The following day brought clear, frosty weather. The intense cold had
abated and the sun shone out warm and bright. Eugen Stahlberg and
Lieutenant Walldorf, free from duty for the time being, were in Prince
Adelsberg's quarters. Walldorf had been thrown from his horse the
previous evening, and his hand had been injured, and this prevented him
from going out with his company, as Egon had done. The gentlemen were
waiting for the return of their princely comrade, who must be back soon
now, and as they waited, they teased and guyed old Peter Stadinger, who
was on duty early at his master's quarters.
The young officers had heard nothing of the news which had been learned
over night at headquarters, they were as merry as could be, and
indulged in much raillery over old Peter's lectures to his master. But
the old man said little in answer to their banter this morning; his
master was long in returning, and Stadinger had reached the age when he
borrowed trouble, and it rested heavily upon him. Finally Walldorf got
out of all patience with him and said:
"I believe, Stadinger, you'd like to strap the prince on your back and
take him off to Rodeck with you. The camp is no place for anxiety or
alarm, remember that."
"Then the prince had to reconnoitre to-day," added Eugen. "He has to
make a detour from Chapel mountain to the valley beneath and through the
ravine, in order to see what the outlook is. We'll probably have a
pleasant exchange of civilities with the French gentlemen within the
next few days, and we want to be ready for them at all points."
"But there's plenty of chances for them to shoot now, isn't there?"
asked the old man with such anxiety that the officers had to laugh
aloud.
"Yes, there's chances enough to shoot," Walldorf asserted. "You seem to
be afraid of a gun. You're safe from any stray shots here!"
"I?" the old man straightened himself; he was deeply insulted. "I wish
to God I could be in the midst of it all."
"Yes, you'd stay by the prince, and when you saw a bullet coming you'd
give his coat a pull and say: 'Be careful, your highness, here comes a
bullet.' That would be great fun."
"Herr Lieutenant," said the old man so earnestly that their merriment
was silenced, "you should not talk so to an old hunter, who has climbed
time and again to the mountain's summit, and shot, and killed too, where
he had scarcely room to plant his foot. It is only here that I am so
anxious and discouraged--I would the day were well over."
"We were only in fun," said Eugen good naturedly. "Of course you're not
afraid of a shot, one only has to look at you to know that. But don't
come to us with your presentiments and misgivings; after men have stood
under a shower of bullets they don't heed croakings. When we're all home
again I am going to visit my sister at Ostwalden and we'll be good
neighbors, you and I. The prince is very fond of his hunting castle at
Rodeck, is he not? But you can banish your gloomy thoughts, for here he
comes."
There was a quick step without on the stair; the old man gave a relieved
sigh, but when the door opened it was only Eugen's man who appeared.
"Isn't his highness coming?" asked Walldorf; but Stadinger gave the man
no time to answer. He had glanced at his face, only a glance, then he
started forward and seized his hand half-frantically.
"What is it? Where--where is my master?"
The man shook his head sadly and pointed to the window; the two officers
hastened to it, but Stadinger lost no time in looking; he rushed out of
the door and down the steps and across the little yard, and sank down
with a piercing cry beside a litter which two soldiers were carrying,
and upon which a tall, youthful form was stretched.
"Silence!" said the surgeon, who accompanied the sad little procession.
"Control yourself, the prince is badly wounded."
"I see that," said the old man, huskily. "But his wound is not mortal?
Tell me it's not mortal!"
He glanced up at the physician with a look of such despair, that the
latter had not the heart to tell him the truth. He turned to the two
officers who had followed Stadinger, and answered their questions
instead.
"A bullet in the breast," he said in a whisper. "The prince desired to
be brought to his own quarters, and we have been as careful as we could,
but the end is nearer than I thought."
"No hope then?" asked Walldorf.
"Not the slightest."
The men were already lifting their burden to carry him into the house,
when the physician motioned them to put him down.
"Wait! The prince wants to speak to his old servant, I think. A few
minutes here or there doesn't matter now."
Stadinger saw and heard nothing of what was going on around him, he saw
only his master. Egon appeared to be unconscious; the blonde hair was
thrown back, the eyes were closed, and under the mantle with which the
man had covered him was the blood-soaked uniform.
"Your highness!" said the old man in low, heart-rending tones. "Look at
me, speak to me! It is your old Stadinger."
The well-known voice found its way to the dying man's ear; he opened his
eyes slowly, and a faint smile crossed his face as he recognized his
faithful servant.
"My old ghost of the woods," he said softly; "and you are with me at the
last."
"But you'll not die, your highness," murmured Stadinger. His whole body
was in a tremble, but he never took his eyes from his adored master.
"No, you will not die, you will not die .'"
"Do you think it is so hard?" said Egon quietly. "Yesterday you were
quite right, a burden was on my heart, now it is light. Take a greeting
to dear Rodeck, and the forest, and to the lady of Ostwalden."
"To whom? To Frau von Wallmoden?" asked Stadinger, thinking he had not
heard aright.
"Yes, tell her I send her my last greeting; she must think of me
sometimes."
The words came slowly, brokenly, from the lips which would so soon
refuse to do further service, but there was no mistaking their full
significance. Eugen was startled when he heard his sister's name, and
bent over the dying man, who looked into the countenance which so
resembled Adelheid's, and again a smile lighted his face. Then he raised
his head and laid it heavily on the breast of his old ghost of the
woods, and the sunny blue eyes closed forever.
It was a short, painless battle with death, a peaceful falling to sleep.
Stadinger hardly breathed while life remained in the body of him he had
nursed as a babe and cherished as a man, but was to lose forever now.
When all was over the old man lost control of himself, and threw himself
in despair on the body of his beloved master, and sobbed like a child.
* * * * *
Yonder, on the other side of the mountain-pass, the clear, bright winter
sun lighted up the citadel which had just surrendered to the German
troops. The garrison which had occupied it were marching off prisoners
of war, while a portion of the victors were already on their way to the
fort.
General von Falkenried, surrounded by his staff, was standing in the
market-place of the little city, and was just on the point of marching
to the fortress. The helmets and guns of the men gleamed brightly in the
morning sun as they marched in solemn order toward the citadel.
General von Falkenried, who had been giving various orders, now turned
to his officers and gave the signal to move forward.
At that moment a rider came dashing down the main street at a mad galop.
His noble horse was covered with sweat and froth, and his flanks were
bleeding from the sharp spurs which had been pressed into his side. The
rider's face was covered with blood, too, which evidently came from a
wound in the forehead which had been hastily bound with a cloth. As if
fleeing before a storm, he heeded naught in his path, but rushed on in
his mad ride toward the market-place where the commanding general was to
be found.
Just a few steps from his goal the horse's strength gave out and he
fell. But in the same instant the rider had sprung from the saddle, and
hastened to the commander-in-chief.
"I come from General M----."
Falkenried drew a sharp, quick breath; he had not recognized the
blood-stained face, he only knew that the man must have come on some
important mission, but the tone of the man's voice gave him some
premonition of the truth.
Hartmut swayed for a moment and put his hand to his head--it seemed as
if he, like his horse, would succumb at the last moment; but he gathered
himself together for a final effort.
"It is a warning from the general--there is treachery, the citadel is to
be blown up as soon as our men are in it--here are the dispatches."
He tore the dispatches from his breast and handed them to Falkenried.
The officers were startled by the unexpected news, and gathered around
their chief waiting the corroboration or denial of the statement just
made, but a strange sight met their eyes. Their general, who never lost
his presence of mind, no matter how unexpected or how dreadful the
calamity which he faced, stood gazing at the orderly as if a ghost had
risen from the earth, still holding the unopened dispatches in his hand.
"Herr General, the dispatches!" said one of the adjutants, half aloud.
He understood his leader as little as did the others. It was enough to
bring Falkenried to his senses. He tore open the dispatches and learned
their contents in a second, then again he was a soldier who thought of
nothing but duty. He gave his orders in a loud, clear voice, the
officers hurried hither and thither, cries of command were given, and
signals sounded in every direction, and a few minutes later the division
marching to the fortress was brought to a standstill, while the
withdrawing garrison was also brought to a sudden halt.
Now the alarm signal was sounded from the citadel. Neither friend nor
foe knew what it signified, only the newly conquered fort must be
evacuated at once. The orders were carried out promptly. Despite the
haste there was no disorder; the troops turned to march back to the city
as they marched from it.
Falkenried still stood in the same place issuing orders, receiving
communications, while with glance and word he watched and guided all.
But he found a minute's time to turn to his son, he to whom he had given
no sign of recognition.
"You are bleeding--your wound must be bound."
Hartmut shook his head.
"Later; first I must see the retreat and know we are saved."
The fearful excitement kept him up. He swayed no more, but watched with
feverish impatience every movement of the troops. Falkenried looked at
him, then he said:
"Which way did you come?"
"Over the pass."
"Why, the enemy hold it," cried the General.
"Yes--they hold it."
"And yet you came that way?"
"There was no choice; we only knew it last night, and I had no time for
any other."
"That's a piece of heroism without parallel," said a high officer, who
had just come up with a communication and heard the last words. "Man,
how did you dare to run such a risk?"
Hartmut was silent; he raised his eyes slowly, and looked at his father.
Now he was not afraid to meet those eyes, and in them he read that he
was absolved.
But even the strength of him who has ventured all--and won, has its
limits.
His father's face was the last he saw, then a bloody veil covered his
eyes; he felt the blood again, hot and wet, running down his face, and
all was night to him as he sank to the ground.
There was a roar and a shock which made the whole city quake and
tremble. The citadel whose outline rose bold and clear toward the blue
heavens seemed suddenly to be turned into a seething, glowing crater,
vomiting flame. Within the bursting walls a very hell seemed to gape, as
the shower of stones rose in the air only to sink again in the fiery
hollow, and, as the gigantic wreck burned and blazed, it made one mighty
pillar of fire reaching to the very heavens above--a vengeful, hideous
flame of death.
The warning had not come a moment too soon. In spite of all precautions
there had been some victims who lived in the immediate vicinity of the
citadel and could not be reached, who were either blown to pieces or
severely wounded; though in comparison with the fearful calamity which
might have occurred and would have paralyzed all Germany, the loss was
slight.
The General with his officers and all his troops were saved.
The General, with his wonted foresight and energy, had taken every
precaution to avoid the terrible catastrophe, while his coolness, his
example, had done more than anything else to inspire both officers and
men to action. But now, when his duty as commander-in-chief was done, he
had his rights as a father.
Hartmut had been carried, when he fell, to a house near by, and lay
unconscious on his narrow cot. He neither saw nor heard his father, who
stood with the surgeon by his side.
Falkenried looked earnestly at the pale, worn face and closed eyes, then
he turned to the surgeon and said:
"Do you consider the wound mortal?"
The physician shrugged his shoulders.
"The wound of itself is not, but the strain and excitement of that
fearful ride, the loss of blood, and the terrible night--I fear,
General, there's little hope for the brave fellow. We must be prepared
for the worst."
"I am prepared!" said Falkenried earnestly, then he kneeled and kissed
his son, whom he had only found, he feared, to lose again; as he rose
two hot tears fell on the death-like face.
But the father had no time to stay by his son. He must be up and doing.
After a few minutes he left the room, leaving repeated injunctions with
the doctor not to relax his watchful care for an instant.
The General's staff and many other officers were waiting in the
market-place for their commander. As they waited they talked of the man
who had ridden through the jaws of death to save them all; none knew his
name, but he had come through the mountain pass, had faced a revengeful
and infuriated foe, with death on all sides, and had reached them in
time.
When the general appeared they surrounded and questioned him at once
concerning the brave stranger.
Falkenried had his usual earnest look, but the settled gloom of his face
was gone forever, and in its stead was an expression which those around
him had never seen before. His eyes were wet, but his voice was firm and
clear as he answered:
"Yes, gentlemen, he is severely wounded, and perhaps the ride which
saved us all was his death ride. But he has done his duty as a man and a
soldier, and if you would know his name, he is my son--Hartmut von
Falkenried."
The old manor house of Burgsdorf lay peaceful and quiet in the summer
sunshine. Its young master, who had been away from it for a whole year
had just returned to it and to his young wife, for the war was over.
The great estate had not suffered during his long absence; it had been
well cared for. The mother had taken the reins in hand again, and had
governed as of old with judgment and a watchful eye, but she now
resigned them willingly to her son, and declared her intention of taking
up her residence in Berlin.
She looked well and happy to-day as she stood upon the broad stone
veranda talking with her son who was by her side. He had never before
seemed so handsome in her eyes, for his military life and discipline had
given him a fine, stately bearing. She might well feel that he had
gained something with which her education had not provided him, but she
would not have admitted that for the world.
"So you intend to build?" she asked.
"I had thought of it."
"The old house in which your father and I lived is not good enough for
your princess, whom you must needs surround with all possible glitter
and splendor. Not that I care. You have the money to do it with. If all
these fine doings please you, well and good. It's nothing to me, thank
God."
"Don't try to be so severe, mother," laughed Willibald. "If a stranger
heard you he'd think you were the worst kind of a mother-in-law. If
Marietta's letters had not given me assurance enough that you spoiled
her, your own actions every day would do so."
"Now and then one plays, even in old age, with a pretty doll," Regine
answered dryly. "And your wife is but a fragile doll. Do not imagine
she'll ever be a capable housewife--I saw at a glance that she hadn't
it in her to manage here."
"You are quite right," answered her son eagerly "The work and the
management of the estate are my care and mine alone, and I shall never
bother Marietta with them. One takes pleasure in work too with such a
sweet little singing bird by his side and in his heart."
"Willibald, I don't believe your head is right yet," said Frau von
Eschenhagen with her old acerbity. "Who ever heard a sensible man, a
married man and a landed gentleman, speak in such a manner of his wife,
'A sweet little singing bird.' You've been learning that from your bosom
friend, Hartmut, whom you all think such a great poet."
"No mother, that's my own poetry," said Willibald, defending himself. "I
never wrote but one poem, and that was on the night when I saw Marietta
play. I gave it to Hartmut and asked him to change it a little and make
it read more like his. I'll tell you what he said in answer. 'Dear Will,
your poem is very beautiful and full of feeling; but you'd better let
it remain as it is. The public would in all probability not appreciate
the lines as they deserve, and your wife will value your work better
without any rearrangement by me.' That was my bosom friend's judgment."
"It served you right; what had you, a landlord, to do with verses?"
cried Regine sharply. Just then the door from the dining-room opened,
and a dark curly head peeped out, while a fresh voice said playfully:
"May a poor subject have a moment's speech with her most gracious
majesty?"
"Come here with you," said Frau von Eschenhagen, but the invitation was
unnecessary, for the young wife was already in her husband's arms, while
he, drawing her to him, whispered something in her ear.
"There you begin again," said his mother. "Some people never grow tired
of folly."
The young wife turned toward her mother-in-law and said:
"You mustn't forget that we had no honeymoon when we were married, and
so we are taking it now. You know from experience that one is permitted
an extra share of happiness during that time."
Frau Regine shrugged her shoulders. Her honeymoon with Herr von
Eschenhagen of blessed memory had been of another kind.
"You received a letter from your grandfather, did you not, Marietta?"
she said, changing the subject. "Good news?"
"The very best. Grandpapa is quite well, and is delighted at the thought
that he'll be here with me in another month. He writes that it's the
quietest summer he has known for a long time around Waldhofen. Rodeck
has been desolate and deserted since the prince's death. Ostwalden is
closed and Fürstenstein will be empty soon, too. Toni is to be married
in two weeks, and then uncle Schönau will be all alone."
The last words were spoken in a peculiar tone, and Marietta gave her
mother-in-law an odd glance, which the latter did not notice; she only
said:
"It does seem singular for Hartmut and Ada to spend the first weeks of
their marriage here in that little villa when they could go to the great
castle at Ostwalden or one of the Stahlberg palaces."
"They wanted to be as near the general as possible," said Willibald.
"Well, in this case, Falkenried could have gotten leave and gone to
them. God be praised! The man seems to live again since he has his son
with him. I knew better than any one how the boy's flight struck him,
for he fairly worshipped his son, notwithstanding his severity. That
famous ride which saved his father and his troops, absolved him from all
his boyhood's errors, for which, after all, his mother alone was
accountable."
"If we only had some wedding festivities in the family," said Marietta.
"Will and I were married without any, because the war had commenced, and
now when the war is happily ended, Hartmut and Ada are married just as
quietly as we."
"My child, when a man has gone through all that Hartmut has endured, he
has little desire for gaieties," said Frau von Eschenhagen, earnestly.
"Besides, he has by no means recovered his strength yet. You saw how
pale he was when they were married. Adelheid's first marriage was very
different from her second one. Her poor father gave her away, although
he was so ill, and she in her train and lace and diamonds looked like a
queen; but her face was pale and cold. Now, she seemed like a different
creature as she turned with Hartmut from the altar in her simple white
silk gown and gauzy veil. I have never seen so peaceful, so happy a
face! Poor Herbert! He never possessed his wife's love."
"Who could love so old a man? Always with his diplomatic coat and manner
on, too. I shouldn't have been able to do it, I'm sure," cried Marietta,
thoughtlessly.
Her mother-in-law, who held her brother's memory sacred, said tartly:
"Such an opportunity would never have come in your way. A man like
Herbert von Wallmoden would scarcely have chosen you, you little
insolent thing--"
The little insolent thing threw her arms around Frau Regine's neck, and
said, flatteringly:
"Now, don't be angry, mamma! I wouldn't exchange my Will for all the
great ambassadors of the world, and neither would you."
"You're a little minx," said Regine, striving to look as severe as ever.
"You know very well that one can't be angry with you long. Oh, there'll
be a petticoat government at Burgsdorf from this time on, such as the
place has never witnessed before. Will's a little ashamed before me yet,
but as soon as I'm gone he'll surrender at discretion."
"Why do you cling to that idea, mother?" said Willibald, reprovingly.
"Why do you want to go when all is love and peace between us?"
"Just for that reason I go, that peace may continue; we need not discuss
it, my son. I must always be first where I live and work. You must be
that now, and we wouldn't pull together. Until now we have been
distressed and anxious about you, not knowing what hour would bring
tidings to break our hearts. That's all over, but I'm not so old that I
must be set aside as useless. Wherever I am I must be the head, and for
that reason I am going."
She turned and entered the house, while her son gazed after her and gave
a troubled sigh.
"Perhaps she is right," he said, "but it will be hard for her to be
without duties or occupation. Enforced quiet will be very hard for her,
I know. You should have begged her to remain, Marietta."
Marietta laid her head on his shoulder and looked up smiling:
"O no, I'll do something better. I'll have a care that when she leaves
us she will not be unhappy."
"You? What will you do?"
"Only a simple thing--have her get married."
"What do you mean?"
"O, Will, to be so wise and yet see nothing," said his wife with her old
sweet silvery laugh. "Have you no idea why uncle Schönau was in such a
bad humor when we met him in Berlin, and urged him to visit us? Your
mother didn't invite him because she feared another proposal; he
understood that, and it made him furious. I saw them at Waldhofen the
time of our marriage, and I knew he would have been very glad to have a
similar ceremony performed for himself, only your mother said him nay.
Don't put on such a face, Will; you look exactly as you did the first
day I saw you."
Her husband was gazing at her in boundless astonishment. He had never
dreamed of such a possibility as his mother marrying again, or his uncle
either, for that matter. It struck him now as a most excellent
arrangement.
"Marietta, how wise you are!" he said, looking with admiration at the
smiling girl, who was beaming with satisfaction at the manner in which
her news had been received.
"I'm wiser than you think," she declared triumphantly, "for I have set
the wheel going. I took occasion to let uncle Schönau know that if he
stormed the fort again, a complete surrender might follow. He said he
had no intention of being refused again, but you'll see him sooner than
you think. In fact he's in the house now, came half an hour ago, but I
determined to say nothing about it before mamma--here he is now!"
The head forester stepped on the terrace just in time to hear the last
words.
"Yes, here I am," said Herr von Schönau. "It's all your little wife's
fault, Will, that I am at Burgsdorf. I'm here at her suggestion, and if
that mother of your's is not obstinate and unreasonable and pig-headed
as usual--why I'll marry her."
"I pray to God you may, uncle," answered Will, to whom this summary of
his mother's wonted characteristics was very singular, to say the least.
"Yes, so do I," agreed Schönau, "your wife thinks--"
"I think that you shouldn't lose a moment," cried Marietta, "Mamma has
just gone to her sitting-room and knows nothing of your arrival. Will
and I will remain behind, and if the worst comes to the worst call on
us. Forward, march!"
With these words she gave him a push, and the sturdy, broad shouldered
man turned at her bidding, saying to Will, who entered the house with
him:
"They are all commanders whether they be large or small--it's born in
them, I suppose."
Regine von Eschenhagen stood at the window of her cosy room looking out
upon her beloved Burgsdorf, which she was to leave in a few days. Though
she had said so decidedly she would go, the decision had been no light
matter to her. The strong, active, capable woman who had been mistress
here for thirty years and over, dreaded the quiet and inactivity of city
life, of which she had had some slight experience at the time of her
quarrel with her son. She dreaded going back to it now, though she knew
it was but just and fitting to leave Willibald and his wife alone, and
she had the courage to do what was right. She heard the door open and
turned to see the head forester enter the room.
"Moritz, you here?" she said, surprised. "It was very sensible of you to
come."
"Yes, I'm always sensible," answered the head forester, with his usual
lack of tact. "You didn't have the grace to invite me, but I thought I'd
come in person to invite you and your children to Toni's marriage. You
will come to Fürstenstein, will you not?"
"Certainly we will come, but we were surprised to hear it was to take
place so soon. I thought you were going to buy them an estate first and
settle the matter more slowly!"
"No, they wouldn't wait or listen to reason. Our warriors make great
demands when they come home covered with glory. Walldorf said to me
quite coolly: 'You know you said first conquer then marry. Well we have
conquered; now I shall marry without any delay. The estate can wait, the
land won't run away, but we must be married now!' Of course Toni
seconded everything he said. What could I do? I let them name the day
then and there."
Frau von Eschenhagen laughed.
"The young are in a hurry to marry, though they have plenty of time to
wait."
"The old have none to spare, though," said the head forester promptly,
glad of so good a chance to get on the subject near his heart. "Have you
reflected enough over our little affair, Regine?"
"What affair?"
"Why, our marriage. I trust you are in the humor for it now." Regine
turned away somewhat embarrassed.
"How you do love to take one by surprise, Moritz."
"So that is what you call taking by surprise?" cried the head forester,
irritated. "Over five years ago I asked you to marry me, then last year
a second time, and now for the third time, so you have had plenty of
time to consider the matter. Yes, or no? If you send me away this time
I'll never come again, understand that!"
Regine did not answer, but it was not indecision which made her
hesitate. Notwithstanding her hard, unyielding nature, deep down in her
heart there had always been a warm feeling for the man who was to have
been her husband long years ago, for Hartmut von Falkenried. When he had
turned from her she had married another, for she had no thought of
leading a desolate, useless life; but the same feeling of bitter woe
which had entered the young girl's heart was in the heart of the older
woman to-day and closed her lips. She stood silent for a few minutes,
then cast the sweet, sad memory from her forever, and gave her hand to
her brother-in-law:
"Well then, yes, Moritz! I will make you a good and true wife."
"Thank God!" said Schönau earnestly, for he had feared her hesitation
would result in a third refusal. "You should have said that five years
ago, Regine, but better late than never. It's all right at last."
And with these words the persevering man folded her in his arms with
affectionate tenderness.
* * * * *
The sun shone down warm and bright on the meadow land and penetrated
even into the forest depths. It fell across the pathway of General von
Falkenried and his son and daughter, who were sauntering along under
the high firs on the way which led to Burgsdorf.
Falkenried did not seem the same man he had been for the past ten years.
The war which, despite its victories and final triumph, had made so many
old before their time, had affected him apparently in a different
manner. His white hair was thin over his deeply furrowed brow, but his
features had life again, his eyes had fire and expression, and one saw
at a glance that this was no old man, but one in the zenith of his
strength and power.
Falkenried's son had not fully recovered his strength yet, and his face
showed traces of great suffering. The war had not left him younger, on
the contrary he had grown older; his pallid face, and the broad, red
scar on his forehead, told a tale of their own. For months after that
fearful night he had lain at death's door, but with returning life and
strength all traces of the old Hartmut, of Zalika's son, disappeared
forever.
It seemed as if, in casting from him the name of Rojanow, he cast with
it the unholy heritage of her who had borne him. The dark curly locks
were beginning to grow again over the high, broad forehead, so like his
father's.
The young wife by his side, so beautiful, so winning always, was
lovelier than ever now, for joy and happiness had set their seal on her
bright, girlish face! Who would recognize in this slender, graceful
figure, clad in a simple, summer frock, the proud, cold court beauty in
her laces and jewels? The smile, the tone in which she spoke to her
father and husband, Frau von Wallmoden had never known, for it was Ada
Falkenried who had learned it.
"You can go no farther to-day," said the general, standing still. "You
have a long walk back, and Hartmut is not strong enough for much yet.
The physician was very decided about his not exerting himself."
"If you only knew, father, how hard it was to be mistaken for an invalid
when I am getting so well and strong again," said Hartmut. "I am getting
strong enough--"
"To bring on a relapse by your folly," his father answered. "You have
never learned patience, and it is altogether owing to Ada that you are
as strong as you are."
"If it hadn't been for her there would be no Hartmut to-day," said her
husband, giving her a glance of tenderest love. "I believe the case was
almost hopeless when she came to me!"
"The physicians at least gave no hope, when I telegraphed for Ada in
response to your cry. The first minute you recovered consciousness, you
called for her, to my boundless astonishment, for I did not know you
even knew one another."
"That hardly seemed fair to you, papa, did it?" As she glanced up
laughing into her father's face, he drew her to him, and kissed her
forehead.
"You know best what you have been to Hartmut and me, my child. I thank
God for bringing him back to me through your nursing. And you are right
in detaining him here, although the physician says he could travel now.
He must first learn to know his fatherland and his home to which he was
so long a stranger."
"First learn?" said Ada, reprovingly. "What he read to you and to me
to-day shows that he has long since learned it; his new poem breathes a
different spirit from his wild, passionate 'Arivana.'"
"Yes, Hartmut, your new work is certainly fine," said his father, as he
reached out his hand to his son. "I believe the fatherland will yet
honor my boy in peace, as well as in war."
Hartmut's eyes lighted as he returned the warm hand pressure. He knew
what such praise from his father's lips signified.
"Good-bye," said the general, kissing his daughter. "I'll go on from
Burgsdorf to the city, but in a few days we'll meet again. Good-bye,
children."
As he disappeared through the trees, Hartmut led Ada toward the
Burgsdorf fish-pond. When they reached it they stood gazing down on the
still sheet of water which lay so placid and clear in its setting of
water lilies and reeds.
"Here, as a boy, I played for hours with Will," said Hartmut softly,
"and here my destiny was decided for me on that fateful night. I realize
now, for the first time, all that I did to my father in that fearful
hour."
"Ah, but you have repaid him for all his suffering," answered Ada, as
she laid her hand on her husband's arm. "The world, too, has forgotten
your boyhood's folly. That was proven by the words of praise and
congratulations which poured in upon your father from all sides about
his heroic son."
Hartmut shook his head. "That was no heroism, it was despair. I did not
think I should succeed. No one thought so; but even had I fallen, the
enemy's bullet would have redeemed my honor. Egon understood that, and
that was why he put my salvation in my own hands. When we two said
good-bye in the little ruined church on that icy winter's night, we knew
we should never meet again, but we both thought I would be the victim,
for I rode to almost certain death. But a spirit-hand seemed to lead me,
and in the hour in which I reached my goal, poor Egon fell. You need
not hide your tears, dear. I have no jealousy of the dead."
"Eugen brought me his last greeting," said the young wife, the hot tears
standing in her eyes. "And poor Stadinger wrote me, too, of his master's
last words. I fear the old man won't live long; his letter sounded as
though he were heart-broken."
"My poor Egon!" Hartmut's voice told how deep was his sorrow for his
loss. "He was so sunny, so amiable always. He seemed created for a long,
cloudless life. Perhaps you would have been happier by his side, Ada,
than with your wild, stormy Hartmut, who will so often vex you with the
dark shadows of his life."
Ada glanced up at him, smiling through her tears.
"I have only one love, and that is my wild, stormy Hartmut, and I know
no greater happiness than to be his wife!"
Wood and water lay quiet in the afternoon sunshine. The old firs stood
dark and tall, while the reeds whispered softly to one another, and
thousands of sunny sparks danced on the water. Far above, in the heavens
to which the boy had once longed to mount like a falcon, the sun rode on
his glorious course. In splendor he shed his rays on all
beneath--mighty, eternal and glorious source and promise of life and
joy.