e foe, who now turned
upon the pursuer. Awhile the white crest danced amid hostile helmets and
spears--then vanished.

"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.