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.