It was the weekly market in the little town of Rosmin. From time
immemorial this had been an important festival to the country people
around.
For five days of the week the peasant had to cultivate his plot, of
ground, or to render feudal service to his landlord, and on Sunday his
heart was divided between the worship of the Virgin, his family, and the
public house; but the market-day led him beyond the narrow confines of
his fields into the busy world. There, amid strangers, he could feel and
show himself a shrewd man in buying and selling; he greeted
acquaintances whom else he would never have met; saw new things and
strange people, and heard the news of other towns and districts. So it
had been even when the Slavonic race alone possessed the soil. Then the
site where Rosmin now stands was an open field, with perhaps a chapel or
a few old trees, and the house of some sagacious landed proprietor, who
saw farther than the rest of his long-bearded countrymen. At that time
the German peddler used to cross the border with his wagon and his
attendants, and to display his stores under the protection of a crucifix
or of a drawn Slavonic sword. These stores consisted of gay
handkerchiefs, stockings, necklaces of glass and coral, pictures of
saints and ecclesiastical decorations, which were given in exchange for
the produce of the district--wolf-skins, honey, cattle, and corn. In
course of time the handicraftsman followed the peddler, the German
shoemaker, the tinsmith, and the saddler established themselves; the
tents changed into strongly-built houses that stood around the
market-place. The foreign settlers bought land, bought privileges from
the original lords of the soil, and copied in their statutes those of
German towns in general. In the woods and on the commons round, it was
told with wonder how rapidly those men of a foreign tongue had grown up
into a large community, and how every peasant who passed through their
gate must pay toll; nay, that even the nobleman, all-powerful as he was,
must pay it as well. Several of the Poles around joined lots with the
citizens, and settled among them as mechanics or shopkeepers. This had
been the origin of Rosmin, as of many other German towns on foreign
soil, and these have remained what at first they were, the markets of
the great plains, where Polish produce is still exchanged for the
inventions of German industry, and the poor field-laborer brought into
contact with other men, with culture, liberty, and a civilized state.
As we have before said, the market-day at Rosmin is a great day still.
From early dawn hundreds of basket-carriages, filled with field-produce,
move on toward the town, but the serf no longer whips on the used-up
chargers of his master, but his own sturdy horse of German breed. And
when the light carriage of a nobleman rolls by, the peasant urges his
horse to a sharper trot, and only slightly touches his hat. Every where
they are moving on toward the town: the children are driving their geese
thither, and the women carrying their butter, fruit, and mushrooms, and,
carefully concealed, a hare or two that has fallen a victim to their
husbands' guns. Numbers of carts stand at the door of every inn, and
crowds are pushing in and out of every drinking-shop. In the
market-place the corn-wagons are closely ranged, and the whole wide
space covered with well-filled sacks, and horses of every size and
color; and a few brokers are winding their way, like so many eels, among
the crowd, with samples of grain in each pocket, asking and answering in
two languages at once. Amid the white smock frocks of the Poles, and
their hats adorned with a peacock's feather, the dark blue of the German
colonists appears, together with soldiers from the next garrison,
townspeople, agriculturists, and fine youths, sons of the nobility. You
may see the gendarme yonder at the corner of the square, towering high
on his tall horse; he, too, is excited to-day, and his voice sounds
authoritatively above all the confusion of the carts that have stopped
up the way. Every where the shops are opened wide, and small dealers
spread out their wares on tables and barrels in front of the houses;
there the bargains are deliberately made, and the enjoyment of shopping
is keenly felt. The last purchase over, the next move is into the
tavern. There, cheeks get redder, gestures more animated, voices louder,
friends embrace, or old foes try hard to pick a quarrel. Meanwhile men
of business have to make the most of this day, when actions are brought
and taxes paid. Now it is that Mr. Löwenberg drives his best bargains,
not only in swine, but in cows and wool; besides which, he lends money,
and is the trusted agent of many a landed proprietor. So passes the
market-day, in ceaseless talking and enjoyment, earning and spending,
rolling of carts and galloping of horses, till evening closes in, and
the housewife pulls her husband by the coat, remembering that the
earthen mugs he carries are easily broken, and that the little children
at home are beginning to cry out for their mother. Such has ever been
the weekly market in the town of Rosmin.
During the last winter the numbers attending it had not decreased, but
there was a degree of restlessness to be observed in many, particularly
in the gentry of the district. Strangers of military appearance often
entered the principal wine-shop, and went into the back room, of which
the door was at once shut. Youths wearing square red caps, and
peculiarly attired, walked in and out among the crowd, tapping one
peasant on the shoulder, calling another by name, and taking them into a
corner apart.
Wherever a soldier appeared, he was looked at as a character in a
masquerade; many avoided him; many, Germans and Poles alike, made more
of him than ever. In the taverns, the people from the German villages
sat apart, and the Poles on Herr von Tarow's estate drank and bought
more than they were wont to do. The tenant of the new farm had been
unable, last market-day, to find a new scythe any where in the town, and
the forester had complained to Anton that he could not in any shop get
powder enough to last him more than a week. Something was in the wind,
but no one would say what it was.
It was market-day again at Rosmin, and Anton drove thither, accompanied
by a servant. It was one of the first spring days, and the sun shone
brightly, reminding him how gay the gardens must now be with early
flowers, and that he and the ladies in the castle would see none this
year, save a few, perhaps, from the little farm garden behind the barn.
But, indeed, it was no time to care much for flowers; everywhere men's
hearts were restless and excited, and much that had stood firm for years
now seemed to totter. A political hurricane was blowing over wide
districts; every day the newspapers related something unexpected and
alarming; a time of commotion and universal insecurity seemed impending.
Anton thought of the baron's circumstances, and what a misfortune it
would be to him should land fall in value, and money rise. He thought of
the firm, of the place in the office which he secretly still considered
his own, and of the letter written by Mr. Baumann, telling him how
gloomy the principal looked, and how quarrelsome the clerks had become.
He was roused out of his sorrowful reverie by a noise on the road. A
number of gentlemen's carriages drove past him, Herr von Tarowski
occupying the first, and politely bowing as he passed. Anton was
surprised to see that his huntsman sat on the box as if they were going
to the chase. Three other carriages followed, heavily laden with
gentlemen; and behind came a whole troop of mounted men, Von Tarow's
German steward among them.
"Jasch," cried Anton to the servant who drove him, "what was it that the
gentlemen in the second carriage were so careful to hide as they drove
by?"
"Guns," said Jasch, shaking his head.
This sunny day, after so long a period of snow and rain, naturally
attracted people from all sides of the town. Parties of them hurried
forward, but few women were among them, and there was a degree of
excitement and animation prevailing that was in general only displayed
when returning in the evening. Anton halted at the first public house on
the way, and told the driver to remain there with the horses.
He himself walked rapidly on through the gate. The town was so crowded
that the carts of grain could hardly make their way along. When Anton
reached the market-place he was struck with the scene before him. On all
sides heated faces, eager gestures, not a few in hunting costume, and a
strange cockade on numerous caps. The crowd was densest before the
wine-merchant's store; there the people trode on one another, staring up
at the windows, from whence hung gayly-colored flags, the Polish colors
above the rest. While Anton was looking with disquietude at the front of
the house, the door was opened, and Herr von Tarow came out upon the
stone steps, accompanied by a stranger with a scarf bound round him, in
whom Anton recognized the same Pole who had once threatened him with a
court-martial, and who had been inquiring for the steward a few months
ago. A young man sprang out of the crowd on to the lowest step, saying
something in Polish, and waving his hat. A loud shout rose in return,
and then came a profound silence, during which Von Tarow spoke a few
words, the import of which Anton could not catch, owing to the noise of
carts and the pushing of the crowd. Next, the gentleman with the scarf
made a long oration, during which he was often interrupted by loud
applause. At the end of it, a deafening tumult arose. The house door was
thrown wide open, and the crowd swayed to and fro like the waves of the
sea, some rushing off in another direction, and others running into the
house, whence they hurried back with cockades on their caps and scythes
in their hands. The number of the armed went on rapidly increasing, and
small detachments of scythe-bearers, headed by men with guns, proceeded
to invest the market-place.
Hearing the word of command given behind him, Anton turned, and saw a
few men mounted and armed, who were ordering all the wagons to be
removed from the market-place. The noise and confusion increased, the
peasants dragging off their horses in all haste, the traders flying into
the houses with their stores, the shops being gradually closed. The
market-place soon presented an ominous appearance. Anton was now swept
off by the crowd to its opposite side, where the custom-house stood,
made conspicuous from afar by the national escutcheon suspended near the
windows. That was now the point of attraction, and Anton saw from a
distance a man plant a ladder against the wall, and hack away at the
escutcheon till, amid profound silence, it fell to the ground. Soon,
however a drunken rabble fell upon it with wild yells, and, tying a rope
about it, ignominiously dragged it through the gutter and over the
stones.
Anton was beside himself. "Wretches!" cried he, running toward the
offenders. But a strong arm was thrown around him, and a broken voice
said, "Stop, Mr. Wohlfart, this is their day; to-morrow will be ours."
Dashing away the unwelcome restraint, Anton saw the portly form of the
Neudorf bailiff, and found himself surrounded by a number of
dark-looking figures. These were the blue-coated German farmers, their
faces full of grief and anger. "Let me go!" cried Anton, in a phrensy.
But again the heavy hand of the bailiff was laid on his shoulder, and
tears were in the man's eyes as he said, "Spare your life, Mr. Wohlfart;
it is all in vain; we have nothing but our fists, and we are the
minority." And, on the other side, his hand was grasped as if in a vice
by the old forester, who stood there groaning and sobbing: "That ever I
should live to see this day! Oh, the shame, the shame!" Again there rose
a yell nearer them, and a voice cried, "Search the Germans; take their
arms from them; let no one leave the market-place!" Anton looked round
him hastily. "This we will not stand, friends, to be trapped here in a
German town, and to have our escutcheon outraged by those miscreants."
A drum was heard at a distance. "It is the drum of the guard," cried the
bailiff; "the town militia are assembling: they have arms."
"Perhaps all may not be lost yet," cried Anton; "I know a few men who
are to be relied upon. Compose yourself, old friend," said he to the
forester. "The Germans from the country must be enlisted; no one knows
yet what we can do. We will, at all events, disperse in different
directions, and reassemble at the fountain here. Let each go and call
his acquaintances together. No time is to be lost. You go in that
direction, bailiff; you, smith of Kunau, come with me." They divided;
and Anton, followed by the forester and the smith, went once more round
the market-place. Wherever they met a German there was a glance, a
hurried hand-clasp, a whispered word--"The Germans assemble at the
fountain;" and these spirited up the irresolute to join their
countrymen.
Anton and his companions paused for a moment in the midst of the dense
crowd around the wine-merchant's. About fifty men with scythes stood
before the house, near them a dozen more with guns; the doors were
still open, and people were still going in to get arms. Some young
gentlemen were addressing the crowd, but Anton remarked that the Polish
peasants did not keep their ranks, and looked doubtfully at each other.
While the forester and the smith were giving the sign to the Germans, of
whom many were assembled, Anton rushed up to a little man in working
garments, and, seizing him by the arm, said, "Locksmith Grobesch, you
standing here? Why do you not hasten to our meeting-place? You a citizen
and one of the militia, will you put up with this insult?"
"Alas! Mr. Agent," said the locksmith, taking Anton apart, "what a
misfortune! Only think, I was hammering away in my workshop, and heard
nothing of what was going on. One can't hear much at our work. Then my
wife ran in--"
"Are you going to put up with this insult?" cried Anton, shaking him
violently.
"God forbid, Mr. Wohlfart; I head a band of militia. While my wife
looked out my coat, I just ran over the way to see how many of them
there were. You are taller than I; how many are there carrying arms?"
"I count fifty scythes," replied Anton, hurriedly.
"It is not the scythes; they are a cowardly set; how many guns are
there?"
"A dozen before the door, and perhaps as many more in the house."
"We have about thirty rifles," said the little man, anxiously, "but we
can't count upon them all to-day."
"Can you get us arms?" asked Anton.
"But few," said the locksmith, shaking his head.
"There is a band of us Germans from the country," said Anton, rapidly;
"we will fight our way into the suburb as far as the Red Deer Inn, and
there I will keep the people together, and, for God's sake, send us a
patrol to report the state of things, and the number of arms you can
procure. If we can eject the nobles, the others will run away at once."
"But then the revenge these Poles will take!" said the locksmith. "The
town will have to pay for it."
"No such thing, my man. The military can be sent for to-morrow, if you
but help to eject these madmen to-day. Off with you; each moment
increases the danger."
He drove the little man away, and hurried back to the fountain. There
the Germans were assembled in small groups, and the Neudorf bailiff
came to meet him, crying, "There's no time to lose; the others are
beginning to notice us; there is a party of scythes forming yonder
against us."
"Follow me!" cried Anton, in a loud voice; "draw close; forward! let's
leave the town."
The forester sprang from side to side, marshaling the men; Anton and the
bailiff led the way. As they reached the corner of the market-place,
scythes were crossed; and the leader of the party cocked his gun, and
said theatrically, "Why do you wish to leave, my fine sir? Take arms, ye
people; to-day is the day of liberty!"
He said no more, for the forester, springing forward, gave him such an
astounding box on the ear that he reeled and fell, his gun dropping from
his hand. A loud cry arose; the forester caught up the gun, and the
scythe-bearers, taken by surprise, were dashed aside, their scythes
taken from them, and broken on the pavement. Thus the German band
reached the gates, and there, too, the enemy yielded, and the dense mass
passed on unmolested till they reached the inn appointed. There the
bailiff, urged on by Anton, addressed the people:
"There is a plot against the government. There is a plot against us
Germans. Our armed enemies are few, and we have just seen that we can
manage them. Let every orderly man remain here, and help the citizens to
drive out the strangers. The town militia will send us word how we can
best do this, therefore remain together, countrymen!"
At these words, many cried "We will! we will!" but many, too, grew
fearful, and stole away home. Those who remained looked out for arms as
best they could, taking up pitchforks, bars of iron, wooden cudgels, or
whatever else lay ready to hand.
"I came here to buy powder and shot," said the forester to Anton. "Now I
have a gun, and I will fire my very last charge, if we can only revenge
the insult they have offered to our eagle."
Meanwhile the hours passed as usual at the castle, and it was now about
noon. The baron, accompanied by his wife, walked in the sunshine,
grumbling because the molehills against which his foot tripped were not
yet leveled. This led him to the conclusion that there was no reliance
to be placed upon hired dependents of any kind; and that Wohlfart was
the most forgetful of his class. On this theme he enlarged with a kind
of gloomy satisfaction, the baroness only contradicting him as far as
she could without putting him out of temper. At last he sat down on a
chair that one of the servants carried after him, and quietly listened
to his daughter, who was discussing with Karl the best site for a small
plantation. No one thought of mischief, and each one was occupied with
things immediately around him.
Then came the rumor of some great disaster, flying on wings of evil omen
over the wide plain. It swooped down on the baron's oasis, heavily
fluttered over pines and wild pear-trees, corn-fields and meadows, till
it reached the castle. At first it was indistinct, like a little cloud
on a sunny sky; but soon it grew, it darkened the air, it brooded with
its black pinions over all hearts--it made the blood stand still in the
veins, and filled the eyes with burning tears.
In the middle of his work, Karl suddenly looked up, and said in dismay,
"That was a shot."
Lenore started, then laughed at her own terror. "I did not hear it,"
said she; "perhaps it was the forester."
"The forester is gone to town," replied Karl, gravely.
"Then it is some confounded poacher in the wood," cried the baron,
angrily.
"It was a cannon shot," maintained the positive Karl.
"That is impossible," said the baron; but he himself listened with
intense attention; "there are no cannon for many miles round."
The next moment a voice sounded out from the farm-yard, "There is a fire
in Rosmin."
Karl looked at his young lady, threw down his spade, and ran toward the
farm-yard. Lenore followed him.
"Who said that there was a fire in Rosmin?" he inquired. Not one would
own that he had, but all ran in dismay to the high road, though the town
was six miles off, and no view of it was to be had from thence.
"Many scared women have been running along toward Neudorf," said one
servant; and another added, "There must be mischief going on in Rosmin,
for we can see the smoke rise above the wood." All thought, indeed, that
they did perceive a dark cloud in that direction, Karl as well as the
rest.
"The nobles are all there to-day," cried one. "They have set the town on
fire." Another professed to have heard from a man in the fields that
this was to be a serious day for landed proprietors; then, looking
askance at Karl, he added, "Many things may yet happen before evening."
Next came the landlord, exclaiming, "If this day were but over!" and
Karl returned, "Would that it were!" yet no one knew exactly why.
From that hour, fresh messengers of ill succeeded each other. "The
soldiers and the Poles are fighting," said one. "Kunau is on fire too,"
cried some women who had been working in the fields. At last came the
farmer's wife, running up to Lenore. "My husband sends me because he
won't leave the farm on a day like this. He wishes to know whether you
have any tidings of the forester; there is murder going on in the town,
and people say the forester is shooting away in the midst of it all."
"Who says so?" asked the baron.
"One who came running across the fields told it to my husband; and it
must be true that there is an uproar in the town, for when the forester
went thither he had no gun."
Thus the dark rumor spread. Karl had much difficulty in getting the men
out again to their plowing. Lenore meantime went up to the tower with
him, but they could not be positive whether or not there was smoke in
the direction of Rosmin. They had scarcely got down, when one of the
farmer's servants came back with his horses to say that a man from the
next district had told him, as he galloped past, that Rosmin was filled
with men bearing red flags, and armed with scythes; and that all the
Germans in the country were to be shot. The baroness wrung her hands and
began to weep, and her husband lost all the self-command he had sought
to exercise. He burst out into loud complaints against Wohlfart for not
being on the spot on a day like this, and gave Karl a dozen
contradictory orders in quick succession. Lenore could not endure her
suspense within the castle walls, but kept as much as she could with
Karl, in whose trusty face she found more comfort than in any thing
else. Both looked constantly along the high road to see if a carriage or
a messenger were coming.
"He is peaceable," said she to Karl, hoping for confirmation from him.
"Surely he would never expose himself to such fearful risk."
But Karl shook his head. "There is no trusting to that. If things in the
town are as people say, Mr. Anton will not be the last to take a hand in
them. He will not think of himself."
"No, that he will not," cried Lenore, wringing her hands.
So the day passed. Karl sternly insisted upon keeping all the servants
together, he himself shouldering his carbine, not knowing why, and
saddling a horse to tie it up again in the stable. At evening the
landlord came running to the castle, accompanied by a servant from the
distillery. As soon as he saw the young lady, the good-natured man
called out, "Here are tidings, dreadful tidings, of Mr. Wohlfart."
Lenore ran forward, and the servant began to give a confused report of
the horrors of the day in Rosmin. He had seen the Poles and Germans
about to fire at each other in the market-place, and Anton was marching
at the head of the latter.
"I knew that," cried Karl, proudly.
The servant went on to say that he had run off just as all the Poles had
taken aim at the gentleman. Whether he were alive or dead, he could not
exactly say, owing to his terror at the time, but he fully believed that
the gentleman must be dead.
Lenore leaned against the wall, Karl tore his hair in distraction.
"Saddle the pony," said Lenore, in a smothered voice.
"You are not thinking of going yourself at night through the wood all
the way to the town?" cried Karl.
The brave girl hurried toward the stable without answering him; Karl
barred the way. "You must not. The baroness would die with anxiety about
you, and what could you do among those raging men yonder?"
Lenore stood still. "Then go for him," said she, half unconscious;
"bring him to us, alive or dead."
"Can I leave you alone on a day like this?" cried Karl, beside himself.
Lenore snatched his carbine from him. "Go, if you love him. I will mount
guard in your stead."
Karl rushed to the farm-yard, got out his horse, and galloped off along
the Rosmin road. The sound of the horse's hoofs soon died away, and all
was still. Lenore paced up and down before the castle walls; her friend
was in mortal peril, perhaps lost; and the fault was hers, for she had
brought him hither. She called to mind in her despair all that he had
been to her and to her parents. To live on in this solitude without him
seemed impossible. Her mother sent for her, her father called to her out
of the window, but she paid no attention. Every other feeling was merged
in the realization of the pure and sincere attachment that had existed
between her and him she had lost.
To return to Rosmin, Anton and his party had remained for about half an
hour in expectation before the Red Deer. The frightened market-people
kept pouring by, on their way to their village homes; many of them,
indeed, passed on, but many, too, remained with their countrymen, and
even several Poles went up to Anton and asked whether they could be of
use to him. At length came the locksmith, by a back way, in his green
uniform and epaulette, followed by some of the town militia.
Anton rushed up to see how things were going on.
"There are eighteen of us," said the locksmith, "all safe men. The
people in the market-place are dispersing, and those in the wine-store
are not much stronger than before. Our captain is as brave as a lion. If
you will help him, he is prepared to try a bold stroke. We can get into
Löwenberg's house from behind. I made the lock on the back door myself.
If we manage cleverly, we can surprise the leaders of the insurrection,
and take them and their arms."
"We must attack them both in front and in the rear," replied Anton.
"Then we shall be sure of them."
"Yes," said the locksmith, a little crestfallen, "if you and your party
will attack them in front."
"We have no arms," cried Anton. "I will go with you, and so will the
forester and a few more, perhaps; but an unarmed band against scythes
and a dozen guns is out of the question."
"Look you, now," said the worthy locksmith; "it comes hard to us, too.
Those who have just left wives and children in their first alarm are not
much inclined to make targets of themselves. Our people are full of
good-will, but those men yonder are desperate, and therefore let us get
in quietly from behind. If we can surprise them, there will be the less
bloodshed, and that's the chief thing. I have got no arms, only a sword
for you."
The party accordingly set off in silence, the locksmith leading the way.
"Our men are assembled in the captain's house," said he; "we can enter
it through the garden without being seen."
At length, having got over hedges and ditches, they found themselves in
the court-yard of a dyer.
"Wait here," said the locksmith, with some disquietude. "The dyer is one
of us militiamen. His house door opens upon the back street, which takes
into Löwenberg's court-yard: I am going to the captain."
The party had only a few minutes to wait before they were joined by the
militia. The captain, a portly butcher, requested Anton to join forces
and walk by his side. They moved on to the back entrance of Löwenberg's
house, saw that the gate was neither locked nor guarded, and the court
empty. They halted for a moment, and the forester proposed his plan.
"We are more than are wanted in the house," said he. "Hard by there is a
broad cross-street leading to the market. Let me have the drummer, a few
of the militia, and half of the country people. We will run to the
market-place and invest the opening of the cross-street, shouting
loudly. Those in front of the house will be diverted thither: meanwhile,
you can force an entrance and take them prisoners. As soon as you hear
the drum, let the captain rush through the court into the house and make
fast the door."
"I approve the plan," said the burly captain, his blood thoroughly up;
"only be quick about it."
The forester took six of the militia, beckoned to the bailiff and to
some of the country people, and went quietly down the side street. Soon
the beating of a drum was heard, and loud hurrahs. At that signal all
rushed through the court, the captain and Anton waving their swords, and
found themselves inside the house before any one was aware of them, for
all were looking out at door and window on the other side.
"Hurrah!" cried the captain; "we have them," catching hold of one of the
gentlemen. "Not one shall escape. Close the door!" he cried, and he held
his victim fast by the collar like a cow by its horns. Ten strong men
closed and locked the house door, so that all the more zealous of the
enemy who were standing on the steps found themselves shut out. Next
some of the band rushed up stairs, and the others spread themselves over
the ground floor. All the conspirators on that floor, however, jumped
out through the window, so that the Germans took nothing but a list of
names, a quantity of scythes, and half a dozen guns belonging to the
nobles. These the locksmith caught up, and ran, together with Anton and
a few others, to join the forester's detachment, which they found in a
critical position.
The beat of the drums and the shouting, together with the attack made
simultaneously upon the house, had thrown the enemy into confusion. The
men with scythes were standing about in disorder, while the bearer of
the scarf, himself unarmed, was busy trying to rally them. On the other
hand, all such as had guns--stewards, huntsmen, and a few young men of
rank, had marched against the forester's party. Both bands halted with
weapons raised, kept back for a moment by the thought of the fearful
consequences that must follow the word of command. At that moment, Anton
and the valiant locksmith joined them, and the guns they brought were
dispensed quick as lightning. A bloody conflict on the pavement now
seemed unavoidable.
Just then a loud voice sounded from the window of the wine-store.
"Brothers, we have them. Here is the prisoner. It is Herr von Tarow
himself." All lowered their guns and listened. The captain showed his
prisoner, who made no fruitless struggles to escape from his awkward
situation, "And now," went on the orator, "listen to my words: all the
windows of this house are invested; all the streets are invested; and as
soon as I lift my finger you'll all be shot down dead."
"Hurrah, captain!" cried a voice from a house in the middle of the
market-place, while the shopkeeper dwelling there projected his duck-gun
from one of the windows of the first floor, the apothecary and
post-master soon doing the same.
"Good-morning, gentlemen," cried the butcher, pleasantly, to these
unexpected recruits. "You see, good people, that your resistance is
vain, so throw away your scythes, or you are all dead men." A number of
scythes clattered on the pavement.
"And as for you, gentlemen," continued the captain, "you shall be
allowed to depart unmolested, if you give up your arms; but if any of
you make any resistance, this man's blood be upon your heads." So
saying, he caught hold of Tarowski by the head, and, holding it out of
the window, drew a great knife. Throwing down its sheath into the
street, he waved it so ferociously round the prisoner's head that the
worthy butcher seemed for the moment transformed into a very cannibal.
Then the forester cried, "Hurrah! we have them! March, my friends." The
drummer thundered away, and the Germans charged. The Poles fell into
disorder, some random shots were fired on both sides, then the rebels
took to flight, pursued by their enemies. Many sought refuge in the
houses, others ran out of the town; while, on the other hand, armed
citizens began to present themselves, and the dilatory members of the
militia corps now joined the rest. The captain made over his prisoner to
a few trusty men, and, waving off the congratulations that poured in
upon him, cried, "Duty before all. We have now to lock and invest the
gates. Where is the captain of our allies?"
Anton stepped forward. "Comrade," said the butcher, with a military
salute, "I propose that we muster our men and appoint the watches."
This was done, and those belonging to Rosmin were proud of their
numbers. The national arms, washed clean and decorated by many busy
feminine hands with the first flowers of the town gardens, were solemnly
raised to their former place, all the men marching by them and
presenting arms, while patriotic acclamations were raised by hundreds of
throats.
Anton stood on one side, and when he saw the spring flowers on the
escutcheon, he remembered having doubted in the morning whether he
should see any flowers that year. Now their colors were gleaming out
brightly on the shield of his fatherland. But what a day this had been
to him!
Much against his will, he was summoned to the council convened to take
measures for the public safety. Ere long he had a pen in his hand, and
was writing, at the long green table, a report of the events of the day
to the authorities. Prompt steps were taken: messengers were sent off to
the next military station; the houses of the suspected searched; such of
the country people as were willing to remain till the evening billeted
in different houses. Patrols were sent out in all directions, a few
prisoners examined, and information as to the state of the surrounding
district collected. Discouraging tidings poured in on all sides. Bands
of Poles from several villages round were said to be marching on the
town. An insurrection had been successful in the next circle, and the
town was in the hands of a set of Polish youths. There were tales of
plunder, and of incendiarism too, and fearful rumors of an intended
general massacre of the Germans. The faces of the men of Rosmin grew
long again; their present triumph gave way to fears for the future. Some
timid souls were for making a compromise with Herr von Tarow, but the
warlike spirit of the majority prevailed, and it was determined to pass
the night under arms, and hold the town against all invaders till the
military should arrive.
By this time it was evening. Anton, alarmed at the numerous reports of
plundering going on in the open country, left the town council, and sent
the bailiff to collect all the Germans of their immediate district to
march home together. When they reached the wooden bridge at the
extremity of the suburb, the townsmen who had accompanied them thither
with beat of drum and loud hurrahs took a brotherly leave of their
country allies.
"Your carriage is the last that shall pass to-day," said the locksmith;
"we will break up the pavement of the bridge, and station a sentinel
here. I thank you in the name of the town and of the militia. If bad
times come, as we have reason to fear, we Germans will ever hold
together."
"That shall be our rallying cry," called out the bailiff; and all the
country people shouted their assent.
On their homeward way Anton and his associates fell into earnest
conversation. All felt elated at the part they had that day played, but
no one attempted to disguise from himself that this was but a beginning
of evils. "What is to become of us in the country?" said the bailiff.
"The men in the town have their stout walls, and live close together;
but we are exposed to the revenge of every rascal; and if half a dozen
vagabonds with guns come into the village, it is all over with us."
"True," said Anton, "we can not guard ourselves against large troops,
and each individual must just take the chances of war; but large troops,
under regular command, are not what we have most to fear. The worst are
bands of rabble, who get together to burn and plunder, and henceforth we
must take measures to defend ourselves against these. Stay at home
to-morrow, bailiff, and you, smith of Kunau, and send for the other
Germans round, on whom we can depend. I will ride over to-morrow morning
early, and we will hold a consultation."
By this time they had reached the cross-way, and there the two divisions
parted, and hurried home in different directions.
Anton got into the carriage, and took the forester with him, to help
watch the castle through the night. In the middle of the wood they were
stopped by a loud cry of "Halt! who goes there?"
"Karl!" exclaimed Anton, joyfully.
"Hurrah! hurrah! he is alive," cried Karl, in ecstasy. "Are you unhurt
too?"
"That I am; what news from the castle?"
Now began a rapid interchange of question and answer. "To think that I
was not with you!" cried Karl, again and again.
Arrived at the castle, a bright form flew up to the carriage. "You,
lady!" cried Anton, springing out.
"Dear Wohlfart!" cried Lenore, seizing both his hands.
For a moment she hid her face on his shoulder, and her tears fell fast.
Anton grasped her hand firmly, while he said, "A fearful time is coming.
I have thought of you all day."
"Now that we have you again," said Lenore, "I can bear it all; but come
at once to my father; he is dying with impatience." She drew him up the
stairs.
The baron opened the door, and cried out, "What news do you bring?"
"News of war, baron," replied Anton, gravely; "the most hideous of all
wars--war between neighbor and neighbor. The country is in open revolt."