CHAPTER IV.
“Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place,
With one fair spirit for my minister,
That I might all forget the human race,
And hating no one, love but only her.”
Childe Harold.
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The Lady Blanche was still in the secure asylum
of the Abbey of St. Genevieve. Here, in safety, and in
tranquil devotion, she might have worn out life, had
that fire never been kindled in her bosom which, once
lighted, cannot be extinguished without making a waste
and ruin of the tenderest affections. Heavily as her
forebodings weighed on her heart, she could no more
envy the calm safe sisters of the monastery, than the
living, feeling, throbbing form can envy the mute cold
statue. The storm might sweep away her last hope,
but who that dwells in the land of blossoms, fruits,
and hurricanes, will exchange with the natives of the
safe and frigid north! Even so thought Blanche, while
every day was bringing some agitating rumour from the
scene of conflict. By the latest accounts the hostile
forces were not far from the valley-lands, overlooked
by the abbey. The emperor was at the head of his
army, and at the approach of the great sovereign,
Pepin's forces were sensibly diminishing. Still he
kept the field, without any apparent abatement of hope
or activity.
Affairs were in this position when, at an early hour
of the morning, the repose of the abbey was disturbed
by a rumour of the near approach of the hostile armies.
The abbess, with her nuns, according to the letter of
her duty, hastened to mingle with her matin prayers,
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petitions for the downfall of rebellion. Blanche, with
her faithful Ermen, stole to a tower of the abbey, where
she was destined to endure what a martyr might suffer
at the stake, who had a threefold portion of life and
sense in every nerve.
The valley, or glen, if it might so be called, broken
as it was at intervals into ridges and abrupt descents,
was encompassed by hills, and intersected by a narrow,
deep, and impetuous stream, with precipitous and impracticable
banks, which were connected by a single
plank-bridge thrown across the stream, where it dashed
over a ledge of rocks. At the eastern extremity of the
valley, on a declivity, stood the abbey overlooking the
domain attached to it—its garden, farms, and the
whitewashed cottages of its artisans which were clustered
together at the extreme opposite, under the shadow
of the hills that appeared there to wall in the valley,
and were only separated where the bold little stream
had forced its passage. The peace of ages was, for
the first, to be broken in this sylvan scene, where
even now the stillness was so profound that the chirping
of the cricket, and the rustling of the fallen autumnleaf,
under the squirrel's fleet foot, might be heard. The
trees, save where the firs glittered with dewy webs,
were stripped of their summer glory; but, like a
youthful face, “touched, not spoiled” by grief, they
looked cheerful in their adversity; glittering dewdrops
studding their branches, and the glossy bark brightening
in the flush of the rising sun. The stream, that
leaped and “danced to its own wild chime,” was
fringed with the last gay flowers of autumn—those
bold little heroes that hang out their colours even on
the very frontiers of winter. The windings of the
stream, far off among the distant hills, were marked by
the light warm mist which rose from it, giving a bluish
tint to the atmosphere, and nearer, and immediately
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under Blanche's eye, settled in dense fog, over the
coves, or rolled up the mountains in fleecy clouds.
Scarcely had Blanche and Ermen taken their
stations in the tower, when the silence was rudely
broken by the braying of a war-trumpet that pealed
over the valley, waking a thousand echoes among
the hills; the tramping of horses followed; and the
prince, at the head of his gallant followers, was seen
descending rapidly to the valley. His war-cry was
shouted and answered by the clamour of the hostile
army, that appeared to Blanche like birds of evil omen,
darkening the opposite plain. As the prince had the
inferior force it was of vital importance to him to command
the passage of the bridge; and he gained it by
so rapid a movement that Ermen had scarcely time for
an exclamation, before he seemed to be disposing his
force about it, so as most effectively to repel an attack.
“What means that?” said Blanche, pointing to a
standard-bearer. “That surely is the banner of my
father's house. A fiery sun emerging from a cloud, on
a field of white.”
“But look, my lady, close beside it, at the knight in
black armour, with the black plumes. It is your father
in shape and bearing, with a little stoop of the shoulders,
as if he had some added weight of years; but
otherwise the same.”
“Ah, Ermen, our fancies cheat us; it is the banner
that has conjured up this image in your memory. It
is an evil augury, this banner of a fallen house.”
“Think not of auguries, my lady, fortune is on the
side of the prince. See how gallantly he rides. His
white plumes even him with the tallest. Any one may
see he was born to rule, though his poor mother did
stand on the emperor's left side. Now he salutes his
soldiers. Ha! hear their acclamations—God bless
him! he had always the hearts of the commons. Heaven
and all saints stand by him, I say, be he right or
wrong!”
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The “amen” did not stick in Blanche's throat, though
conscience would have kept it there; and Ermen proceeded,
“Beshrew me if I think it handsome in the
abbess and her nuns to be throwing their prayers into
the scale of the strongest; they ought to stand aside
and let 'em have fair play.” Whether Ermen meant
that Heaven or the abbess should not interpose, it is difficult
to say;—an untutored conscience is very docile—
she probably had some secret misgivings of the
righteousness of the prince's cause, and preferred there
should be no appeal to a celestial tribunal.
The manœuvres of the two armies continued for
some time without an assault from either party. The
emperor had not yet arrived on the field of battle.
Meanwhile the forces on both sides were concentrating
at the bridge. The prince had concealed a reserved
corps behind a hill in his rear, in order by his seeming
weakness to tempt the enemy to the perilous passage
of the bridge, where their numbers would rather embarrass
than aid them. They perceived the disadvantage
at which they must attack, and hesitated to encounter
it.
“Ah!” said Blanche, “it is a proud sight to see their
steeds prancing, their banners and pennons flying, their
lances gleaming in the sun, and those gallant knights
unblenching before the face of death, if we could forget
what they may be before the sun sinks behind yon
hills.”
“They forget it, my lady, or they would be as very
cowards as we women are. I have seen these lordly
men who throw down their lives upon the battle-field as
if it were but a cast of the dice, I have seen them
shrink from a twinge of the tooth-ache, and, if death
did but peep at them through the curtains of a sick-bed,
their hearts would die away within them. But they
have a brute's instinct to fight, and when that is roused
they forget pain and death, and all that comes after.
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Truly, I think, after all their boasting and blustering,
we women might dispute the palm of courage with
them, for we bravely meet and triumph over those
natural enemies of our race, pain, and poverty, and
death, which Heaven has made it our necessity to encounter;
while they, for the most part, are only brave
in meeting dangers of their own creation. I marvel
they do not begin—they stand there on each side of the
bridge, looking like wild beasts, ready to spring the
moment the barrier is withdrawn.”
Ermen's wonder was scarcely expressed when some
of the youngest and most daring of Charles' paladins,
unable any longer to brook delay, or endure the defiance
and stinging taunts of their antagonists, dashed over
the bridge, were encountered, and repelled, or overthrown.
Many a daring onset and gallant rescue followed.
Suddenly a cloud of dust was seen rising in the distance.
The oriflamme was descried. The emperor's
battle-cry was heard, and, at the conquering sound, his
soldiers, like a pack of hounds at the voice of their master,
rushed upon the bridge. They were met and driven
back. Pressed forward by their own column, they became
pent within the narrow space. Carnage and
horrible confusion ensued—men were slaughtered in
masses—horses and riders were overthrown, and when
the command for retreat was given, the bridge was
piled with trampled, struggling, and dying men. “See,
see, my lady,” cried Ermen, “my Lord Pepin's men
toss those carcasses into the stream as if they were sheep
slaughtered for the shambles. No wonder you cover
your eyes; it pierces my old heart to see those bodies,
that one minute ago were full of life, strength, and hope,
so broken and dishonoured.”
“God forgive them!” ejaculated Blanche.
“But look once again, my lady! See how daringly
the knight of the black plume advances, just so my
Lord Hunold would have done; he passes the bridge!
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See, with his few followers he dashes on the retreating
column—Ah! they turn on him—now, St. Denis aid
him!—there goes the prince to his rescue!”
“Heaven help us,” cried Blanche, “he is lost! Oh,
what rashness to pass the bridge! Shame on the cowards,
now there are myriads against him, how they set
on him—he is surrounded!—his retreat utterly cut
off!” Blanche clasped her hands and fixed her eye in
breathless apprehension on that frightful melée, “Ah
me! Ermen, my head is giddy; I can see nothing, look
if you can see him?”
“No, my lady, no.”
“Look narrowly, Ermen, do you not see the top of
his plumes?”
“No, no, indeed!—nothing but glancing lances and
gleaming shields. What can that waving mean? they
fall back! Ah, there he is, side by side with the black
knight. See, they burst through the close ranks of the
enemy—ha! how they trample them down. Mother
Mary! how they tread the life out of them—they are
already at the bridge—the black plume passes it, but
ah! the broken planks fly from beneath his horse's feet.
What a horrid gap he has opened for the prince—his
steed recoils—his pursuers are on him! Now, Heaven
save him from falling with his back to them! their
lances almost touch him. Bravo! the leap is made—
he is safe.”
“Surely,” said Blanche, as her heart heaved from
the suffocating pressure that was upon it;—“Surely
Heaven's shield is before him.”
“And behind him too, I think, my lady; and a lion's
heart within him. See how the enemy seem cowering
on their side the bridge, like frightened hawks afraid
to stoop to their prey; and my lord's men, bless them! I
see by their bearing, that each one feels as if he had
the strength of ten men in his single arm. There comes
a messenger to the prince with good or evil tidings.”
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“Heaven grant them good,” replied Blanche, “but
I fear, for my lord rides hastily off with him.”
“I marvel the brave paladins endure the taunts of the
black plume,” resumed Ermen. “Hark! how he dares
them to follow the example he set them. Ah! there
is my lord emperor—his spirit will not brook being thus
kept in abeyance. He calls on his guards to shame
the loitering cowards, and follow. I doubt if he knows
of that yawning abyss. Ah! now he sees it. But it is
too late—he cannot turn back—his fiery steed leaps
over. A few follow him—rather death than to desert
your master! but every hoof that touches the bridge
widens the gap. Mother of mercy, they fall through—
the generous youths!—they are crushed on the rocks—
horse and rider!”
Shouts rent the air. Ermen's voice might be heard,
like the shriek of an owl, mingling with and heightening
the clamour.
“Think you, Ermen, the victory is won; that the
emperor's mistake is fatal?” demanded Blanche.
“Assuredly, my lady: the emperor sees it himself,
but it is too late. See how his brave paladins gather
round him. They seem to feel no more than their
senseless shields, the blows they receive in his stead.
They fall, one after another—the last is gone! He is
single-handed against a host. What a salvation is a
brave spirit! See how he gives them thrust for thrust,
and fights as if he were backed by thousands. But,
oh!” continued Ermen, her interest naturally shifting,
as the inequality of the contest became more manifest,
“It is in vain, as one assailant drops, another takes his
place. It is too much! Our noble master against
such odds! The craven wretches, why do they not
give him a fair field! Right royally he still defends
himself! Ah! he wavers—his shield has fallen—his
left arm hangs like a lopped branch—he must fall!—
see, they press on him. Now God have mercy on
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him!—Ah! there comes the prince again—how furiously
he rides. Must his hand give the finishing stroke?
I cannot look on that—”
Blanche sunk on her knees. “Merciful Heaven!”
she cried, “let him not lift his hand against his father—
save him from parricide!”
“Oh, look up, my lady, once more look up! The
prince is striking down the lances of the assailants, and
shouting, `Back, villains, back—touch not his sacred
life!' ”
Their arms fell as if they were paralyzed, and they
recoiled a few paces, leaving a vacant space, where the
steeds of father and son met, bit to bit. The prince
dismounted, threw down his lance and shield, and
kneeling in the dust, cried, “My liege—my father,
forgive me!”
Ermen broke into a wild hysteric laugh, and turned
to her mistress, but her gentle nature was overpowered,
and she had sunk down in utter unconsciousness.
Neither saw nor knew, till many hours after, what followed.
That the tide of fortune had turned in the em
peror's favour, and deliverance from the perils that beset
him was near at hand, at the moment the interposition
of his son saved him from certain death. A detachment
from his army had been guided by one of the
loyal abbey tenants, to a fordable passage through the
stream. They had wound unperceived around the
hills, fallen on Pepin's reserved corps, and cut it off
completely; and at the moment the prince was surrendering
himself to filial duty, his followers were surprised
by superior numbers falling on their rear. He
could not look on and see his faithful friends falling in
a cause he had abandoned; and giving orders that the
hlace where the emperor stood should be considered
neutral ground, and sacredly guarded as such, he
plunged into the thickest of the fight. Many a long-remembered
deed of desperate valour did he achieve; but it
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was of no avail: long before the day closed, the din of
arms had ceased; the prince, and the handful of his followers
who survived were prisoners, and the victorious
army was retiring towards Aix-la-Chapelle.
The wounded and dying left on the field of battle
were, in obedience to the benevolent orders of the
abbess, conveyed to the cottages of the peasants, where
all that leech-craft could do was done; and when that
was unavailing, the last offices of humanity were faithfully
rendered. On the spot where the conflict had
ended was found the body of the warrior who had been
distinguished by the black plume. Though he was
quite unconscious, life still tenaciously held its grasp;
and the badges of priestly office being discovered on
the removal of his helmet and armour, he was deemed
worthy to die within the consecrated walls of the
abbey; and accordingly he was carried thither. There
he was destined to find not only a cure for the wounds
of his body, but the skill that could pluck from his memory
its rooted sorrows.
To women, old Homer (with the spirit of the golden
age of gallantry) assigns the art of compounding the
nepanthes. And, if there is a human hand skilled
to prepare the sweet draught, oblivious of grief, sorrow,
and care, it is that of a daughter.
Hours of tumultuous passion—years of gloomy self-annihilation
were in the memory of Hunold, like a
dismal and fading dream, while his eye reposed on
Blanche; and he felt, in her assiduous devotion, the
healing efficacy of filial love.
For the present they were secure from molestation;
and of the future they hardly yet dared to think. The
apprehensions that racked Blanche's heart were visible
in the mortal paleness that settled on her cheek; in
her nervous starts at any unwonted sound; and in the
touching contrition which she manifested for the frequent
abstractions of her thoughts from her father.
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The ultimate fate of the prince remained yet undecided.
Rebellion is the unpardonable sin in the creeds
of absolute monarchs; and in this case justice, as well
as the almost uniform practice of the times, demanded
his death. Still the decree came not, and it was evident
that there was some wavering in the sovereign's
mind—some leaning towards the milder punishment of
the tonsure, and seclusion in a monastery, a penalty
equivalent to our “state prison for life;” a convenient
mode of shutting out of the world those who were de
trop in it. The partisans of the vindictive queen urged
that the death of the prince was essential to the present
tranquillity of the emperor and to the secure succession
of the legitimate heirs. But the emperor seemed
cold to whatever proceeded from the queen's counsels.
He had received some faint intimations of Hunold's
disclosures; and though he was too discrete a husband
to dive into a well because truth was at the bottom, yet
it was evident that the spell of her influence was dissolved—
that her royal consort was disabused, and that
some change had passed, like that which reduces the
seemingly-beautiful enchantress of a fairy-tale to the
reality of an ugly old hag.
At length the intrigues of the courtiers were ended,
and the speculations of the gossips of the city silenced
by the publication of the emperor's decree. It ordained
that on a certain day the prince should receive the tonsure
publicly, at the altar of the great chapel. That
after this rite of initiation, he should be escorted in state
to the monastery of St. Alban, where he was adjured by
the strictest prayers and penances to expiate the sin of
rebellion.
The ambitious prince was for ever to be severed from
the world. The purest, tenderest, and most ennobling
of human passions was to be converted to sin. The fire
that was kindled to gladden social life, was to be for ever
shut up in the bosom, there to burn and consume. Strange
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that man should have been so long permitted to countervail
the benign designs of Providence! that he should
have been suffered to condemn to waste and mouldering
the affections that were bestowed to sow the wide harvest-fields
of the world with joy and beauty!
The day arrived appointed for the ceremony. Early
in the morning the gates of the city were thrown open.
Nobles with pompous retinues, and rustics with their
families, crowded the avenues. Greediness of spectacle
has been common to all ages of the world, from
long ere David danced before the ark of the Lord to
this present moment, when the park of our city is a
living mass, gazing at the beautiful illuminations for this
centennial celebration of the birthday of our immortal
Washington.
Church and convent-bells were tolling. Processions
of the religious orders filled the streets with the sublime
anthems appointed by the church; and the Gregorian
chant resounded from the choir of the great chapel.
It was remarked by those court observers of straws,
who were watching the decline of Fastrade's sun, that
the emperor on this day had given the final decision to
the great musical controversy that had agitated the empire.
The queen had favoured the Gallic or Ambrosian
party, but the emperor, who had inclined to the
muse of Italy, finally adopted the Gregorian chant;
justifying his decision publicly, by the pious illustration
that, “as a river is purest at its source, so Rome,
being the fountain of all divine wisdom, ought to reform
the Gallican music after the model of her own.”
The emperor and his court, in their ceremonial costume,
entered the chapel by a private door, and occupied
seats at the right of the altar; the emperor and
queen were in a position a little elevated, and in advance
of their attendants. There was an unquietness in
Charles' manner, and a heavy shade on his brow, that
indicated the yearning of his heart towards his son;
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and the reluctance with which he had submitted to the
usage that imposed the humiliation of a public ceremony.
The state smile the queen had assumed did
not veil her gratified malignity, while her sallow cheek,
and restless and falling eye, fully betrayed her consciousness
that she had fallen from her high estate—
that the emperor was no longer the duped husband,
flexible to the purposes of her insatiate cruelty.
The doors were thrown open, and the eager crowd
of spectators, marshalled by officers, were conducted
to the seats assigned them, according to their rank.
The chapel-bell struck, and the prince, preceded by men-at-arms,
and followed by a procession of the monks of
St. Alban, entered the grand aisle. His dress resembled
that worn by his father on high festivals. A golden
diadem, set with precious stones, bound in its circlet a
head that looked as if it were formed to ennoble even
such an appendage. His buskins were thickly studded
with gems, his tunic was of golden tissue, and his purple
mantle fastened by a clasp of glittering stones.
This royal apparel was meant in part to show forth the
ambition that had o'erleaped itself; and in part to set
the splendours of the world in overpowering contrast
with the humility of the religious garb.
The prince advanced with a firm step. His demeanour
showed that if he had lost every thing else, he had
gained the noblest victory; victory over himself. There
was nothing in his air of the crushed man; on the contrary,
there was his usual loftiness, and more than his
usual serenity. As men gazed at him, and saw the impress
of his father on his mild majestic brow, they felt
that nature had set her seal to his right of inheritance.
He paused as he reached a station opposite his father,
signed to his attendants to stop, and turning aside he
knelt at his father's feet. Their eyes met as tenderly
as a mother's meets her child. Charles stretched out
his hand, Pepin grasped it, and pressed it to his lips.
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The spectators looked in vain for some sign of sternness
in the father, and resentment in the son. Little did
they dream that the father and son had met that morning,
with no witness but the approving eye of Heaven;
and had exchanged promises of forgiveness and loyalty
never to be retracted in thought, word, or deed.
As the prince rose to his feet his eye encountered
the queen's, flashing with offended pride; but hers fell
beneath the steady overpowering glance of his, which
said, “I am not yet so poor as to do you reverence.”
The emperor did not rebuke, or even seem to notice
the omission. His eye was riveted to the gracious
tears his son had left upon his hand.
The prescribed devotions and pompous preparatory
ceremonial of the Romish church were performed.
The prince then laid down his glittering crown, and
exchanged his gorgeous apparel for the garb of St.
Alban's monks, a russet gown fastened at the waist with
a hempen-cord. It was noticed by the keenest of his
observers that he did not lay aside his sword; but, he
might have forgotten it, or a soldier might be permitted
to the very last, to retain the badge of his honour and
independence. A glow of shame shot over his face as
he bent his head to the humiliating rite of the tonsure;
and the eyes of the truly noble were instinctively
averted, as his profuse and glossy locks fell beneath
the razor of the officiating priest. This initiatory rite
performed, a hood was thrown over his head, and the
soldier-prince was lost in the humble aspect of the monk
of St. Alban.
A court order had declared that the prince should be
escorted to the gates of the monastery by the emperor,
the lords and ladies of the court, and the paladins
and chiefs assembled at Aix-la-Chapelle.
The troops of the late victorious army were stationed
in double lines on each side of the course, along which
the procession was to pass. The emperor and his son
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rode first, side by side. The queen, at an intimation
from her royal consort, that savoured strongly of command,
had withheld her presence. The bright skies,
and transparent atmosphere of one of the earliest days
of winter, gave lustre to every object, and clearness to
every sound. Banners and pennons were streaming in
the light breeze. The burnished shields, and unspotted
lances of gala days, reflected from a thousand points
the sunbeams. The proud step of the war-horse—the
gay prancing of the palfrey—the glittering decorations
of the court-ladies—and the state costume of the lords
gave to the grand cortége the aspect of a triumphal
procession. But how little like a victor looked the
prince, whose diminished form seemed shrinking beneath
the russet folds that enveloped him; and bending, in
dejected attitude, over the fleet and fiery steed that had
so often borne him to victory! How the pealing anthems
struck on his ear like a funeral dirge, hymning
him to his tomb,—and the trampling of his horse's
hoofs as they rung on the pavement! “Oh, my generous
unrivalled steed,” he thought, “were we but once
alone beyond the barriers, I would doff this cursed
hood, and cast all upon a single chance! Oh, Blanche,
were I but with thee in some lone isle, in mid-ocean, or
on some far spot of the desert—the world forgotten!”
The past, the future, the possible floated before him in
perplexed and maddening vision. His breath came
gaspingly. It seemed to him that his pulses beat audibly—
his eye “devoured the distance.” The procession
was within sight of the barriers, and not far distant
from them. The gates were wide open, but the way to
them was guarded by men with drawn, and upraised
weapons. “It is but the soldier's death,” thought the
prince, “instead of mouldering away within the cloister's
walls. I violate no duty to my dear father. In
every issue I am dead to him—it is possible! Does
Heaven, or do the fiends inspire my purpose! Heaven,
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surely Heaven, for oh! Blanche, it is for thee, and thee
alone!”
This last thought gave the irresistible and effective
impulse. He threw off his hood, drew his sword,
roused his horse's mettle with a single word, and beating
back the spears of the amazed guard, he darted at full
speed towards the gate. He cleared the barriers, his
horse flew onward as if “the speed of thought were in
his limbs;” and before the cries of alarm and pursuit
had passed along the ranks, he had disappeared.
Clamour, consternation, and confusion ensued. The
zealous and officious were posting to the pursuit, when
they were arrested by a peal from a herald's trumpet,
followed by a proclamation, commanding the emperor's
liege subjects to return quietly to their homes, and in
future to refrain from any pursuit or quest after the
fugitive, as that important duty was to be confided to
private emissaries. The measures that were to be
adopted, and the success that ensued, never transpired
beyond the cabinet councils of the emperor.
The ingenious monks, at no period at a loss for the
interpretation of an event that baffled common sagacity,
maintained that the prince had been spirited away by
St. Alban, that worthy saint being indignant at his admission
into their immaculate fraternity.
But according to our modern creeds, the powers that
superstition imbodied in the fancied favourites of Heaven,
are within the mission of mortals; and all-enduring,
and all-conquering affection, works more miracles
than the whole corporate body of calendared saints.
A saint there undoubtedly was in the case, for according
to traditions long after familiar on the lake of Constance,
a creature of beauty, so excellent that it
seemed suited “t' envelope and contain a celestial
spirit,” dwelt on the little island of Meinau, in that
lake. She had come thither from some far-distant province,
with her father, her husband, and an ancient
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serving-woman. From the time of her advent, poverty
and misery disappeared from the shores of the lake, as
shadows fly before the sun. The little waste isle became
a paradise; and in due process of time those
young enchanters appeared, who repeat to the parent
the joys of his youth, and strew his path of life, even
down to the gates of death, with solaces and hopes.
As ages passed on, these traditions assumed a more
questionable shape; and, as is usual, a larger proportion
of fable was mingled with truth. The knights
of the Teutonic order, afterward established at Meinau,
pointed visiters to a spot where, as a legend told, stood
a chapel in the reign of Charlemagne. The officiating
priest was so far superior to the surrounding peasantry
that he would have seemed to them all celestial, but
for a slight deformity of the back, which stamped him
of mortal mould. His devotional services, the legend
said, were assisted by an angel, surrounded by cherubs.
On Sundays and holydays the chapel was open to the
peasantry, and a special service was performed for the
emperor Charlemagne. The legend farther intimated
that the long and prosperous reign of that great sovereign
was mainly owing to the holy services of these
mysterious worshippers in the little chapel of Meinau.
