liation at home were like a sweet
balsam. And though the blessed intelligence was blended with the account
of the Lady Margaret's death, it was not the less welcome. Gilbert had
long since ceased to regard the Lady Margaret with human love. He
revered her as one sacred to heaven, upon whom death had already set the
seal of eternity, and, far from weeping over her early grave, he exulted
at her triumphant flight to the judgment-seat of God.

Two long years crept by, and the imperialists were still before Rome.
Gilbert looked anxiously for succor to Suabia and Saxony, but the sudden
death of Otto of Nordheim laid his hopes in the dust, and Henry, for the
third time, invested the eternal city. Hitherto, the Romans, encouraged
by the Pope, had made an heroic resistance, and the besiegers had
suffered incredibly from their desperate sallies, as well as from the
diseases that decimated them. But the fidelity of the citizens was
beginning to totter beneath the protracted warfare, and many sighed for
a period to their calamities. Henry failed not to profit by these
dispositions, and poured in thirty thousand golden florins to inflame
them.

The horizon grew darker and darker--the Pope more winning, more
eloquent, more determined. Matilda did not fail him in this crisis. The
knight of the azure cross had already won the confidence of the princess
by his valor, his prudence, and his piety, and she now selected him as
the instrument of her generosity. She pointed to a large amount of
silver, saying that she intrusted him with the dangerous and difficult
duty of conveying it to Gregory. Gilbert gladly accepted the perilous
commission. He loaded a number of mules with the treasure, concealed
beneath vegetables, and disguising himself as a peasant, took a guide
and set out for Rome. During a dark and stormy night he contrived to
pierce the hostile lines and enter the city by the Lateran gate.

Gilbert found the Pope seated in the midst of an assembly. He could at
last feast his eyes upon the wonderful and sainted man whom he had all
his life loved and venerated. When the Pontiff rose and spoke of the
virtue and fortitude that ought to sustain them in this crisis, he
seemed endowed with supernatural power, and moved all present to tears.
It seemed as though his soul foreknew it was the last time his voice
should be raised in defence of his grand and holy cause.

Another year passed by; the festival of Easter was approaching. Henry