The rain still continued. It had ceased indeed in the morning, but only
to begin again with double energy. The laborers had gone early to the
field, but they soon returned. They were now sitting silently in the
guard-room of the castle, drying their wet garments at the stove.
The baron sat in the arm-chair, listening to old John, who read him the
newspaper that had reached the castle on the previous day. The
monotonous voice of the domestic announced nothing but unwelcome news;
the rain-drops rattled on the panes, and the wind rushed howling round
the corner of the house in discordant accompaniment.
Anton was busy at his desk. Before him lay a letter from Commissary
Horn, announcing that the judicial sale of the family estate was fixed
for the middle of next winter; and that, since the advertisement of this
definite period, several mortgages on the property had passed from one
hand to another, bought up, as he feared, by one speculator, who
disguised himself under different names. Accordingly, Anton reflected in
gloomy mood upon the hazardous position of the baron.
In the neighboring room Fink was keeping the ladies company, the
baroness lying back on the sofa cushions, covered by a shawl of
Lenore's. She gazed in silence straight before her, but when her
daughter came up with some tender inquiry, she nodded smilingly at her,
and spoke a few cheering words. Lenore was sitting in the window
occupied with some light work, and listening with rapture to the jests
by which Fink brightened the otherwise mournful room. To-day, in spite
of the rain, he was in the wildest spirits. From time to time Lenore's
ringing laugh reached Anton through the massive door, and then he forgot
sale and mortgage, looked with clouded brow at the door, and felt, not
without bitterness, that a new struggle was approaching both for the
family and for himself.
Without, as we have already said, the rain poured and the storm raged.
The wind from the forest wailed to the castle. The old firs creaked, and
ceaselessly bent down their branches toward the building. Around the
pear-trees in the meadows leaves and white blossoms fluttered timidly to
earth. The storm angrily stripped them off, and crushed them, low with
his rain, howling the while. "Down with your smiling pomp! to-day all
belonging to the castle shall wear mourning." Then the fierce spirit
flew from the trees to the castle walls; it shook the flag-staff on the
tower; it hurled the rain in slanting torrents against the windows; it
groaned in the chimneys and thundered at the doors. It took advantage of
every opening to cry, "Guard your house!" And this it did for hours
together, but those within understood not its speech.
Neither did any one heed the horseman who was urging his weary horse
through the village to the castle. At last the knocker outside the gate
was heard, the strokes sounded impatient, and loud voices resounded in
the court-yard and on the stairs. Anton opened the door; an armed man,
dripping with wet and stained with mud, entered the room.
"It is you!" cried Anton, in amazement.
"They are coming," said Karl, looking cautiously round; "prepare for it;
this time it is our turn."
"The enemy?" rapidly asked Anton. "How strong is the band?"
"It was not a band that I saw," replied Karl, seriously; "it was an army
of about a thousand scythe-bearers, and at least a hundred horsemen at
their head. I hear that they have orders to enlist all Poles and disarm
all Germans."
Anton opened the door of the next room and made a sign to Fink.
"Ah!" cried Fink, as he cast a look on Karl, "he who brings half the
highway into the room with him has no good tidings to tell. From which
side comes the enemy, sergeant?"
"From the Neudorf birch wood straight down upon us. Our villagers are
assembled in the tavern drinking and quarreling."
"No beacon-fires have been seen--no tidings have come from the
neighboring villages," cried Anton at the window. "Have the Germans at
Neudorf and Kunau been fast asleep, then?"
"They were taken by surprise," continued the messenger of ill. "Their
watch saw the enemy yesterday evening half a mile beyond Neudorf, going
down the high road toward Rosmin. When they had passed the turning to
Neudorf, the villagers took heart again, but their horsemen followed the
enemy till the last scythe-bearers were out of sight. In the night,
however, the whole troop turned back; this morning they fell upon the
village, and wrought sad havoc there. The bailiff is lying on the straw,
covered with wounds, and a prisoner; the guard-house is burned down; but
for this heavy rain we should see the smoke. At this present moment the
enemy has divided. They are making the round of all the German villages:
one party has gone off to Kunau, one to our new farm, the largest is on
its way hither."
"How much time have we to prepare for these gentry?" asked Fink.
"In weather like this, the infantry will take an hour to get here."
"Is the forester warned?" asked Anton; "and do those at the new farm
know?"
"There was no time to apprise them. The farm is farther from Neudorf
than the estate, and I might have been too late getting here. I lit our
beacon, but in rain like this, neither fire nor smoke is visible, and
all signals are useless."
"If they have not looked out for themselves," said Fink, decidedly, "we
can do no more for them."
"The forester is a fox," replied Karl; "no one will catch him; but as to
the farmer and his young wife, Heaven have mercy on them!"
"Save our people!" cried a supplicating voice close to Fink. Lenore
stood in the room, pale, with folded hands.
Anton hurried to the door through which she had silently entered. "The
baroness!" cried he, anxiously.
"She has heard nothing as yet," hurriedly replied Lenore. "Send to the
farm; help our people!"
Fink caught up his cap. "Bring out my horse," said he to Karl.
"You can't be spared now," said Anton, barring the way. "I will take
your horse."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Wohlfart," interpolated Karl; "if I may ride
Herr von Fink's horse, I shall be quite able to make it out."
"So be it, then," decided Fink; "send hither the forester and any man
you can beat up; the women, horses, and children you can dispatch to the
forest. Let the farmer go with all his cattle into the thicket as far as
he can, and keep a look-out on the castle from the old firs near the
sand-pit. As for you, keep on my horse, which I shall, alas! have to
make over to you for some days to come; ride off to Rosmin, and seek
out the nearest detachment of our soldiers; tell them we implore them to
come to our aid, and, if possible, to bring cavalry with them."
"Our red-caps are about three miles beyond Rosmin," said Karl, turning
to go. "The Kunau smith called that out to me as I rode by."
"Bring any military you can. I'll write a line to the commanding officer
while you are saddling the horse."
Karl made a military salute, and hurried down stairs, Anton with him.
While he was fastening the girths, Anton said, "As you pass by, call out
to the men in the farm-yard that I will be with them at once. Poor
fellow, you have hardly had any breakfast to-day, and there is little
prospect of your getting any thing for some hours to come." He ran back
to the house, got a bottle of wine, some bread, and the remnant of a
ham, stuffed them into a bag, and, together with Fink's letter, gave
them to the hussar just as he was setting off.
"Thanks," said Karl, seizing Anton's hand; "you think of every one. But
I've one thing to ask: think of yourself too, Mr. Wohlfart; this Polish
set, here and yonder, are not worth your risking your life; there are
some at home with whom it would go hard if any thing happened to you."
Anton shook his hand heartily. "Good-by, Karl. I'll do my duty. Don't
forget to send us the forester, and, above all, rescue the farmer's
wife. Lead the military hither through the wood."
"No fear," said Karl, cheerily; "this gallant bay shall find out how
much a stout-hearted trooper can get through."
With these words he waved his cap, and vanished behind the
farm-buildings.
Anton bolted the gate, then hurried to the guard-room, and rang the
alarm-bell, giving orders to the superintendent to let in the men, to
invest the back door, and not to admit any one without questioning them,
not even fugitives.
"Eat heartily and drink moderately; we shall have enough to do to-day,"
he cried.
Meanwhile Fink stood at the table in Anton's room, loading the guns,
while Lenore reached him whatever he needed. She was pale, but her eyes
glowed with an excitement which did not escape Anton as he entered.
"Leave this serious game to us alone," said he, beseechingly.
"It is the home of my parents that you defend," cried she. "My father is
unable to act at your head. You shall not expose your lives for our
sakes without my sharing your danger."
"Forgive me," replied Anton; "your first duty most undoubtedly is to
prepare the baroness, and not to leave her during the next few hours."
"My mother! my poor mother!" cried Lenore, clasping her hands, laying
down the powder-flask, and hurrying to the neighboring room.
"I have set all the men eating," said Anton to Fink. "From this moment
you must take the command."
"Good," replied Fink. "Here are your arms; this double-barrel is light;
one barrel loaded with ball, the other with slugs. The bag of bullets is
under your bed."
"You think of standing a siege, then?" inquired Anton.
"We must either not seek to defend ourselves at all, but surrender at
the friendly discretion of the approaching band, or we must hold out to
our last bullet. We are all prepared for the latter course; perhaps
surrender would be the wiser, but I own it does not suit my taste. As
there is a master of the house, however, still extant, he may decide; go
to the baron."
Anton hurried through the passage to the other wing. Even when at a
distance he could hear the chairs knocked about in the baron's room.
There was an angry "Come in," and he entered. The baron was standing in
the middle of the room, highly excited. "I hear," said he, "that there
is something going on. I must consider it an unpardonable want of
attention that I have not been apprised of it."
"Your pardon, baron," replied Anton; "we only heard a few minutes ago
that a band of the enemy's cavalry and scythe-bearers was moving on
toward your property. We sent off a messenger in all speed to the
nearest military station, then bolted the door, and now we wait your
orders."
"Send me Herr von Fink," replied the baron, authoritatively.
"He is at this moment in the guard-room."
"I beg that he will take the trouble of coming to me at once," cried the
angry nobleman. "I can not discuss military matters with you. Fink is a
gentleman, and half a soldier; I will give all necessary instructions to
him. What are you waiting for?" rudely continued he. "Do you young
people suppose that you are to trifle with me because I have the
misfortune to be blind? He at least whom I feed and pay shall respect my
commands."
"Father!" cried Lenore, on the threshold, looking imploringly at Anton.
"You are right, baron," replied Anton; "I crave your forgiveness for
having in the hurry of the moment forgotten my first duty. I will send
Herr von Fink here at once." Then hastening off, he made his friend
acquainted with the baron's angry mood.
"He is a fool," said Fink.
"Go up at once," urged Anton; "the ladies must not suffer from his
temper." Then throwing on a laborer's jacket, he sprang out through the
door into the rain and to the back farm-yard.
There he found a dreary scene of confusion. German families from the
neighboring villages had taken refuge in the guard-house, and sat there
with their children, and some of their goods and chattels round them.
There were about twenty persons lying on the floor--men, women, and
children, the women lamenting, the children weeping, the men looking
gloomily down. Several of them belonged to the village militia, and some
had their guns with them. Their little carts stood in the yard.
Servants, horses, cows, were all running against each other. Anton
called the superintendent to his assistance.
He next made over the farm-horses and the cattle to the most trustworthy
of the servants, and to the German dairy-maid. Calling aside the head
servant, a resolute kind of man, he described to him a place in the
thicket, not far from the sand-pit, where man and beast might lie
concealed, and be in some degree protected from the weather. Thither the
man was to drive the cattle, and to keep a sharp look-out for the
bailiff, who was to have the management of the wood-party. Next he
desired the maid to leave a cow behind, opened the gate himself, and saw
them all set out toward the forest.
"What are we to do with the horses of the baron and of Herr von Fink?"
hurriedly asked the superintendent.
"They must be brought, together with some of the vehicles, into the
court-yard, come what will. Who knows whether we shall not have to fly,
after all?"
Accordingly, Anton had Karl's newly-painted carts laden with sacks of
potatoes, meal, oats, and as much hay as they could hold. He had the
great water-butt brought in too, and filled to the brim with fresh
water. The skies were still pouring down bucketfuls, and the servants
had to load in the drenching rain. All was confusion; and weeping and
cursing, in German and Polish, was heard on every side. As Anton
approached the fugitives, the screams of the women grew louder, the men
surrounded him and began to relate their disasters, the children clung
about his knees: it was a mournful spectacle. Anton did what he could to
comfort them. "Above all, be quiet; we will protect you as well as we
can. I hope the military may come to our aid, meanwhile you will be safe
in the castle. You have been faithful to us in this season of distress;
as long as we have bread you shall not want."
After a quarter of an hour of extreme exertion Anton returned to the
castle. The servants drove the carts to the back door, the troop of
fugitives followed. People still poured in from the German villages
around, and soon the smith of Kunau, with some of his near neighbors,
stood at the castle gate. The whole party was now got into order, the
horses unharnessed, the carts unloaded. The women and children were led
by Anton into two rooms on the lower floor, which, were dark indeed, but
far more comfortable than the guard-house in the soaked fields. The
bringing in the horses was the most troublesome part of the matter;
about a dozen of them had to crowd up beneath an open shed, poorly
protected from rain or bullets. The water-butt was placed in the middle
of the yard, and the potato-carts pushed up to the paling, to serve, in
case of need, as a position for the guard. Next, all the men capable of
bearing arms were assembled by the smith, and, besides Fink's laborers
and four servants, fifteen German peasants were mustered, the larger
number of them armed. Their footsteps sounded heavy in the long
passages, and joining the laborers in the hall, the whole force was seen
at once, Fink in his hunting-coat walking quietly up and down before his
own corps. Anton now went up to him and gave in his report.
"You bring us men," replied Fink; "that is all very well; but we did not
want a whole clan of women and children into the bargain; the castle is
as full as a bee-hive--more than sixty mouths; to say nothing of a dozen
horses; spite of your potato-carts, we shall have to gnaw the stones
before twenty-four hours are over."
"Could I leave them outside?" asked Anton, dryly.
"They would have been just as safe in the wood as here," said Fink, with
a shrug.
"Possibly," replied Anton; "but to send off people to the forest in rain
like this, without provisions, and in deadly terror, would have been
barbarity for which I could not be responsible. Besides, do you think we
should have got the men without their wives and children?"
"At all events, we can make use of the men," concluded Fink, "and you
may manage the commissariat as you can."
Fink next gave arms to those who wanted them, and divided the forces
into four sections, one for the yard, two for the upper and lower
stories, and one as a reserve in the guard-room. Next he had an exact
report of the enemy given him by the Kunau smith and others. Meantime
Anton had rushed to the underground kitchen, where he gave the
provisions in charge of the superintendent, and caused wood and water to
be carried in by the baron's servants. A sack of potatoes and one of
meal were placed near the hearth, and the great caldron put on the fire.
As he went out, he confided to the cook that a cow had been taken into
the stable, that, at all events, the family might not be without milk at
this doleful time. Old Barbette wrung her hands in anguish. "Alas! Mr.
Wohlfart, what a frightful thing it is!" cried she; "the balls will be
flying about in my kitchen."
"Heaven forbid!" said Anton; "the window is much too deep for that. No
one can reach you; cook away in peace; the people are famished; I will
send two of the stranger women down to help you."
"Who could eat in such danger as this?" cried she.
"We will all eat," said Anton, comfortingly.
"Will you have soup or potato-broth?" inquired Barbette, feverishly
brandishing her spoon in her despair.
"Both, my good woman."
The cook held him back. "But, Mr. Wohlfart, there are no eggs for the
family; indeed, there is not an egg in the whole house. Mercy on us! to
think of this misfortune happening to-day, of all days. What will the
baron say when he has no fresh egg this evening?"
"The devil take the eggs!" cried Anton, impatiently; "we must not be so
particular to-day."
As he returned, Fink called to him, "All is ready; we may now quietly
await their arrival. I am going to the tower, and taking a few good
shots with me. If any thing happens, I am to be found there."
And again the hall was empty and the house quiet. The sentinels stood
silently watching the edge of the forest; the rest of the men sat
talking in a low voice in the guard-room; but the noise was unceasing in
the apartment where the children were, and a constant communication was
kept up between the kitchen and the occupied rooms in the lower story.
Anton walked to and fro in restless suspense from the house to the
court, and back again to his own room, where he tied the baron's papers
together; then through the passages and to the guard-room. In this way
one quarter of an hour after another passed, till at length Lenore came
from her mother's room crying, "This uncertainty is intolerable!"
"And we have no tidings from the farm either," replied Anton, anxiously;
"but the rain is over, and whatever happens to-day will happen in
sunshine. The clouds are breaking yonder, and the blue sky is seen
through them. How is the baroness?"
"She is calm," said Lenore, "and prepared for every thing."
Both walked silently up and down the hall. At last Lenore went up to
Anton, and passionately exclaimed, "Wohlfart, it is horrible to me to
think of you in a position such as this for our sakes."
"Is this position, then, so terrible?" asked Anton, with, a mournful
smile.
"You do not perhaps feel it so," said Lenore, "but you are sacrificing
for us far more than we deserve. We are ungrateful to you; you would be
happier elsewhere."
She placed herself at the window, and wept bitterly.
Anton tried to soothe her. "If," said he, "you allude to the hasty
expressions of the baron, you need not pity me on that account. You know
what we have formerly said on that subject."
"It is not that alone," cried Lenore, weeping.
Anton knew as well as she did that it was not that alone, and felt that
a confession lay in the words. "Be it what it may," said he, cheerfully,
"why should you grudge me the pleasure of an adventure? Certainly I am
an inexperienced soldier, but it seems that our enemies will not give me
much opportunity of doing them any harm to-day."
"No one thanks you for all that you bear for our sakes. No one!" cried
Lenore.
"No one?" repeated Anton. "Have I not a friend here who is only too much
inclined to overrate the little I am able to do? Lenore, you have
permitted me to draw nearer to you than would have been possible under
ordinary circumstances. Do you reckon it nothing that I should have won
some of a brother's privileges with regard to you?"
Lenore fervently seized and pressed his hand. "Even I have been
different to you of late to what I should have been. I am very unhappy,"
cried she, passionately. "I can not tell to any human being what I
feel--not to my mother--not to you either. I have lost all confidence
and all control." She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.
"Lenore!" cried her father, impatiently, from his apartment.
"This is no time for explanations," said she, more calmly. "When we have
got over this day, I will try hard to be stronger than I am now. Help me
in this, Wohlfart."
She hurried away to the baron's room. Anton remained behind, lost in sad
thoughts. Meanwhile the bright sunshine streamed down on the court-yard,
the men left the guard-room and stood on the threshold; even the women
made their way out of their dark retreat, and had to be scolded back
again.
"Who knows whether they have not overlooked the castle?" said one; "or
if they have courage to attack us?" suggested another; while a sagacious
tailor proved, by a clever <i>résumé</i> of the different reports received,
that all the Polish frocks were by this time far beyond Rosmin. Yet,
eagerly as each asserted that the danger must now be over, all listened
anxiously to the step of the sentinels, and looked constantly to the
tower, to see if any signal were given thence. Even Anton found the
suspense unbearable, and at length he too betook himself to the tower.
Here the whole staff was assembled. The blind baron sat in his
arm-chair, behind him stood Lenore's tall figure shading his eyes with
her parasol; four riflemen sat in the broad embrasures; and Fink,
perched on the wall, hung down his legs into space, and puffed the blue
clouds of a cigar into the wind.
"Nothing to be seen?" asked Anton.
"Nothing," replied Fink, "except a drunken band of our villagers, who
are moving off on the Tarow road." He pointed to a dark mass just
vanishing into the wood. "It is very well that we have got rid of the
rabble. They are afraid of the gray-jackets, and are off to plunder
elsewhere. Every hour's delay is a gain, since we reckon that at best
there is no help to be looked for till to-morrow. Now those gentlemen
behind the wood are not interesting enough to wish for a visit of
twenty-four hours from them. This is a grand spot, Baron Rothsattel,"
continued Fink. "Certainly there's not much to be seen--some fir woods,
your fields, and plenty of sand; but it is a glorious station to defend,
because it is so bare all round the castle--without tree or bank. Your
sentimentalists, indeed, might pronounce it an uninteresting view. But
what I consider splendid is this: with the exception of the nearest
barn, which is about three hundred yards off in a straight line, there
is no shelter better than that of a molehill for one of the enemy's
skirmishers. Far as a rifle-ball can range, we are monarchs of the plain
below; only there is a thicket in the way yonder--a plantation, I
believe, of Fräulein Lenore's."
"I acknowledge myself guilty," said Lenore.
"Very well," replied Fink, carelessly; "then you shall pay the cost if
we are hit. Half a dozen riflemen might lurk safely there."
"It is Lenore's favorite spot," said the baron, apologetically; "she has
a grass-plot there; it is the only place outside the wall where she can
sit in the open air."
"Indeed!" said Fink; "that's a different thing;" and, looking round for
Lenore, he saw she had disappeared. The next moment the yard gate
opened, and Lenore, followed by a few laborers, hurried to the
plantation.
"What are you going to do?" cried Fink from his height.
Lenore signified by a gesture that she was going to have the trees
removed; and, seizing a young fir, she exerted all her strength to
uproot it. The men followed her example. In a few moments the young
plantation was done away with. Then Lenore herself caught up a spade,
and began to level the grassy mound.
Now Anton had planted these trees with the young lady. Both had
thoroughly enjoyed the improvement. Since then, Lenore had gone there
daily, and each of the little trees had been to her a personal friend.
When, therefore, Anton saw it all annihilated, he could not help saying
somewhat coldly, "That feeble plantation would have done us little harm;
surely you have caused useless devastation."
"Why," replied Fink, "the lady has acted like a prudent commandant of a
fortress, the first display of whose talents always consists in leveling
about the building, and a plantation can be made again any spring day.
Carry off the wood to the farm-yard," cried he to the men; "tear down
the wooden inclosure of the well, bring the boards to the yard, and hide
the well's mouth."
When Lenore returned to her place behind her father's chair, Fink nodded
to her like an elder comrade to a younger, took up his telescope, and
again explored the border of the forest.
And thus the party spent another hour. No one was inclined to speak, and
Fink's occasional jests fell on unfruitful ground. Anton went down to
keep the people in order, but something soon impelled him to return to
the battlements, and watch the forest with the rest. At last, after a
longer silence than usual, Fink, throwing away his cigar, observed, "It
is getting late, and we pay our guests too much honor by expecting them
with such silent devotion. When the news came of their march, Wohlfart
and I were both wanted in the house; and as Karl is breaking my poor
horse's legs at a distance, we sent no one to reconnoitre. Now we pay
for that sin of omission; we sit here prisoners, and our men are getting
tired before the enemy comes. It is essential that one of us should
mount and away to bring in further tidings. This stillness is unnatural:
not a creature to be seen in the fields, not one on the roads. It seems
odd to me, too, that for the last two hours no refugees should have
arrived from the forest; and, besides, the very smoke of Neudorf has
disappeared."
Anton silently turned away. "Go, my son," said Fink; "take one of the
most trustworthy of our men with you; look how things are going on in
our village, and beware of the pine wood. Stay a moment; I will take one
other look through the telescope." He looked long, examined each tree,
and at last laid down the glass. "There is nothing to be seen," said he,
thoughtfully. "If the gentry we are expecting carried any thing besides
scythes, we should be compelled to believe there is some witchcraft at
work. But now all is uncertainty. Beware of the woods."
Anton left the tower, called the superintendent and two servants, had
the baron's horse and two of the swiftest farm-horses got ready, and the
gate opened by the Kunau smith. All was silent and peaceful. The fowls
that Karl had bought a few weeks before were scratching away on the
dunghill; the pigeons were cooing on the thatch; a little dog, belonging
to the smith, had constituted himself the guardian of the forsaken
buildings, and barked suspiciously at the riding party.
They trotted away through the village, and stopped at the tavern. The
bar was empty. Anton called for the landlord. After a while the man came
to the door, looking pale and frightened, and clasped his hands when he
saw Anton. "Just God! Mr. Wohlfart, to think of your still being in the
country! I believed that you and the family had fled to Rosmin or to the
heart of our troops long ago. Heavens! this is a misfortune! Bratzy has
been here, and has been stirring up the people against the family in the
castle, and against the Germans every where; but he could not bring them
to attack the castle; so the greatest part of the villagers have gone
off to the Poles at Tarow. Those that have remained behind have
concealed themselves; and here I am, burying what I may want to carry
off in a hurry."
"Where are the enemy now?" inquired Anton.
"I do not know," cried the landlord; "but I know that they are a great
host, and that they have with them lancers in uniform."
"Do you know whether the wood is safe toward Neudorf?"
"How can it be safe? No one has come from Neudorf here for several
hours. If the way were open, half the village would now be here in my
inn or at the castle."
"You are right. Will you wait here for the band that is coming?"
inquired Anton, ready to start. "You would be safer in the castle."
"Who knows!" cried the host. "I can not leave; if I do, my whole place
will be laid waste."
"But your women?" asked Anton, holding in his horse.
"I must have people to help me," wailed the distracted man. "As they are
young, they must just endure it. There is Rebecca, my sister's child:
she belongs to a family that understands business. She knows how to deal
with the peasants; she knows how to get money from them, even when they
are dead drunk. Rebecca," cried he; "Mr. Wohlfart asks whether you will
go to the castle, to be safe from these wild men."
The face of Rebecca, surrounded with red hair, now emerged from the
cellar.
"What have I to do with the castle, uncle?" cried she, resolutely. "Who
do you call wild men? Our peasants are the wildest men in the whole
country; if I can get on with them, I shall get on with any. My aunt has
quite lost her wits, and there must be some one here who knows how to
deal with guests. I am much obliged to you, kind sir, but I am not
afraid; the gentlemen who are with the party will not let any harm
happen to me."
"Forward, my men!" cried Anton. They galloped farther on through the
village; all the doors were closed, but a woman's face was seen here and
there looking through the small windows after the riders. In this way
they came along the broad highway till they got near the wood.
One of the servants now said to Anton, "There is a young plantation on
the left as you enter the wood, where a hundred men might lie in ambush
without our seeing them, and if there, they would soon snuff us out, or
cut off our way to the castle."
"You are right," said Anton. "We will ride along the field till we have
got behind the plantation, where the trees stand singly, and we can
venture in and out. From thence we can explore the plantation on foot."
They turned accordingly off the road, and crossed the fields, keeping
their horses out of the range of shot from the wood. Now Anton bade them
dismount, gave the bridles into the superintendent's keeping, and
cautiously advanced. "Fire into the wood," ordered Anton, "and then run
back to your horses as hard as you can."
The shots rattled through the plantation, and were answered in a few
moments by an irregular fire and a loud yell. The balls whistled over
Anton's head, but the distance was great, and the men got back to their
horses without injury. "Gallop! we know enough. They had not the wisdom
to keep quiet." The little band flew along the highway, the loud cries
of their pursuers sounding behind them. They arrived breathless at the
castle, where they found all in alarm. Fink met them at the entrance.
"You were right," cried Anton: "they are lying in ambush no doubt these
many hours, perhaps in hopes of surprising you, or both of us, indeed,
on the way to Neudorf. They would then have got the castle without a
struggle."
"How many of them may there be?" asked Fink.
"Indeed, we had no time to count them," replied Anton. "No doubt, only a
detachment has advanced so far; the greater number are behind in the
wood."
"We have roused them," replied Fink; "now we may expect their visit. It
is better for our people to receive them before sunset than in the
night."
"They come," cried Lenore's voice from the tower.
The two friends hurried to the platform. As Anton looked over the
battlements the sun was preparing to set. The golden sky turned the
green of the woods to bronze. Forth from the forest came, in orderly
procession toward the village, a troop of horsemen, about half a
squadron, followed by more than a hundred men on foot, the nearest of
them armed with muskets, the others carrying scythes. The lovely evening
light suffused the figures on the tower. A cockchafer hummed merrily at
Anton's ear, and, high in air, the lark was chanting his evening lay.
Meanwhile the danger was approaching. It came nearer and nearer along
the winding way, a dark, long-drawn-out mass, unheard as yet, but
plainly seen.
Still the cockchafer kept on humming, and the lark soared higher in its
rapturous song. At length the procession disappeared behind the first
cottages in the village. These were moments of breathless silence. All
looked steadfastly at the place where the enemy would emerge into sight.
Lenore stood next to Anton, her left hand clutched a gun, and her right
kept unconsciously moving the bullets in a sportsman's pouch. As soon as
the horsemen appeared in the middle of the village, Fink caught up his
cap, and said gravely, "Now, gentlemen, to our posts! You, Anton, be
kind enough to lead the baron down stairs." As Anton supported the blind
man down the steps, he pointed back at Lenore, who remained motionless,
gazing at the advancing enemy. "And you too, dear lady," continued Fink,
"I pray you to think of your own safety."
"I am safest here," replied Lenore, firmly, letting her gun drop on the
flags. "You will not require me to hide my head in the sofa-cushions
when you are about to risk your life."
Fink looked with intense admiration at her beautiful face, and said, "I
have no objection to make. If you are resolved to take up your station
on this platform, you are as safe as any where in the castle."
"I will be cautious," replied Lenore, waving him off.
"And you, my boys," said Fink, "hide behind the walls; take care not to
let a shoulder or the top of your cap be seen, and do not fire before I
sound an alarm with this. You will hear it plainly up here." He took out
a broad whistle of foreign aspect. "Good-by till we meet again," said
he, looking at Lenore with a beaming glance.
"Till we meet again," answered Lenore, raising her arm and looking after
him till the door closed behind him.
Fink found the baron in the hall. The poor nobleman was reduced to a
most pitiable state of mind by the excitement of the day and the sense
of his own uselessness at a time when he felt action the rightful
privilege of his station. In his earlier years he had ever met personal
danger in the most intrepid manner. How much his strength was broken
now plainly appeared in his unsuccessful attempts to maintain his
self-control. His hands were restlessly outstretched as though seeking
some weapon, and painful groans forced themselves through his lips.
"My kind host and friend," said Fink, addressing him, "as your
indisposition makes it inconvenient to you to deal with these strangers,
I crave permission to do so in your stead."
"You have <i>carte blanche</i>, dear Fink," replied the baron, in a hoarse
voice; "in fact, the state of my eyes is not such as to allow me to hope
that I can be of any use. A miserable cripple!" cried he, and covered
his face with his hands.
Fink turned away with his usual shrug, opened a slide in the oaken door
which had been intended to lead to the unfinished terrace, and looked
out.
"Permit me," said Anton to the baron, "to lead you to a place where you
may not be unnecessarily exposed to the balls."
"Do not trouble yourself about me, young man," said the baron; "I am of
less consequence to-day than the poorest day-laborer who has taken up
arms for my sake."
"Have you any thing more to say to me?" asked Anton of Fink, as he took
up his gun.
"Nothing," replied the latter, with a smile, "except to beg that you
will not forget your usual caution if you come to a hand-to-hand
scuffle. Good luck to you!" He stretched out his hand. Anton grasped it,
and hurried to the court.
"The enemy are passing their opinion upon your farming just now," said
Fink to the baron; "we shall have the gentlemen here in a few minutes;
there they come, cavalry and infantry. They stop at the barn; a party of
riders advance; it is the staff. There are some handsome young fellows
among them, and a couple of beautiful horses; they ride beyond the range
of our fire, all round the castle. They are seeking an entrance; we
shall soon hear the knocker at the back door."
All was silent. "Strange," said Fink. "It is surely the custom of war,
before the assault, to summon the besieged to surrender; but there come
the officers from their circuit round the castle back to their infantry.
Has Wohlfart inspired them with such terror that they have fled away
<i>ventre à terre</i>?"
The ring of horses' hoofs and the hollow march of the infantry were now
heard.
"Zounds!" said Fink; "the whole corps marches as if on parade up to the
castle front. If they mean to storm your fortress on this side, they
have the most remarkable conceptions of the nature of a strong place.
They draw up against us at a distance of five hundred yards. The
infantry in the middle, the horsemen at both sides: quite a Roman order
of battle. Julius Caesar over again, I declare. Look! they have a
drummer; the fellow advances; the row you hear is the beat of drums. Ah
ha! the leader rides forward. He comes on, and halts just before our
door. Politeness demands that we should inquire what he wants." Fink
pushed back the heavy bolts of the door; it opened; he stepped out on
the threshold covering the entrance, and carrying his double-barrel
carelessly in his hand. When the horseman saw the slender figure in
hunting costume standing so quietly before him, he reined in his horse
and touched his hat, which Fink acknowledged by a slight bow.
"I wish to speak to the proprietor of this estate," said the horseman.
"You must put up with me," replied Fink; "I represent him."
"Tell him, then, that we have some orders of the government to carry out
in his house," cried the rider.
"Would your chivalry permit me to ask what government has been frivolous
enough to give you a message for the Baron Rothsattel? From what I hear,
the views taken in this country about government in general are a little
disturbed."
"The Polish Central Committee is your as well as my government," replied
the rider.
"You are very good-natured in allowing a Central Committee to dispose of
your heads; you will allow us, however, to hold a different opinion on
this particular point."
"You see that we have the means to enforce obedience to the orders of
government, and I advise you not by opposition to provoke us to use
force."
"I thank you for this advice, and should be still more obliged if, in
your zeal for your duty, you would not forget that the ground on which
you stand is not public, but private property, and that strange horses
are only allowed to exercise thereon by the consent of the proprietor,
which, so far as I know, you have not obtained."
"We have had words enough, sir," cried the rider, impatiently; "if you
are really authorized to represent the proprietor, I require you to
open this castle to us without delay, and to deliver up your arms."
"Alas!" replied Fink, "I am under the unpleasant necessity of refusing
your request. I would add a hope that you, together with the gentry in
shabby boots ranged behind you there, will leave this place as soon as
possible. My young folk are just going to see whether they can hit the
molehills under your feet. We should be sorry if the bare toes of your
companions were to be hurt. Begone, sir!" cried he, suddenly changing
his careless tone to one of such vehement anger and scorn that the
Pole's horse reared, and he himself laid his hand on the pistols at his
holster.
During this conversation the rest of the horsemen and the infantry had
drawn nearer to catch the words.
More than once a barrel had been lowered, but they had always been
pushed back by a few riders in advance of the ranks. At Fink's last
words, a wild-looking figure in an old frieze jacket took aim, a shot
was heard, and the bullet flew past Fink's cheek, and struck the door
behind him. At the same moment a suppressed scream was heard, a flash
seen on the top of the tower, and the luckless marksman fell to the
ground. The man who had conducted the parley turned his horse, the
assailants all fell back, and Fink closed the door. As he turned round,
Lenore stood on the first flight of the stairs, the recently-discharged
gun in her hand, her large eyes fixed wildly upon him. "Are you
wounded?" cried she, beside herself.
"Not at all, my faithful comrade," cried Fink.
Lenore threw away the gun, and sank at her father's feet, hiding her
face on his knees. Her father bent over her, took her head in his hands,
and the nervous agitation of the last few hours brought on a convulsive
fit of sobbing. His daughter passionately clasped his trembling frame,
and silently held him in her arms. There they were, a broken-down
existence, and one in which the warm glow of youthful life was bursting
into flame.
Fink looked out of the window; the enemy had retired beyond range of
fire, and were, as it seemed, holding a consultation. Suddenly he
stepped up to Lenore, and, laying his hand on her arm, said, "I thank
you, dear lady, for having so promptly punished that rascal. And now I
beg you to leave this room with your father. We shall do better if
anxiety on your account does not withdraw our eyes from the enemy."
Lenore shrunk back at his touch, and a warm blush overspread her cheek
and brow.
"We will go," she said, with downcast eyes. "Come, my father." She then
led the baron up stairs to her mother's room. There she heroically
strove to compose herself, sat down by the couch of the invalid, and did
not go near Fink again the whole evening.
"Now, then, we are by ourselves," cried Fink to the sentinels; "short
distances, and a steady aim! If they storm this stone building, they
shall get nothing by it but bloody pates."
Accordingly, there he stood with his companions, and looked with keen
eye at the ranks of their assailants. There was a great stir among them.
Some detachments went off to the village; the horsemen rode up and down;
there was evidently something afloat. At last a party brought some thick
boards and a row of empty carts. The upper parts of them were lifted
off, and the lower placed in a row, the poles away from the castle, the
hind wheels toward it. Next, boards were nailed together, and made into
pent-houses, which being fastened to the back of the carts, projected a
few feet beyond them, and afforded a tolerable shelter for five or six
men.
"Ask Mr. Wohlfart to come here," cried Fink to one of his riflemen.
"There has been shooting," said Anton, as he entered the hall; "is any
one wounded?"
"This thick door, and one of the rabble yonder," replied Fink. "Without
any order, they replied to the first shot from the tower."
"There is not an enemy to be seen in the court. A troop of horsemen came
to the gate; one ventured up to the palings, and tried to look through.
But when I started up behind them, they all took to flight in terror."
"Look there," said Fink; "they are amusing themselves in making small
barricades. As long as this evening light allows us to see, the danger
is not great. But in the night, those huts on wheels may come a little
too near."
"The sky keeps clear," said Anton; "there will be a bright starlight."
"If I only knew," said Fink, "why they have had the madness to attack
the strongest side of our fortress! It can only be that your peaceful
visage has had the effect of the Gorgon's head upon them. Henceforth you
will be described as a scarecrow in all Slavonic fights."
It was dark when the hammering away at the carts ceased. A word of
command was heard. The officers summoned a few men by name to the poles,
and six movable roofs rolled on rapidly to about thirty yards from the
front of the castle.
"Now for it," cried Fink. "Remain here and look to the lower story." He
sprang up the steps; the long row of front rooms was opened; one could
see from one end of the house to the other. "Mind your heads," cried he
to the sentinels. Immediately came an irregular fire against the windows
of the upper story, the leaden shower rattling through the panes, the
glass clattering on the floor. Fink took out his whistle; a shrill sound
vibrated loudly through the house, and was responded to by the salvos of
the besieged from both stories and from the tower.
And now followed an irregular fire from both sides. The besieged had the
advantage--their aim was truer, and they were better concealed than
those without.
During the brief pauses, Fink's voice was to be heard crying, "Steady,
men; keep close." He was every where; his light step, the clear tones of
his voice, his wild jests from time to time, kept up the spirits of all.
They filled Lenore's soul with a thrill of rapture; she hardly felt the
full terrors of her situation; nor did the convulsive starts of her
father, nor her mother's low groans, lead her to despair, for the words
of the man she loved sounded like a message of salvation in her ear.
For about an hour the battle raged around the walls. The great building
rose dark in the pale starlight; no light, no form was to be seen from
without; only the flashes that from time to time shone out from a corner
of the windows announced to those outside that there was life within. He
who walked through the rooms could discover a dark shape here and there
behind a pillar, could see eyes glowing with excitement, and a head bent
to observe the foe. True, none of the men there assembled were used to
this bloody work; they had been gathered from the plow, the workshop,
from every species of peaceful industry; and painful excitement,
feverish suspense, protracted during the whole day, was visible in the
aspect of the strongest among them.
Yet Anton remarked with a gloomy satisfaction how calm he himself was,
and how brave the men in general. They were busy, they were at work,
and, even in the midst of their deadly occupation, the strength and
energy were evident which all active labor gives to man. After the first
shots, those on the front side loaded as composedly as though they were
at their every-day toil. The face of the farm-servant hardly looked more
anxious than when he walked between his oxen in the field, and the
skillful tailor handled his gun with as much indifference as he would
his smoothing-iron. It was only the reserve guard who were restless; not
from fear, but from dissatisfaction with their own inactivity. At times
a bold fellow would steal into the house, behind Anton's back, in order
to have a chance of firing off his gun in front, and Anton was obliged
to place the superintendent at the court-door to prevent this courageous
way of desertion.
"Only once, Mr. Wohlfart; do let me have one shot at them!" urgently
pleaded a young fellow from Neudorf.
"Wait," replied Anton, loading; "your turn will come; in an hour you
will relieve the others here."
Meanwhile the stars rose higher, and the shots became fewer as both
parties grew weary.
"Our people are the strongest," said Anton to his friend; "the men in
the court are not to be kept back any longer."
"It is all little better than shooting in the dark," replied Fink;
"true, they make it matter of conscience to take good aim, but it is
generally a mere accident if their balls take effect. Nothing has
happened to our side but a few slight wounds, and I believe those
without have not suffered more."
The rolling of wheels was now heard. "Listen! they are drawing back
their war-chariots." The firing ceased, and the whole line disappeared
in the darkness. "Leave off," continued Fink; "and, Anton, if you have
any thing to drink, give it, for these have shown themselves brave men.
Then let us quietly await the renewal of the siege."
Anton accordingly had some refreshments distributed to the men, and went
through the whole house, dismissing them, and examining the rooms from
the cellar upward. As he drew near the women's rooms on the lower story,
he heard, even at a distance, a lamentable chaos of voices. Entering, he
found the bare walls dimly lighted, the floor covered with straw, on
which crouched women and children. The women expressed their terror by
every kind of passionate gesture, many ceaselessly imploring the help of
Heaven, without any alleviation of their intense misery; others staring
straight before them, stunned by the horrors of the night; in short, the
pleasantest impression was that made by the children, who, having howled
with all their might, had no further care. In the midst of all this
wretchedness, these little ones lay, their heads resting on a bundle of
clothes, their small hands clenched, sleeping as quietly as in their
beds at home, while one young woman sat in a corner rocking her sleeping
infant in her arms, apparently forgetful of all besides. At last, still
watching the child, she came up to Anton, and asked how her husband was
faring.
Meanwhile the enemy made large fires, and part of their soldiery sat
near them, and were seen to boil their coffee. There was great
disturbance, too, in the village; men were heard shouting and ordering,
lights were seen in all directions, and there was rapid coming and going
along the streets.
"That does not look like a truce," cried Anton.
At that moment a loud knock was heard at the back door; the friends
looked at each other, and rushed down to the court.
"Rothsattel and roebucks," whispered a voice, improvising a password.
"The forester!" cried Anton, pushing back the bars and letting the old
man in.
"Shut the gate," said the forester; "they are close on my track.
Good-evening to you all; I am come to inquire whether you can make any
use of me?"
"Get into the house," cried Anton, "and tell us all."
"Every thing is as quiet in the forest as in the church," said the
forester; "the cattle are lying in the quarry, and the shepherd, too, is
there with his creatures. The farmer keeps watch. I crept, in the dark,
into the village to reconnoitre, and now come to warn you. As they have
not made much of their guns, the rascals are going to try fire. They
have got together all the grease and tar in the village, they have taken
all the women's shavings, and whenever they found an oil lamp, they
poured it over bundles of rushes."
"They mean to burn the yard gate?" asked Fink.
The forester made a face. "Not the yard gate; they have a deadly fear of
that, because you have artillery-wagons and a cannon in the yard."
"Artillery!" cried both friends, in amazement.
"Yes," nodded the forester; "through the chinks of the planks they have
seen blue carts, horses, and a gun-carriage."
"Karl's new potato-carts, the plow, and the water-butt!" cried Anton.
"No doubt," replied the forester. "On my way here I peeped into the inn
yard, and waited for some one that I knew. Then Rebecca ran by me with
a basket; I whistled, and called her out behind the stable. 'Are you
there, old Swede?' said the wild thing. 'Take care that your head be not
set on fire. I have no time to talk with you; I must attend to the
gentlemen; they want coffee.' 'Why not Champagne?' said I. 'No doubt the
gentlemen are very polite, you pretty creature,' said I; for one gets
over women with flowery speeches. 'You are an ugly fellow yourself,'
said the girl, laughing at me; 'get away with you!' 'They won't hurt
you, my little Rebecca,' said I, stroking her cheeks. 'What's that to
you, old sorcerer?' said the little toad; 'if I were to scream, the
whole roomful would come to my aid.' 'Don't be so contradictious, my
child,' said I; 'be a good girl, fill another bottle, and bring it out
here. One must do something for one's friends in bad times.' Then she
snatched the bottle out of my hand, telling me to wait, and ran off with
her basket. After a while she returned with the bottle quite full, for
she is a good creature at heart, and as she gave it me, she cried, 'If
you see the young gentlemen in the castle, tell them that the folks here
have a great dread of their artillery; they have been asking me whether
it was true that they had cannon. I told them I was quite sure that was
the name of a great thing I had often seen on the property.' Then I
slunk off again, and crept along the ditch, past fellows with scythes,
who are mounting guard behind our farm-yard. When I was about a hundred
yards from them, I tore away, and they swore after me. That's how things
stand."
"That notion of theirs about fire is uncomfortable," said Fink; "if they
understand the thing, they may smoke us out like badgers."
"The threshold is stone, and this thick door is high above the ground,"
said the forester.
"I am not afraid of the flames, but of the smoke and glare," replied
Fink; "if they light up our windows, our men will aim still worse. One
good thing for us is that the gentlemen on the English saddles, who head
the enemy, have never stormed any but a petticoat fortress before. We
will bring all our men to the front, and leave only two or three
sentinels behind; we will trust Rebecca's story."
Fresh cartridges were given out, and a fresh detachment stationed at the
windows, additional men were placed in the halls of the upper and lower
story, and on the platform of the tower, Anton commanding up stairs, the
smith below, and the forester remaining with a small body in reserve.
All these arrangements were just made in time, for a loud hum was heard
at a distance, together with shouts of command, the march of an
advancing body, and the rumbling of carts.
"Keep your guns at full cock," cried Fink, "and fire only at those who
press in at the door."
The wheeled pent-houses moved on as before, a Polish order was given,
and a rapid fire began on the part of the enemy, exclusively directed to
the important door and the windows near it. The balls thundered on the
oaken planks and on the masonry, and more than one found its way through
the window openings, and struck the ceiling above the heads of the
garrison. Fink cried to the forester, "You shall run a risk, old man;
take your people to the back door, open it, creep round close to the
house, and drive away those fellows behind the three carts to the left,
who have ventured too near; get close to them; you can knock them all
over if you aim true; the carts have no covering; you can be back before
the fellows run out from behind. Be quick and cautious; with this
whistle I will give the signal for your rushing out from the shadow of
the walls."
The forester collected his men and hurried to the court. Fink ran up
stairs to Anton. The enemy's fire grew still more frequent. "This time
it is grim earnest," said Anton. "Our people, too, are getting excited."
"Here comes the real danger," cried Fink, pointing through a loop-hole
in the wall to a high shapeless mass which slowly approached. It was a
harvest-wagon, loaded to an immense height and breadth, and propelled by
invisible hands to the front of the castle. "A fire-ship! there are the
yellow straw bundles on the top. Their plan is evident; they are
steering it against the door. Now, then, we must shoot well; not one of
the fellows who mount it must get back safe." He sprang up the stairs,
and cried to those stationed on the tower, "Every thing now depends upon
you; as soon as you see the men who are pushing the wagon onward, fire!
wherever you can see a head, or even a leg, fire! Every one of them must
die!" The wagon came nearer. Fink raised his own rifle twice, took aim,
and twice laid it down. The wagon load was so high that it was
impossible to see those who propelled it. These were moments of painful
suspense on both sides; even the enemy's fire ceased; every eye was
fixed on the fearful vehicle which was to bring the bitter conflict to a
fatal close. At length the backs of the hindmost men at the pole came
into sight. Two flashes from Fink's rifle, two yells, the wagon stood
still; those who were pushing it crowded closer. Two dark bodies lay on
the ground. Fink loaded again, a wild smile playing round his lips. A
raging fire upon the tower was the answer given by the foe. One of the
men on the tower was shot in the breast; his gun fell down over the
wall; he sank at Fink's feet. Fink merely glanced at him, and rammed his
second bullet down. At that moment some figures rushed out of the
darkness to the wagon. A spirited shout was heard, and the machine was
once more set in motion. "Brave fellows!" muttered Fink; "they are
doomed to death." Other forms were now visible at the end of the pole.
Fink again took aim. Again a cry of anguish; but the wagon moved on. It
was not more than thirty yards from the door; the moment was indeed
critical. The shrill sound of the whistle was heard through the night;
from the windows of the upper story flew the fiery salvo, and from the
left side of the house rose a loud cry. The forester made a sally, a
crowd of dark figures rushed against the pent-house that stood nearest
to the corner of the castle; for a moment there was a scuffle, then some
shots fired, and the conquered foe fled from their shelter to the open
plain. For the third time the deadly double-barrel flashed from the
tower, and struck the pole of the wagon, and the men who were propelling
it, seized with a sudden panic, retreated from its cover into the
sheltering darkness. But this did not avail them. From the tower and the
windows of the upper story bullets pursued them, and more than one fell.
Behind them rose a cry of rage, and a dark line rapidly advanced to
receive the fugitives. A universal fire against the house began. Then
the enemy retreated rapidly as they had advanced, carrying the wounded
and the carts back with them. The fire-ship alone, a dark mass, still
stood a few yards from the door. The firing ceased, and an uncomfortable
silence succeeded to the deadly conflict.
In the hall of the upper story Anton and Fink met, and were immediately
joined by the forester. Each of the friends silently sought to
ascertain, in the dim light, whether the other stood before him
unharmed. "Capitally done, forester," cried Fink. "Demand to be admitted
to the baron, and give in your report."
"And request Fräulein Lenore to give you linen for dressings; we have
had losses," said Anton, mournfully, as he pointed to the floor, where
two men sat leaning against the wall and groaning.
"Here comes a third," replied Fink, as a dark shape was slowly carried
down stairs from the tower. "I fear the man is dead; he lay at my feet
like a log."
"Who is it?" inquired Anton, shuddering.
"Barowsky, the tailor," whispered one of the bearers.
"What a fearful night!" cried Anton, turning away.
"We must not think of that now," said Fink. "Human life is only valuable
when one is ready to surrender it on a fitting opportunity. The great
point is, that we have shaken off that fiery millstone from our throats.
It is not impossible that the wretches may yet succeed in kindling it;
but it will not do much harm at its present distance."
At that moment a bright light shone through the loop-holes of the tower.
All rushed to the window. A dazzling light flamed up from the opposite
side of the wagon, and a sudden impetus hurled the heavy mass against
the wall of the house. A single man sprang back from the wagon; a dozen
guns were pointed at him at once.
"Stop!" cried Fink, in a piercing voice. "It is too late. Spare him; he
is a fine fellow; the mischief is done."
"Merci, Monsieur; au revoir!" said a voice from below; and the man
sprang uninjured into the darkness.
In a moment the wagon was in a blaze, and from the straw and rushes with
which it was laden on the top, the yellow flames rose crackling, while
firebrands flew in all directions. The house was suddenly illuminated:
masses of smoke burst through the shattered windows.
"That is powder," cried Fink. "Steady, steady, my men! We will keep the
enemy off if they force an entrance. You, Anton, see whether you can put
out the fire."
"Water!" cried the men; "the window-frame has caught!" Without, there
were fresh orders shouted out. The drums beat; and, with a wild cry of
triumph, a cordon of skirmishers neared the house. The fire of the
besiegers began once more, in order to impede the quenching of the
flames. Water was brought from the great butt in the yard, and poured on
the burning window-frames--a dangerous task enough; for the front of the
house was lighted up, and the ever-advancing skirmishers aimed at every
figure as it became visible. The besieged glanced anxiously at the
flames, and returned the fire of their opponents unsteadily. Even the
sentinels in the court looked more behind than before them. The
disorder became general. The moment of greatest danger had come. All
seemed lost.
Next a man called down from the tower, "They are bringing short ladders
from the village; we can see the axes in their hands."
"They will get over the palings, and break in the windows of the lower
story," cried the men to each other, in utmost alarm.
The forester rushed to the court. Fink carried off a few men with him to
the side of the house on which the men with ladders were advancing. All
were in confusion. Even Fink's threatening voice no longer took effect
upon them.
At that moment some men, with bars of iron in their hands, were seen
hurrying in from the court-yard to the hall door. "Make way!" cried a
stalwart figure; "this is blacksmith's work!" The man pushed back the
bolts of the door. The opening was filled by the burning wagon. Spite of
smoke and flames, the smith leaped upon its burning frame. "Help me, you
hares!" screamed he, in angry tones.
"He is right," cried Anton. "Onward, my men!"
Boards and poles were brought, and the men unweariedly pressed onward
through the smoke, and pushed and heaved away at the glowing mass. At
length the smith succeeded in throwing down some of the sheaves. One
could now get a glance of the dark sky, and the smoke was less stifling.
"Now we have it!" cried he, triumphantly; and bundle after bundle fell
to the ground, and burned harmlessly away. The wagon was more and more
quickly unloaded, blazing feather-beds and billets of wood falling with
other things.
Anton had the door half closed as the enemy's bullets passed through the
flames, and the men had to use their levers from the side. The
wagon-ladders fell down, burned to charcoal; and with a shout of
triumph, all the levers were applied at once, and the fragments of the
wagon pushed a few yards from the door, which was quickly locked again
from inside; while the men, black as imps, and with clothes burned,
loudly congratulated each other.
"Such nights as these make strong friendships," cried the smith, in
great delight, as he shook Anton's hand, which was little less black
than his own.
Meanwhile the axes of the besiegers were hacking away at several windows
of the lower story, the loosened boards creaked, and Fink's voice was
heard saying, "Knock them down with the butt-ends!"
Anton and the forester now betook themselves upon the window through
which the besiegers sought to enter. But the worst was over there too.
Fink came to meet them, the bloody axe of an insurgent in his hand, and,
flinging it away, he cried to Anton and his party, "Put new boards into
the windows. I hope the butchery is at an end."
A few more salvos from without, and single shots from within, and all
was still in the castle and in the field. The walls still glowed a while
in the firelight, but it faded and faded away. The wind rose and drove
away the smoke curling round the windows from the burning fragments
before the door. The pure night air filled the corridors and the halls
once more, and the starlight shone quietly on the sunken eyes and pale
faces of the garrison. On both sides the energies of the combatants were
exhausted.
"What hour of the night is it?" asked Fink, going up to Anton, who was
watching the movements of the enemy through the loop-holes of the wall.
"Past midnight," replied Anton.
They went up to the tower and looked about them. The fields around the
castle were empty.
"They have laid themselves down to sleep," said Fink. "Even the fires
below are out, and but few isolated voices sound from the village. Those
shadows all round the house alone tell us that we are besieged. We have
some hours of peace before us; and as we shall hardly get sleeping-time
to-morrow, our people must avail themselves of the present. Leave only
the necessary sentinels, and let the posts be relieved in two hours. If
you have no objection, I shall go to bed too. Let me be called as soon
as any thing is stirring outside. You will take very good care of the
night-posts, that I know." So saying, Fink turned away and went to his
room, where he threw himself on his bed, and in a few moments was fast
asleep.
Anton hurried to the guard-room, arranged the posts with the forester,
and fixed the order in which they were to be relieved.
"I shall not be sleepy," said the old man; "firstly, because of my age;
next, from my habits as a huntsman. I will, if you allow, arrange the
posts, and look after things in general."
Once more Anton went round the court and the stables. Here, too, quiet
was restored: only the horses restlessly stamped their hoofs on the hard
ground. Anton gently opened the door of the women's rooms, in the second
of which the wounded had been laid. As he entered, he saw Lenore on a
stool near the straw beds, two of the stranger women at her feet. He
bent down over the couch of the wounded: the colorless face and
disordered hair of the unfortunate men looked ghastly on the white
pillows which Lenore had snatched from her own bed.
"How fares it with you?" whispered Anton.
"We have tried to bind up the wounds," replied Lenore. "The forester
says that there is hope of both."
"Then," continued Anton, "leave them in charge of the women, and avail
yourself of these hours of rest."
"Do not speak to me of rest," said Lenore, rising. "We are in the
chamber of death." She took him by the hand, and led him to the opposite
corner, drew aside a dark cloak, and pointed to a human form beneath it.
"He is dead!" said she, with a hollow voice. "As I raised him with these
hands, he died. His blood is on my clothes; and it is not the only blood
that has been spilled to-day. It was I," she wildly cried, convulsively
pressing Anton's hand, "it was I who began this blood-shedding. How I am
to bear this curse, I know not; how I am to live on after this day, I
know not. If I have henceforth a place in this world, it is in this
room. Leave me here, Wohlfart, and think no more about me."
She turned away and resumed her seat on the stool by the side of the
straw bed. Anton drew the cloak over the dead, and silently left the
room. He went next to the guard-room and took up his gun. "I am going to
the tower, forester," said he.
"Each has his own way," muttered the old man. "The other is wiser--he
sleeps. But it will be cold up there; this one shall not be without a
wrap." He sent a man up with a villager's cloak, and ordered him to
remain with the gentleman.
Anton told the man to lie down and sleep, and wrapped himself up in the
warm covering. Then he sat in silence, resting his head against the wall
over which Lenore had leaned as she fired, and his thoughts flew over
the plain--from the gloomy present to the uncertain future. He looked
beyond the circle of the enemy's sentinels, and over the darker boundary
of the fir woods, which kept him prisoner here, and bound him to
circumstances which appeared to him strange and improbable, as though he
read them in a book. His wearied mind contemplated his own fate as
though it were that of a stranger, and he could now calmly look down
into the depths of his own spirit, which the stormy alternations of the
day had hitherto hid from him. He saw his former life pass in review
before him: the figure of the noble lady on the balcony of her castle;
the beautiful girl in her skiff, surrounded by her swans; the waxlights
in the dancing-saloon; the mournful hour when the baroness had placed
her jewels in his hands--each of those moments when Lenore's eyes had
lovingly met his own. All those seasons now returned to his mind, and he
plainly discerned the glamour that she had cast around him. All that had
chained his fancy, warped his judgment, and flattered his self-love, now
appeared to him an illusion.
It had been an error of his childish spirit which vanity had fostered.
Alas! the brilliant mirage had long been dissipated in which the life of
the aristocratic family seemed great, noble, enviable to the poor
accountant's son. Another feeling had replaced it, and a purer--a tender
friendship for the only one in that circle who had retained her strength
when the others sank. Now, she too parted from him. He felt this was,
and must be so more and more. He felt this now without pain, as natural,
as inevitable. And further, he felt that he was thus free from the ties
that detained him here. He raised his head, and looked over the woods
into the distance. He blamed himself, first, that this loss did not
grieve him more, and, next, that he was conscious of a loss. Had there,
then, been a silent hope at the bottom of his heart? Had he thought to
win the beauteous girl to share his future life? had he dreamed of
becoming a member of the family by whom he was employed? If he had
occasionally been weak enough to do this, he now condemned himself.
He had not always felt rightly; he had secretly cherished many a selfish
thought when looking at Lenore. That had been wrong, and it served him
right that he now stood alone among strangers, in relations that pained
him because they were indefinite, and in a position from which his own
resolve could not free him at present, could hardly free him for some
time to come.
And yet he felt himself free. "I shall do my duty, and only think of her
happiness," said he, aloud. But her happiness? He thought of
Fink--thought of the character of his friend, which always impressed,
but often angered him. Would he love her in return, and would he allow
himself to be bound? "Poor Lenore!" he sighed.
In this way Anton stood till the bright aspect of the northern horizon
passed over to the east, and thence a pale gray spread over the sky, the
chilly forerunner of the rising sun. Then Anton looked once more at the
landscape round him. He could hardly count the enemy's sentinels, who
surrounded the castle in pairs, and here and there a scythe shone in the
brightening light. Bending down, he woke the man, who had gone to sleep
on the flags stained by his comrade's blood; then he went to the
guard-room, threw himself on the straw that the forester carefully shook
down for him, and fell asleep just as the lark soared from the dewy
ground, by its joyous call to summon forth the sun.