side by side, shouted their battle-cries and hurled their followers upon the opposing ranks.  Such was the ardor inspired by Rodolph that, at the first shock, two of Henry’s columns were broken.  But this advantage did not long avail against equal courage and superior numbers.  Henry was at the head of the finest troops in the empire.  But the consciousness of the sacredness of their cause made the soldiers of Rodolph invincible.  Already Eberard le Barbu, the faithful counsellor of Henry, the Count of Hennenburg, Thibalt, and Henry of Lechsgemund had fallen around their lord.  At this moment some bishops, retiring from the ranks of Rodolph, communicated a panic to those around them.  It was in vain that Rodolph displayed the brilliant valor that had won him the name of the first knight of the times—­that the Lord of Hers put forth his utmost skill, and the Baron of Stramen displayed his unrivalled strength.  Menace and entreaty failed alike, nor could example or reproach recall the fugitives.

“Why does not Otto advance!” exclaimed Rodolph, who, by dint of almost superhuman exertion, had preserved his front still unbroken.  “Unless I am supported within a minute, the battle is lost.”

Hardly had the words escaped his lips, before the war-cry of Saxony—­“St. Peter!  St. Peter!” burst from three thousand throats, and the noble Otto and the Count Palatine Frederick could be seen leading on their troops, all fresh and panting for the fight.  Borne down by this vigorous assault, the pursuing column fell back in confusion, and were routed with great slaughter.  Rodolph, having rallied his men, rushed on to where the imperial standard was waving, and with his own hand cut down the banner of his rival.  A cry now arose:  “Henry is dead!” Dispirited and borne down, the troops of Henry turned and fled in confusion.  They were pursued up to the gates of Wuertzburg, where the vanquished monarch found an asylum.  The Saxons passed the night on the battle-field, amid hymns of praise and cries of joy.

In the morning, Rodolph, from his inferiority being unable to pursue his victory, reentered Merseburg in triumph; and Henry, unwilling to hazard another engagement, fell back upon Ratisbon to levy new troops.

Thus ended the battle of Melrichstadt:  all night the waters of the Strewe, as they glided carelessly along, were red with the noblest blood in Germany.

Some hours after nightfall, when all the requisite precautions had been taken, Gilbert de Hers, unharmed, but worn out by the fatigues of the day, retired to his father’s tent.  He was alone, for the Lord of Hers was in council with the king.  It was a sultry night in August, and, stripping off his armor, he threw himself upon a couch, and gazed languidly but steadily at the flickering watch fires.  He had been knighted on the field by the king, and had nobly worn his spurs, but his thoughts were evidently not running on his own prowess or the praises of his monarch.  A listless calm had succeeded his late excitement.  His meditations were rather rudely interrupted by the entrance of a man who dashed aside the curtains of his tent and pressed the young noble’s hand to his lips.