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.

While they bore the body to the royal pavilion, the pursuit was
continued with terrible effect. The Saxons remembered the losses they
had suffered five years before--the Suabians saw their desolated homes
and their expiring duke. The small remnant of Henry's army that escaped
the relentless sword and the equally fatal depths of the Elster, were
only reserved for a fate still more dreadful. After wandering about, a
prey to want and misery, they were now butchered by the peasantry of
Saxony and Thuringia, who, armed with hatchets and scythes, flew to
avenge upon the relic the wrongs they had suffered from the whole army.
Many of the fugitives plunged into the forests, preferring the slow
tooth of famine to the swifter stroke of steel. Others, concealing
themselves until the first gust of passion was over, besought the mercy
of the peasantry, who, at last moved with compassion or glutted with
slaughter, received them as fellow-beings, healed their wounds, and sent
them to their homes. Henry of Austria, with a suite little proportioned
to his rank, fled to Bohemia.

There was none of the exultation of victory in the allied camp that
night: each soldier seemed to feel that the conquest had been too dearly
won. Rodolph was not only beloved by the Suabians, who from their
cradles had experienced his bounty, his virtue, and justice, but he had
endeared himself to the Saxons by his affability, his wisdom, and his
valor. He had healed their private quarrels and humbled their public
enemies; he found them divided and feeble, he left them united and
vigorous. They regarded him as the savior of Saxony, and affectionately
styled him "_Pater patriae_." Nor was the grief of the bishops and
priests less ardent and sincere, for they felt that a zealous and
dauntless defender of the Church had fallen.

The soldiers, scattered about in groups, slept little, but whispered