there, descending torrents impeded her path; now a river, deep, broad and rapid, must be crossed by a frail plank quivering and rebounding under the trembling foot." Streams which could be forded at certain times of the year were at others so swollen by floods that the horses were obliged to swim across the swift and dangerous currents. Bridges were few and placed at rare intervals, and not infrequently the travellers, after losing much time in making a detour to reach them, were almost afraid to trust themselves upon the decayed timbers upon which they rested. Sometimes even stone-arched structures were found to be entirely broken by the force of the mountain torrents of melted snow which, hurling themselves against the supports, carried them far down the river. Such were the difficulties of travelling in the Middle Agesdifficulties which historians of our day depict with such vivid reality, and which the Tuscan Princess braved in order to be with her husband in his hour of suffering. In addition to all these hindrances, Matilda's party had to face the cold and perils of the precipitous mountain-passes, where one false step would send them to an instant and terrible death. Even were these dangers safely averted there awaited them others scarcely less frightful. They had yet to fear the chance of falling into the hands of fierce and cruel bandits who lay hidden in the uncleared forests, and who were more to be dreaded than the wild animals who had their lairs. within the dense woods. Above all there remained the dread of falling into the hands of Henry's emissaries who were well aware of the rich reward they would gain by delivering the Tuscan Princess into his power. Fortunately Matilda escaped these and other dangers, and to the astonishment of the Duke's attendants, who had no intimation of her arrival in Germany, she presented herself at the door of her husband's palace. She found Godfrey still alive, though suffering great pain from his wound, and so thoroughly prostrated from loss A Perilous Journey of blood, that it was impossible for him to live many days. Before leaving Italy Matilda wrote to apprise the Pontiff of her husband's mishap, and to beg the Apostolic forgiveness for him should he repent of the schemes in which he had been engaged against the Holy See. With the magnanimity of a generous soul, which harbours no feeling of resentment against a fallen foe, Gregory despatched special messengers, who arrived at the ducal palace soon after Matilda, bearing not only assurances of a free and full pardon, but also his Pontifical blessing. It was evident that his wife's unexpected visit was a source of much gratification to the dying Duke. Her skilful nursing relieved him of many hours of pain, while her assurances of her sympathy soothed and tranquillised his perturbed spirit. When he heard of Beatrice's illness, and realised to some extent what it must have cost Matilda to leave her at such a time, there awoke within him an intense affection for his noble wife. As she tended him with undemonstrative solicitude he followed her graceful movements with looks that were mournfully pathetic in their mute expression of love and regret. While she wiped the death-dews from her husband's damp brow her thoughts were turned almost in agony to the home wherein her mother lay "sick unto death" so far away from her reach. She pictured her on her bed of suffering praying Heaven to spare her until her child's return. Matilda's unselfish nature found an ample reward for her unflinching adherence to duty in the softening influence which her coming had upon Godfrey who, touched by her unalloyed piety, turned his thoughts towards the Church of whom he had been so wilful a son. He lingered for a few days after his wife's arrival, when it became evident that his end was fast approaching. Then it was that Matilda, like an angel of mercy, fulfilled her mission, and by her consolations and prayers prepared him for his path through the valley of death. Whispering in his ear, soon to close to sounds of earth, words of courage, of hope and of comfort, she held before his glazing eyes the emblem of forgiveness and salvation. A holy calm stole over his features, and with a look of unutterable love and gratitude towards his wife he expired. The Pontiff heard of Godfrey's repentance with feelings of thanksgiving and gave orders that the prayers of the Church should be offered up for the soul of her erring child. He also sent a letter addressed to the German Bishops in which he writes as follows: "As to Gottfried we wish to remind you how unworthy we all are, and that we will often recall his memory before God. We have forgotten his hate and our resentment." Godfrey was buried at Verdun beside his father with all the solemn rites with which the Church consigns her children to the tomb. As soon as the obsequies were over the widowed Countess started on her homeward journey to Pisa, with all possible speed. Ordinarily composed and deliberate in her movements, she was now almost beside herself with excitement. She became nervous and agitated, and consumed by a feverish impatience to behold her dear mother once again. The funeral service at which she had so lately assisted brought home to her with startling reality the inevitable parting which would deprive her of her loved one. What Matilda endured from anxiety lest she should after all be too late to receive a last look or smile passes beyond all description and was never effaced from her memory. She rode on horseback in advance of her followers and, "touched by her grief, her piety and her courage, the people, who knelt down as she passed, already styled her 'The Great Countess.'"1 Matilda pressed on with all possible speed, expecting at every turn to be confronted with Henry, or to meet with detachments of the German army, bent on intercepting her passage. It was strange that he did not take this present 1M. Abel François Villemain. Widowed opportunity of securing the person of his cousin. Either, which is hardly possible, he had not heard of her arrival in Germany, or the quickness of her movements frustrated his design of arresting her. After chafing at the numerous hindrances and vexatious delays which met her at almost every step of the way, she found herself at last in her own sunny land. Her long and hazardous journey was ended, and the weary traveller, with a sigh of relief, was once more clasped in her mother's embraces. At the time of her arrival, and almost meeting her at the threshold, came the envoy of the Holy Father sent in haste from Rome, bearing the Pontifical benediction to his valued and well-tried friend. Once again, and for the last time in this world, Beatrice and Matilda received the Body of their dear Lord together. The dying Princess, with illumined features which reflected the happiness within, slowly murmured the responses at the conclusion of the consoling prayers by which the Church commends her children to God. "She had need of being fortified," laments the faithful Donizo, " for it was at the beginning of the crisis of which she perceived the results that she had quitted this world." With the foresight which the presence of death rendered prophetic, "she saw her child alone in the world. With her dying breath she commended her to the holy guardianship of the Pope, and committed Rome to the courage of her daughter. She passed saintly from the world. May her soul be in Paradise." "Resigned and tranquil and serenely happy in the presence of the Crucifix, and full of faith, hope and love," she fell asleep, her last lingering gaze resting on the bowed form of her darling daughter. Thus went forth the Christian spirit of the gentle Beatrice, leaving a name like sweet perfume behind her, and a void in her child's heart that no human sympathy could ever fill. The newly widowed Countess kissed for the last time the irresponsive lips, which seemed even then to smile in blessing upon her, and took her farewell of the beloved features she would see no more on earth. The body of Beatrice was, according to her wish, laid to rest in the Cathedral at Pisa with all the solemn ceremonial of the Church. As the wailing notes of the Penitential Psalms rose and fell upon the ears of the mourners, Matilda's courage was scarcely equal to bear the sense of loss which threatened to overwhelm her. It was only by a supreme effort of will that she was able to restrain her pent-up emotions. The remains of Beatrice were followed to the grave by the poet-chaplain, whose grief at the loss of his friend was much augmented by the fact that she was not buried within the walls of the family castle. "A profound melancholy consumes me," writes Donizo, "to see an unworthy town possess the body of my mistress.' "Canossa is pure from all stain, and a noble place of sepulture." "It is not good," he quaintly remarks, "to seek eternal repose in an impious town where sins are committed daily." "The greater number of my masters ordained that, at their death, they should be buried on the ramparts of Canossa." With the unselfishness which was the very essence of Beatrice's nature she had placed no obstacle in the way of her daughter's journey to console the dying Godfrey. But every moment that passed during the protracted absence of the child, from whom she was shortly to be separated forever in this life, was a sore trial to her maternal heart. In order to while away the tedious hours of expectancy she took a melancholy interest in composing her own epitaph, of which the following is a free translation: "Though a sinner I was once called the Lady Beatrice, Lie beneath this tomb. Whoever thou art say three paternosters for my soul." |