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.

Early in the morning of the sixteenth, the victorious army, sadder than
defeat could ever have made it, entered Merseburg. After the obsequies
had been performed with equal solemnity and magnificence, the body of
the king was deposited in the choir of the cathedral. A statue of gilt
bronze for many a year marked the tomb of Rodolph of Suabia.

On the same evening, when the soldiers were scattered through the town,
and the nobles had retired to such quarters as they could procure,
Gilbert de Hers sought out Father Omehr, and found him in an apartment
which the Archbishop of Mayence had obtained for the missionary.

Up to the day of his interview with Rodolph at Mayence, Gilbert's mind
had been wholly engrossed with the bright pictures which a vivid and
worldly fancy and a keen ambition to excel can always unfold to the eye
of youth. At times he remembered the night passed in the missionary's
humble dwelling, when Bertha's knife had confined him there, and he saw
again the crucifix and the sacristan. But this was only for a moment.
The image of the Lady Margaret was sure to enter and banish every other
feeling than that of deep love for her. But from the night of the
coronation, a change had fallen upon the youth, which Father Omehr's
keen eye had not failed to remark. He displayed no longer the same
thoughtless gayety or the same dreamy abstraction. He had reveries, it
is true, proceeding from the fear of losing the Lady Margaret, or the
hope of gaining her. The missionary had refrained from questioning the
young knight, nor did Gilbert reveal any secret to his venerable friend.
Whether he might have recovered his former levity can scarcely be
answered, but t