarmed and disabled, drove his steed against the
circle that hemmed him in. His crest was gone, and his armor hacked and
stained with blood: still fearlessly he bore up against his foes, and
seemed to rejoice in the unequal strife. The chivalry of Suabia were
spurring fast to the rescue, and Gilbert, now supported by a small band
of friends, was almost at his side, when Godfrey de Bouillon charged the
king with levelled lance. The steel, impelled by a powerful hand,
entered at the groin, and Rodolph, mortally wounded, fell to the ground.
The Bohemians uttered a cry of joy at the king's overthrow, for they
knew him well by his armor and actions. Their triumph was short-lived,
however, for the Suabians, eager to avenge their leader, gave no
quarter, and the victorious Saxons had attacked their rear.
"Stop not now!" said Rodolph to the nobles about him; and the lords of
Hapsburg, T�bingen, Achalm, Hers, and Stramen swept on to avenge him.
Gilbert remained rooted to the spot. His lance dropped from his hand as
he leaped from his horse and knelt beside his monarch. Already the
helmet had been removed by one who supported the dying hero in his arms.
From Gregory VII to Pius IX, from the Dominican that accompanied Cortez
to the Jesuit who followed a more recent conqueror, the Catholic
missionary had been found in the front of battle. It was Father Omehr
whose breast now pillowed the monarch's head. Gilbert's heart was almost
bursting as he pressed the only remaining hand to his lips and saw that
he was recognized. Feeling he could not long survive, Rodolph raised his
head and asked, in a dying voice, "Whose is the day?" "Yours, my lord,
yours!" replied those who were around him; for Gilbert, unable to speak,
did not attempt to answer, but continued to gaze on the eagle eye over
which the film of death was gathering fast.
"Yours, my lord, yours," repeated the mourners. At these words, Rodolph
fell back in the missionary's arms, saying, "Then I accept with joy the
end to which God has called me. Death no longer disturbs me, since it
brings victory with it." From this moment he was speechless; and with
his gaze earnestly bent upon his shield, that had been raised by a page,
and on which was blazoned a crowned lion sleeping upon the knees of the
Blessed Virgin, Rodolph of Suabia breathed his last. The calm face of
the dead was not paler than Gilbert, who, unmoved by the shout of
victory, watched the clay that had so lately been--a king.
While they bore the body to the royal pavilion, the pursuit was
continued with terrible effect. The Saxons remembered the losses they
had suffered five years before--the Suabians saw their desolated homes
and their expiring duke. The small remnant of Henry's army that escaped
the relentless sword and the equally fatal depths of the Elster, were
only reserved for a fate still more dreadful. After wandering about, a
prey to want and misery, they were now butchered by the peasantry of
Saxony and Thuringia, who, armed with hatchets and scythes, flew to
avenge upon the relic the wrongs they had suffered from the whole army.
Many of the fugitives plunged into the forests, preferring the slow
tooth of famine to the swifter stroke of steel. Others, concealing
themselves until the first gust of passion was over, besought the mercy
of the peasantry, who, at last moved with compassion or glutted with
slaughter, received them as fellow-beings, healed their wounds, and sent
them to their homes. Henry of Austria, with a suite little proportioned
to his rank, fled to Bohemia.
There was none of the exultation of victory in the allied camp that
night: each soldier seemed to feel that the conquest had been too dearly
won. Rodolph was not only beloved by the Suabians, who from their
cradles had experienced his bounty, his virtue, and justice, but he had
endeared himself to the Saxons by his affability, his wisdom, and his
valor. He had healed their private quarrels and humbled their public
enemies; he found them divided and feeble, he left them united and
vigorous. They regarded him as the savior of Saxony, and affectionately
styled him "_Pater patri�_." Nor was the grief of the bishops and
priests less ardent and sincere, for they felt that a zealous and
dauntless defender of the Church had fallen.
The soldiers, scattered about in groups, slept little, but whispered to
each other, and fixed their eyes upon the torches that burned so
steadily in the royal pavilion. There was stretched, cold and stiff, the
victor of the day, his noble features rigid in death, while his barons
knelt weeping around the bier, and the Archbishop of Mayence recited
prayers for his soul. The night wore away, and when the morning broke
out cheerfully as though no care were in the world, Gilbert de Hers
still knelt beside the corpse of the king. No tears were in his eyes
then, and the expression of his face varied between deep thought and
deep grief. He might have remarked that the scorn had departed from
Henry of Stramen's lip; but he did not. His mind was occupied with
other things; and silent and sad, he would not leave his vigil beside
the dead.
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