The Truce of God | Page 8

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.
The Catholic Church beheld, and bitterly deplored, the evils of private
warfare. Council after council fulminated its decrees against the
pernicious system; men were exhorted by the sacred relics of the Saints
to extinguish their animosities, and abstain from violence. But the
custom had taken deep root; for, in the language of a well-known
Protestant historian, "it flattered the pride of the nobles, and gratified
their favorite passions." But in the eleventh century the Church had
gained a partial victory over the dearest appetites of the fiery Frank and
the warlike Saxon. It was enacted, under pain of excommunication, that
private warfare should cease from the sunset of Wednesday to the
morning of Monday, and few were hardy enough to expose themselves
to the penalty. The respite from hostilities which followed was called
the "Truce of God."
It was not the musical voice of the bell that made Gilbert de Hers pause
on the very threshold of the struggle, and bite his lip until it grew white;
but the sweet-toned bell announced the sunset of Wednesday. The
young men stood gazing at each other, as though some spell had
transformed them into stone. But the messenger of peace had stayed the
uplifted sword, and, sheathing their unstained weapons, they knelt upon
the green carpet beneath them, and put forth the same prayer to the
same God.

It is a sight that may well command the eyes of Angels, when, though
deaf to earthly laws and considerations, the angry heart, in the first heat
of its wild career, still stops obedient to the voice of religion. Amid the
dross of human frailty, the pure metal shines with the lustre that
surrounds the sinner in the morning of his conversion.
They rose almost together, and their faces, so lately flushed with anger,
were now calm and subdued.
"Farewell! Henry de Stramen," said Gilbert, as he leaped into the
saddle.
"Farewell!" replied his antagonist, and, almost side by side, they
proceeded in the direction of the bell.