perverted history have charged this unfortunate
state of things to the pernicious influence of the Church of Rome. But
the wiser Protestants of the present day, considering it rather a poor
compliment to their faith to assign its birth to the sixteenth century,
are beginning to be awake to the powerful instrumentality of the
Christian Church in the regeneration of mankind, and the production of
modern civilization. Few, indeed, even with the light of history, can
form an adequate idea of the immensity of the task assigned to
Christianity in shedding light over the chaos that followed the
overthrow of Rome, in reducing it to order, and preparing the nicely
fitted elements of modern Europe.

The Catholic Church beheld, and bitterly deplored, the evils of private
warfare. Council after council fulminated its decrees against the
pernicious system; men were exhorted by the sacred relics of the Saints
to extinguish their animosities, and abstain from violence. But the
custom had taken deep root; for, in the language of a well-known
Protestant historian, "it flattered the pride of the nobles, and
gratified their favorite passions." But in the eleventh century the
Church had gained a partial victory over the dearest appetites of the
fiery Frank and the warlike Saxon. It was enacted, under pain of
excommunication, that private warfare should cease from the sunset of
Wednesday to the morning of Monday, and few were hardy enough to expose
themselves to the penalty. The respite from hostilities which followed
was called the "Truce of God."

It was not the musical voice of the bell that made Gilbert de Hers pause
on the very threshold of the struggle, and bite his lip until it grew
white; but the sweet-toned bell announced the sunset of Wednesday. The
young men stood gazing at each other, as though some spell had
transformed them into stone. But the messenger of peace had stayed the
uplifted sword, and, sheathing their unstained weapons, they knelt upon
the green carpet beneath them, and put forth the same prayer to the same
God.

It is a sight that may well command the eyes of Angels, when, though
deaf to earthly laws and considerations, the angry heart, in the first
heat of its wild career, still stops obedient to the voice of religion.
Amid the dross of human frailty, the pure metal shines with the lustre
that surrounds the sinner in the morning of his conversion.

They rose almost together, and their faces, so lately flushed