“He is down!” screamed Gilbert, in agony, hewing his way toward the king.  Rodolph was alone against a host, while his horse sank up to his knees in the marshy ground.  Before succor could arrive, a sword had cloven through the monarch’s wrist, and his right hand fell to the ground.

“It is the hand that I raised when swearing allegiance to Henry,” muttered Rodolph, bitterly.  With tears in his eyes, Gilbert struggled to reach the king, who, unarmed and disabled, drove his steed against the circle that hemmed him in.  His crest was gone, and his armor hacked and stained with blood:  still fearlessly he bore up against his foes, and seemed to rejoice in the unequal strife.  The chivalry of Suabia were spurring fast to the rescue, and Gilbert, now supported by a small band of friends, was almost at his side, when Godfrey de Bouillon charged the king with levelled lance.  The steel, impelled by a powerful hand, entered at the groin, and Rodolph, mortally wounded, fell to the ground.  The Bohemians uttered a cry of joy at the king’s overthrow, for they knew him well by his armor and actions.  Their triumph was short-lived, however, for the Suabians, eager to avenge their leader, gave no quarter, and the victorious Saxons had attacked their rear.

“Stop not now!” said Rodolph to the nobles about him; and the lords of Hapsburg, Tuebingen, Achalm, Hers, and Stramen swept on to avenge him.  Gilbert remained rooted to the spot.  His lance dropped from his hand as he leaped from his horse and knelt beside his monarch.  Already the helmet had been removed by one who supported the dying hero in his arms.  From Gregory VII to Pius IX, from the Dominican that accompanied Cortez to the Jesuit who followed a more recent conqueror, the Catholic missionary had been found in the front of battle.  It was Father Omehr whose breast now pillowed the monarch’s head.  Gilbert’s heart was almost bursting as he pressed the only remaining hand to his lips and saw that he was recognized.  Feeling he could not long survive, Rodolph raised his head and asked, in a dying voice, “Whose is the day?” “Yours, my lord, yours!” replied those who were around him; for Gilbert, unable to speak, did not attempt to answer, but continued to gaze on the eagle eye over which the film of death was gathering fast.

“Yours, my lord, yours,” repeated the mourners.  At these words, Rodolph fell back in the missionary’s arms, saying, “Then I accept with joy the end to which God has called me.  Death no longer disturbs me, since it brings victory with it.”  From this moment he was speechless; and with his gaze earnestly bent upon his shield, that had been raised by a page, and on which was blazoned a crowned lion sleeping upon the knees of the Blessed Virgin, Rodolph of Suabia breathed his last.  The calm face of the dead was not paler than Gilbert, who, unmoved by the shout of victory, watched the clay that had so lately been—­a king.