The Truce of God | Page 9

A deadly feud was raging between the families of Hers and Stramen. It
had continued for more than twenty years, and now burned with
unabated fury. It originated in some dispute between Gilbert's father
and the Lord Robert de Stramen, Henry's uncle, which resulted in the
death of the latter. The Baron of Hers was charged with the murder, and,
though he persisted in declaring his innocence, Henry's impetuous
father, the Lord Sandrit de Stramen, swore over the dead body of his
brother to take a bitter revenge on the Baron of Hers and all his line.
Henry de Stramen had been nursed in the bitterest hostility to all who
bore the name of Hers, and the unrelenting persecution of the Lord
Sandrit had made Gilbert detest most cordially the house of Stramen. It
was with mutual hatred, then, that the two young men had met at the
spring. They knew each other well, for they had often fought hand to
hand, with their kinsmen and serfs around them. Now they were alone,
and what a triumph would be the victor's! but the bell, the Tell of peace,
the silver-tongued herald of the truce of God, had sheathed their
weapons.
It could not have been without a severe struggle that the two mortal
foes rode quietly in the same direction, with but a few yards between
them. They were not half an hour in the saddle when they discovered
the spire of the church they were both in search of, rising gracefully
above the trees. As they emerged from the forest, they could see

stretching before them a broad expanse of hill and dale, wood and field.
Scattered here and there were the humble dwellings of the forester and
husbandman, and, from their midst, towering above them, like Jupiter
among the demigods, stately and stern rose the old castle of the house
of Stramen. The western sky was still bathed in light, and shared its
glories with the earth; airy clouds, ever changing their hues, sported,
like chameleons, on the horizon; the stream that wound around the
castle seemed sheeted with polished silver: the herds and flocks were
all still, and the voice of the birds was the only sound; and, amid this
beauty and repose, how lovely and majestic was that finely moulded
Gothic church!
Henry de Stramen tied his horse to a tree, and was soon lost in the
elegantly carved doorway. Gilbert paused a moment, and gazed upon
the open country before him with very mingled emotions. He had been
there before at the head of his clan to disturb the serenity which, in
spite of himself, was now softening his heart. He did not linger long,
but led his horse a little within the woods, and entered the church. The
gray-headed priest at the altar was solemnly chanting, from the
beautiful liturgy of the Church, as he knelt down on the hard aisle, and
the branching ceiling seemed to catch and repeat the notes. Through the
stained window, where was pictured in unfading colors many a scene
suggesting the goodness and mercy of God, and the blessed tidings of
salvation, came the fading light of day, softened and beautiful. It was
not merely the superior genius of the age that made the chapels and
cathedrals of the Ages of Faith so immensely superior to the creations
of the present day, but its piety too; that generous and pure devotion
which induced our ancestors to employ their best faculties and richest
treasures in preparing an abode as worthy as earth could make it of the
presence of the Son of God. Then the house of the minister was not
more splendid than his church, his sideboard not more valuable than the
altar.
Gilbert saw around him the hard, sunburnt features, the stalwart forms
he had marked in the desperate fray; he could touch the hands, now
clasped in prayer, that had been so often raised against him in anger.
Beside him knelt the maiden, with her brow all smooth and unfurrowed

by care, and the matron who, numbering more than double her years,
had felt more than treble her sorrows. The youth was deeply moved, as
he gazed, and thought he might have robbed that mother of her son,
that wife of her husband, that sister of a brother. Those gentle,
melancholy beings had never harmed him, and, perhaps, in a moment
of passion, he had deprived their existence of half its sweetness, and
turned their smiles to tears. It was with an aching, an humbled heart
that he bowed his head until it touched the cold floor, when the Lamb
without spot was elevated for the adoration of the faithful.
A hymn, befitting the occasion, had been intoned, and the priest had
left the altar, but those fervent