Otto of Nordheim and Welf of Bavaria had determined to keep their forces together until apprised of Henry’s further designs, and the allied armies rested upon their arms at Merseburg.  In the meantime Henry used every artifice to raise another army; but such a panic had seized his adherents, that they declared they would rather be swallowed up in the earth than again encounter the Saxons.  When Otto and Welf were thus assured of Henry’s immediate inability to injure them, they disbanded the troops which had served them so gallantly.  Much as the soldiers longed to return to their homes, they did not part without some reluctance.  They had long toiled side by side in the same glorious cause; they had shared the same dangers and the same pleasures.  They had slept and kept watch together.  Reminiscences of hair-breadth escapes and of mutual services had created friendships of no ordinary strength.  For many days the different troops could be seen evacuating the city under their feudal chiefs, until at last scarce a soldier remained at Merseburg.

It was about the first of November that the barons of Hers and Stramen set out with the relics of their clans for their lordships in Suabia.  The face of Sandrit of Stramen was sterner than ever, and his son seemed to have caught a portion of his severity.  They rode along swiftly, and whenever they spoke it was about the Lady Margaret.  Father Omehr alone preserved his equanimity, and even he was now unusually absent and thoughtful.  Nor was the retinue of Albert of Hers more cheerful.  Sir Albert’s eyes were fixed on the ground in deep dejection; tears were ever and anon springing into Humbert’s eyes, and even the vassals behind them were gloomy and dispirited.  They were returning to a desolated home, it is true; but, what was worse, they were returning without Gilbert.

The Lady Margaret was still at Tuebingen.  With scarce more fervor did Gregory VII uphold against the world the measures he deemed essential to the liberty, unity, and purity of the Church, than did this young girl pursue the object to which she had consecrated herself—­the extinction of the feud.  Humble as were her aim and efforts, when contrasted with the objects and exertions of the sainted Pontiff, she could still imitate his piety and perseverance.  The reader may have remarked the changes in the Lady Margaret’s character.  She was naturally haughty and impetuous, though generous and sincere.  In spite of her piety, that pride, so difficult to curb, would still break out.  But these infirmities had been zealously combated, until religion had triumphed over the weakness of humanity.  Still, for some time, the Lady Margaret was unhappy, and accused herself of human love in seeking the reconciliation, imputing the revolution in her feelings to a culpable tenderness.  But she soon discovered that vanity—­that an aspiration after the consciousness of perfection rather than true piety—­occasioned her uneasiness.