“Certainly I did not forget that,” said Loudon, whose noble, generous

heart already repented his momentary passion and jealousy; “certainly,

I am not so cowardly and so unconscionable as to deny the weighty share

which the Russian army merit in the honor of this day; but you can well

understand that I will not allow the gallant deeds of the Austrians to

be swept away. We have fought together and conquered together, and now

let us rejoice together over the glorious result.”

Loudon gave his hand to Soltikow with so friendly an expression that he

could not withstand it. “You are right, Loudon; we will rejoice together

over this great victory,” cried he. “Wine, here! We will first drink a

glass in honor of the triumph of the day; then we will empty a glass

of your beautiful Rhine wine to the friendship of the Austrians and

Russians. Wine here! The night is long enough for council; let us first

celebrate our victory.”

The Cossacks, at a sign from the adjutants, sprang from the floor and

drew from a corner of the room a number of bottles and silver cups,

which they hastened to place upon the table. The secretaries moved the

papers, maps, etc.; and the table, which a moment before had quite a

business-like aspect, was now changed into an enticing buffet.

Soltikow looked on enraptured, but the marquis cast an anxious and

significant look upon the Austrian general, which was answered with

a slight shrug of the shoulders. Both knew that the brave General

Soltikow, next to the thunder of cannon and the mad whirl of battle,

loved nothing so well as the springing of corks and the odor of wine.

Both knew that the general was as valiant and unconquerable a soldier

as he was a valiant and unconquerable drinker--who was most apt while

drinking to forget every thing else but the gladness of the moment. The

marquis tried to make another weak attempt to remind him of more earnest

duties.

“Look you, your excellency, your secretaries appear very melancholy.

Will you not first hold a council of war? and we can then give ourselves

undisturbed to joy and enjoyment.”

“Why is a council of war necessary?” said Soltikow, sinking down into a

chair and handing his cup to the Cossack behind him to be filled for the

second time. “Away with business and scribbling! The dispatches to my

empress are completed; seal them, Pietrowitch, and send the courier off

immediately; every thing else can wait till morning. Come, generals, let

us strike our glasses to the healths of our exalted sovereigns.”

Loudon took the cup and drank a brave pledge, then when he had emptied

the glass he said: “We should not be satisfied with sending our exalted

sovereigns the news of the day’s victory--it lies in our hands to inform

them of the complete and irrevocable defeat of the enemy.”

“How so?” said Soltikow, filling up his cup for the third time.

“If now, in place of enjoying this comfortable rest, and giving our

enemy time to recover himself, we should follow up the Prussians and cut

off the king’s retreat, preventing him from taking possession of his old

camp at Reutven, we would then be in a condition to crush him completely

and put an end to this war.”

“Ah, you mean that we should break up the camp at once,” said Soltikow;

“that we should not grant to our poor, exhausted soldiers a single hour

of sleep, but lead them out again to battle and to death? No, no, sir

general; the blood of my brave Russians is worth as much as the blood

of other men, and I will not make of them a wall behind which the noble

Dutchmen place themselves in comfortable security, while we offer up for

them our blood and our life. I think we Russians have done enough; we

do not need another victory to prove that we are brave. When I fight

another such battle as I have fought to-day, with my staff in my hand

and alone I must carry the news to Petersburg, for I shall have no

soldiers left.[Footnote: “Frederick the Great.”--Geschow, p. 200.]

I have nothing to say against you, General Loudon. You have been a

faithful ally; we have fought, bled, and conquered together, although

not protected by a consecrated hat and sword like Field-Marshal Daun,

who ever demands new victories from us while he himself is undecided and

completely inactive.”

“Your excellency seems to be somewhat embittered against Daun,” said

Loudon, with a smile he could not wholly suppress.

“Yes,” said Soltikow, “I am embittered against this modern Fabius

Cunctator, who finds it so easy to become renowned--who remains in

Vienna and reaps the harvest which belongs rightly to you, General

Loudon. You act, while he hesitates--you are full of energy and ever

ready for the strife; Daun is dilatory, and while he is resolving

whether to strike or not, the opportunity is lost.”

“The empress, my exalted sovereign, has honored him with her especial

confidence,” said Loudon; “he must therefore merit it.”

“Yes; and in Vienna they have honored you and myself with their especial

distrust,” said Soltikow, stormily, and swallowing a full cup of wine.

“You, I know, receive rare and scanty praise; eulogies must be reserved

for Daun. We are regarded with inimical and jealous eyes, and our zeal

and our good-will are forever suspected.”

“This is true,” said Loudon, smiling; “it is difficult for us to believe

in the sincere friendship of the Russians, perhaps, because we so

earnestly desire it.”

“Words, words!” said Soltikow, angrily. “The German has ever a secret

aversion to the Russian--you look upon us as disguised tigers, ever

ready to rob and devour your glorious culture and accomplishments. For

this reason you gladly place a glass shade over yourselves when we are

in your neighborhood, and show us your glory through a transparent wall

that we may admire and envy. When you are living in peace and harmony,

you avoid us sedulously; then the German finds himself entirely too

educated, too refined, for the barbaric Russian. But when you quarrel

and strive with each other, and cannot lay the storm, then you suddenly

remember that the Russian is your neighbor and friend, that he wields

a good sword, and knows how to hew with it right and left. You call

lustily on him for help, and offer him your friendship--that means, just

so long as hostilities endure and you have use for us. Even when you

call us your friends you distrust us and suspect our good-will. Constant

charges are brought against us in Vienna. Spresain languishes in

chains--Austria charges him with treachery and want of zeal in the good

cause; Fermor and Butterlin are also accused of great crimes--they

have sought to make both their sincerity and ability suspected by the

empress, and to bring them into reproach. This they have not deserved. I

know, also, that they have charged me with disinclination to assist the

allies--they declare that I have no ardor for the common cause. This

makes bad blood, messieurs; and if it were not for the excellent wine

in your beautiful Germany, I doubt if our friendship would stand upon

a sure footing. Therefore, sir general, take your cup and let us drink

together--drink this glorious wine to the health of our friendship. Make

your glasses ring, messieurs, and that the general may see that we mean

honorably with our toast, empty them at a draught.”

They all accepted the challenge and emptied a cup of the old, fiery

Rhine wine, which Soltikow so dearly loved; their eyes flashed, their

cheeks were glowing.

Loudon saw this with horror, and he cast an anxious glance at

Montalembert, who returned it with a significant shrug of the shoulder.

“And now, your excellency,” said Loudon, “that we have enjoyed the

German wine, let us think a little of Germany and the enemy who can no

longer disturb her peace, if we act promptly. Our troops have had some

hours’ rest, and will now be in a condition to advance.”

“Always the same old song,” said Soltikow, laughing; “but I shall not

be waked up from my comfortable quarters; I have done enough! my troops

also.”

“I have just received a courier from Daun,” said Loudon, softly; “he

makes it my duty to entreat your excellency to follow up our victory and

crush the enemy completely.”

“That will be easy work,” said Montalembert, in a flattering tone. “The

army of the King of Prussia is scattered and flying in every direction;

they must be prevented from reassembling; the scattering troops must be

harassed and more widely separated, and every possibility of retreat cut

off for Frederick.”

“Well, well, if that must be,” said Soltikow, apathetically, placing the

cup just filled with wine to his lips, “let Field-Marshal Daun undertake

the duty. I have won two battles; I will wait and rest; I make no other

movements till I hear of two victories won by Daun. It is not reasonable

or just for the troops of my empress to act alone.” [Footnote:

Soltikow’s own words.--See Archenholtz, p. 266.]

“But,” said the Marquis Montalembert, giving himself the appearance

of wishing not to be heard by Loudon, “if your excellency now remains

inactive and does not press forward vigorously, the Austrians alone will

reap the fruits of your victory.”

“I am not at all disposed to be jealous,” said Soltikow, laughing; “from

my heart I wish the Austrians more success than I have had. For my

part, I have done enough. [Footnote: Historical.] Fill your glasses,

messieurs, fill your glasses! We have won a few hours of happiness from

the goddess Bellona; let us enjoy them and forget all our cares. Let us

drink once more, gentlemen. Long live our charming mistress, the Empress

Elizabeth!” The Russian officers clanged their glasses and chimed in

zealously, and the fragrant Rhine wine bubbled like foaming gold in the

silver cups. Soltikow swallowed it with ever-increasing delight, and he

became more and more animated.

The officers sat round the table with glowing cheeks and listened to

their worshipped general who, in innocent gayety, related some scenes

from his youth, and made his hearers laugh so loud, so rapturously,

that the walls trembled, and Fritz Kober, who was crouching down in the

bushes, could with difficulty prevent himself from joining in heartily.

The gayety of the Russians became more impetuous and unbridled. They

dreamed of their home; here and there they began to sing Russian

love-songs. The Cossacks, on the floor, grinned with delight and hummed

lightly the refrain.

The wine began to exercise its freedom and equality principles upon

the heart, and all difference of rank was forgotten. Every countenance

beamed with delight; every man laughed and jested, sang and drank.

No one thought of the King of Prussia and his scattered army; they

remembered the victory they had achieved, but the fragrant wine banished

the remembrance of the conquered. [Footnote: See Prussia; Frederick the

Great.--Gebhard, p. 73.]

Montalembert and Loudon took no part in the general mirth. They had left

the table, and from an open window watched the wild and frenzied group.

“It is in vain,” whispered Loudon, “we cannot influence him. The German

wine lies nearer his heart than his German allies.”

“But you, general, you should do what Soltikow omits or neglects.

You should draw your own advantage from this tardiness of the Russian

general, and pursue and crush the King of Prussia.”

“I would not be here now,” said Loudon, painfully, “if I could do that.

My hands are bound. I dare not undertake any thing to which the allies

do not agree; we can only act in concert.”

A loud roar of laughter from the table silenced the two gentlemen.

Soltikow had just related a merry anecdote, which made the Cossacks

laugh aloud. One of the Russian generals rewarded them by throwing them

two tallow-candles. This dainty little delicacy was received by them

with joyful shouts.

“Let us withdraw,” whispered Montalembert, “the scene becomes too

Russian.”

“Yes, let us go,” sighed Loudon; “if we must remain here inactive, we

can at least employ the time in sleep.”

No one remarked the withdrawal of the two gentlemen. The gay laughter,

the drinking and singing went on undisturbed, and soon became a scene of

wild and drunken confusion.

“We can now also withdraw,” whispered Charles Henry to Fritz Kober.

“Come, come! you know we are expected.”

With every possible caution, they hastened away, and only after they had

left the camp of the Russians and Austrians far behind them, and passed

again over the battle-field did Fritz Kober break silence. “Well,” said

he, sighing, “what have we to say to the king?”

“All that we have heard,” said Charles Henry.

“Yes, but we have heard nothing,” murmured Fritz. “I opened my ears as

wide as possible, but it was all in vain. Is it not base and vile to

come to Germany and speak this gibberish, not a word of which can be

understood? In Germany men should be obliged to speak German, and not

Russian.”

“They did not speak Russian, but French,” said Charles Henry; “I

understood it all.”

Fritz Kober stopped suddenly, and stared at his friend. “You say you

understood French?”

“Yes, I was at home on the French borders. My mother was from Alsace,

and there I learned French.”

“You understand every thing,” murmured Fritz, “but for myself, I am a

poor stupid blockhead, and the king will laugh at me, for I have nothing

to tell. I shall not get my commission.”

“Then neither will I, Fritz; and, besides, as to what we have seen, you

have as much to tell as I. You heard with your eyes and I with my ears,

and the great point arrived at you know as much about as I do. The

Russians and Austrians are sleeping quietly, not thinking of pursuing

us. That’s the principal point.”

“Yes, that’s true; that I can also assure the king--that will please him

best. Look! Charles Henry, the day is breaking! Let us hasten on to the

king. When he knows that the Austrians and Russians sleep, he will think

it high time for the Prussians to be awake.”

CHAPTER XV. A HERO IN MISFORTUNE.

The two grenadiers returned unharmed to the village where the king had

at present established his headquarters. The first rays of the morning

sun were falling upon the wretched hut which was occupied by his

majesty. The peaceful morning quiet was unbroken by the faintest sound,

and, as if Nature had a certain reverence for the hero’s slumber, even

the birds were hushed, and the morning breeze blew softly against the

little window, as if it would murmur a sleeping song to the king. There

were no sentinels before the door; the bright morning sun alone was

guarding the holy place where the unfortunate hero reposed.

Lightly, and with bated breath, the two grenadiers crept into the open

hut. The utter silence disturbed them. It seemed incredible that they

should find the king in this miserable place, alone and unguarded. They

thought of the hordes of Cossacks which infested that region, and that

a dozen of them would suffice to surround this little hut, and make

prisoners of the king and his adjutants.

“I have not the courage to open the door,” whispered Fritz Kober. “I

fear that the king is no longer here. The Cossacks have captured him.”

“God has not permitted that,” said Charles Henry, solemnly; “I believe

that He has guarded the king in our absence. Come, we will go to his

majesty.”

They opened the door and entered, and then both stood motionless, awed

and arrested by what they beheld.

There, on the straw that was scantily scattered on the dirty floor, lay

the king, his hat drawn partially over his face, his unsheathed sword in

his hand, sleeping as quietly as if he were at his bright and beautiful

Sans-Souci. “Look!” whispered Charles Henry; “thus sleeps a king, over

whom God watches! But now we must awaken him.”

He advanced to the king, and kneeling beside him, whispered: “Your

majesty, we have returned; we bring intelligence of the Russians and

Austrians.”

The king arose slowly, and pushed his hat back from his brow.

“Good or bad news?” he asked.

“Good news!” said Fritz. “The Austrians and Russians have both gone to

bed; they were sleepy.”

“And they have no idea of pursuing your majesty,” continued Charles

Henry. “Loudon wished it, but Soltikow refused; he will do nothing until

Daun acts.”

“So you sat with them in the council of war?” asked the king, smiling.

“Yes, we were present,” said Fritz Kober, with evident delight; “I saw

the council, and Charles Henry heard them.”

The king stood up. “You speak too loud!” he said; “you will waken these

two gentlemen, who are sleeping so well. We will go outside, and you can

continue your report.”

He crossed the room noiselessly, and left the hut. Then seating himself

before the door, on a small bench, he told the two grenadiers to give

him an exact account of what they had seen and heard.

Long after they had finished speaking, the king sat silent, and

apparently lost in thought. His eyes raised to heaven, he seemed to be

in holy communion with the Almighty. As his eyes slowly sank, his glance

fell upon the two grenadiers who stood before him, silently respectful.

“I am pleased with you, children, and this time the promise shall be

kept. You shall become subordinate officers.”

“In the same company?” asked Fritz Kober.

“In the same company. That is,” continued the king, “if I am ever able

to form companies and regiments again.”

“We are not so badly off as your majesty thinks,” said Fritz Kober.

“Our troops have already recovered from their first terror, and as we

returned we saw numbers of them entering the village. In a few hours the

army can be reorganized.”

“God grant that you may be right, my son!” said the king, kindly.

“Go, now, into the village, and repeat the news you brought me to the

soldiers. It will encourage them to hear that the enemy sleep, and

do not think of pursuing us. I will prepare your commissions for you

to-day. Farewell, my children!”

He bent his head slightly, and then turned to re-enter the hut and

awaken his two adjutants. With a calm voice he commanded them to go into

the village, and order the generals and higher officers to assemble the

remnants of their regiments before the hut.

“A general march must be sounded,” said the king. “The morning air will

bear the sound into the distance, and when my soldiers hear it, perhaps

they will return to their colors.”

When the adjutants left him, the king commenced pacing slowly up and

down, his hands crossed behind him.

“All is lost, all!” he murmured; “but I must wait and watch. If the

stupidity or rashness of the enemy should break a mesh in the net within

which I am enclosed, it is my duty to slip through with my army. Ah!

how heavily this crown presses upon my head; it leaves me no moment of

repose. How hard is life, and how terribly are the bright illusions of

our earlier years destroyed!”

At the sound of the drum, the king shivered, and murmured to himself: “I

feel now, what I never thought to feel. I am afraid my heart trembles at

the thought of this encounter, as it never did in battle. The drums and

trumpets call my soldiers, but they will not come. They are stretched

upon the field of battle, or fleeing before the enemy. They will not

come, and the sun will witness my shame and wretchedness.”

The king, completely overcome, sank upon the bench, and buried his face

in his hands. He sat thus for a long time. The sounds before the door

became louder and louder, but the king heard them not; he still held

his hands before his face. He could not see the bright array of uniforms

that had assembled before the window, nor that the soldiers were

swarming in from all sides. He did not hear the beating of drums, the

orders to the soldiers, or military signals. Neither did he hear the

door, which was gently opened by his adjutants, who had returned to

inform him that his orders had been obeyed, and that the generals and

staff officers were awaiting him outside the hut.

“Sire,” whispered at length one of the adjutants, “your commands have

been fulfilled. The generals await your majesty’s pleasure.”

The king allowed his hands to glide slowly from his face. “And the

troops?” he asked.

“They are beginning to form.”

“They are also just placing the cannon,” said the second adjutant.

The king turned angrily to him. “Sir,” he cried, “you lie! I have no

cannon.”

“Your majesty has, God be praised, more than fifty cannon,” said the

adjutant, firmly.

A ray of light overspread the countenance of the king, and a slight

flush arose to his pale cheek. Standing up, he bowed kindly to

the adjutants, and passed out among the generals, who saluted him

respectfully, and pressed back to make way for their king. The king

walked silently through their ranks, and then turning his head, he said:

“Gentlemen, let us see what yesterday has left us. Assemble your

troops.”

The generals and staff officers hurried silently away, to place

themselves at the head of their regiments, and lead them before the

king.

The king stood upright, his unsheathed sword in his right hand, as in

the most ceremonious parade. The marching of the troops began, but it

was a sad spectacle for their king. How little was left of the great

and glorious army which he had led yesterday to battle! More than twenty

thousand men were either killed or wounded. Thousands were flying and

scattered. A few regiments had been formed with great trouble; barely

five thousand men were now assembled. The king looked on with a firm

eye, but his lips were tightly compressed, and his breath came heavily.

Suddenly he turned to Count Dolmer, the adjutant of the Grand Duke

Ferdinand of Brunswick, who had arrived a few days before with the

intelligence of a victory gained at Minden. The king had invited him to

remain, “I am about to overpower the Russians, remain until I can give

you a like message.” The king was reminded of this as he saw the count

near him.

“Ah,” he said, with a troubled smile, “you are waiting for the message

I promised. I am distressed that I cannot make you the bearer of better

news. If, however, you arrive safely at the end of your journey, and

do not find Daun already in Berlin, and Contades in Magdeburg, you can

assure the Grand Duke Ferdinand from me that all is not lost. Farewell,

sir.”

Then, bowing slightly, he advanced with a firm step to the generals.

His eyes glowed and flashed once more, and his whole being reassumed its

usual bold and energetic expression.

“Gentlemen,” he said, in a clear voice, “fortune did not favor us

yesterday, but there is no reason to despair. A day will come when we

shall repay the enemy with bloody interest. I at least expect such a

day; I will live for its coming, and all my thoughts and plans shall be

directed toward that object. I strive for no other glory than to deliver

Prussia from the conspiracy into which the whole of Europe has entered

against her. I will obtain peace for my native land, but it shall be

a great and honorable peace. I will accept no other: I would rather

be buried under the ruins of my cannon, than accept a peace that would

bring no advantages to Prussia, no fame to us Honor is the highest, the

holiest possession of individuals, as it is of nations; and Prussia,

who has placed her honor in our hands, must receive it from us pure and

spotless. If you agree with me, gentlemen, join me in this cry, ‘Long

live Prussia! Long live Prussia’s honor!’”

The generals and officers joined enthusiastically in this cry, and like

a mighty torrent it spread from mouth to mouth, until it reached the

regiments, where it was repeated again and again. The color-bearers

unfurled their tattered banners, and the shout arose from thousands of

throats, “Long live Prussia’s honor!”

The king’s countenance was bright, but a tear seemed to glitter in his

eye. He raised his glance to heaven and murmured:

“I swear to live so long as there is hope, so long as I am free! I swear

only to think of death when my liberty is threatened!” Slowly his glance

returned to earth, and then in a powerful voice, he cried: “Onward!

onward! that has ever been Prussia’s watch-word, and it shall remain

so--Onward! We have a great object be fore us--we must use every effort

to keep the Russians out of Berlin. The palladium of our happiness must

not fall into the hands of our enemies. The Oder and the Spree must

be ours--we must recover to-morrow what the enemy wrenched from us

yesterday!”

“Onward! onward!” cried the army, and the words of the king bore courage

and enthusiasm to all hearts.

Hope was awakened, and all were ready to follow the king; for however

dark and threatening the horizon appeared, all had faith in the star of

the king, and believed that it could never be extinguished.

BOOK V.

CHAPTER I. THE TERESIANI AND THE PRUSSIANI.

At the splendid hotel of the “White Lion,” situated on the Canale

Grande, a gondola had just arrived. The porter sounded the great

house-bell, and the host hastened immediately to greet the stranger,

who, having left the gondola, was briskly mounting the small white

marble steps that led to the beautiful and sumptuous vestibule of the

hotel.

The stranger returned the host’s profound and respectful salutation with

a stiff military bow, and asked in forced and rather foreign Italian if

he could obtain rooms.

Signer Montardo gazed at him with a doubtful and uncertain expression,

and instead of answering his question, said:

“Signor, it appears to me that you are a foreigner?”

“Yes,” said the stranger, smiling, “my Italian has betrayed me. I am a

foreigner, but hope that will not prevent your showing me comfortable

and agreeable rooms.”

“Certainly not, signor; our most elegant and sumptuous apartment is at

your command,” said the host, with a flattering smile. In the mean time,

however, he did not move from the spot, but gazed with confused and

anxious countenance first at the stranger, and then at his large trunk,

which the men were just lifting from the gondola.

“Will you please show me the rooms?” cried the stranger, impatiently

advancing into the hall.

The host sighed deeply, and threw a questioning glance at the head

waiter, who returned it with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I will first show you into the dining-saloon,” murmured the

host, hastening after the stranger. “Will you please step in here,

excellency?” and with humble submission he opened the large folding

doors before which they stood, and conducted the stranger into the

magnificent saloon which served as dining-saloon and ball-room.

“Now, excellency,” continued the host, after he closed the door, and had

convinced himself by a rapid glance that they were alone, “forgive my

curiosity in asking you two questions before I have the honor of showing

you your rooms. How long do you intend to remain here?”

“A few days, sir. Well, your second question?”

The host hesitated a moment; then looking down, he said:

“Your excellency is a German?”

“Yes, a German,” said the stranger, impatiently.

“I thought so,” sighed the host.

“Will you show me my rooms or not? Decide quickly, for I know there are

other handsome hotels on the Canale Grande where I would be willingly

received.”

The host bowed with an aggrieved expression. “Signor, I will show you

rooms. Will you have the kindness to follow me?”

Like one who had come to a desperate decision, he advanced and pushed

open a door which led to a long passage, with rooms on each side; he

passed them all hastily, and entered a small, dark, side-passage, which

was little in keeping with the general elegance of the building; the

walls were not covered with tapestry, as those of the large halls, but

with dirty whitewash; the floor had no carpet, and the doors of the

rooms were low and small.

The host opened one of them and led the stranger into a small,

simply-furnished room, with a little dark closet containing a bed.

“Signor,” he said, with a profound bow, “these are, unfortunately, the

only two rooms I can offer you.”

“They are small and mean,” said the stranger, angrily.

“They are quiet and remote, and you will have the advantage of not being

disturbed by the ball which the club of the Prussiani are to hold in my

grand saloon to-night.”

As he finished, he looked at the stranger hastily and searchingly, to

see what impression his words had upon him. He was decidedly astonished

and confused.

“The Prussian Club?” he said. “Are there so many Prussians here, and

are they to celebrate a gay feast when it appears to me they have every

reason to mourn for their king’s misfortune?”

It was now the stranger who gazed searchingly at the host, and awaited

his answer with impatience.

“You ask if there are many Prussians here?” said the host, pathetically.

“Yes, there are a great many in la bella Venezia, eccellenza, chi non

e buon Prussiano, non e buon Veneziano. You say further, that the

Prussians have no reason to celebrate a festival, but should mourn for

their king’s misfortunes. No, your excellency, the Prussians will never

have reason to despair, for a hero like the great Frederick can never

succumb. His sun is clouded for a moment, but it will burst forth again

brilliant and triumphant, and blind all his enemies. The Prussians

celebrate this feast to defy the Teresiani. They have their club at the

hotel of the ‘Golden Fleece,’ and held a grand ball there yesterday

in honor of their victory at Mayen. ‘Tis true the king has lost two

battles, the battles of Kunersdorf and Mayen, but the Prussians do not

despair; for if the king has lost two battles, he will win four to make

up for them, and the Austrians, French, and Russians will flee before

him, as they did at Zorndorf and Rossbach. The Prussians wish to

celebrate this feast to convince the Teresiani that they are not

disturbed by the king’s apparent misfortune, and are now celebrating the

victories that their great king is still to achieve.”

The stranger’s face beamed with delight. “The Prussians have great

confidence in their king,” he said, with forced composure; “but you have

not yet told me why so many Prussians are stopping here?”

The host laughed. “Signor does not occupy himself with politics?”

“No,” answered the stranger, with hesitation.

“Well, otherwise you would have known that there are many Prussians in

the world, and that all the world takes an interest in this war in which

a single hero battles against so many powerful enemies. Yes, yes,

there are Prussians in all Europe, and the great Frederick is joyfully

welcomed everywhere; but nowhere more joyfully than in our beautiful

Italy; and nowhere in Italy is he more welcomed than in our beautiful

Venice. The nobles and the gondoliers decide for or against, and Venice

is divided into two great parties: the first for the King of Prussia,

the latter for the Austrian empress, Maria Theresa. But I assure you

the Teresiani are mean and despicable, bought enthusiasts, and cowardly

fools.”

“Consequently, you do not belong to them, signor,” said the stranger,

smiling; “you are a good Prussiano.”

“I should think so,” cried the host, proudly; “I am a good patriot, and

our watchword is, ‘Chi non e buon Prussiano, non e buon Veneziano.’”

“If that is so,” cried the stranger, gayly, as he kindly offered the

host his hand, “I congratulate myself for having stopped here, and these

small, mean rooms will not prevent my remaining. I also am a Prussian,

and say, like yourself, what care we for the battles of Kunersdorf and

Mayen? Frederick the Great will still triumph over his enemies.”

“Ah, signor, you are a Prussian” cried the host, with a true Italian

burst of joy. “You are heartily welcome at my hotel, and be convinced,

sir, that I shall do every thing to deserve your approval. Come, sir,

these rooms are too small, too mean, for a follower of Frederick; I

shall have the honor of showing you two beautiful rooms on the first

floor, with a view of the Canale Grande, and you shall pay no more for

them. Follow me, sir, and pardon me that you were not at once worthily

served. I did not know you were a Prussiano, and it would have been most

dangerous and impolitic to have received a stranger who might have been

a Teresiano; it might have deprived me of all the Prussian custom. Have

the goodness to follow me.”

He stepped forward briskly, and conducted the stranger across the

passage through the grand saloon into the hall. The head waiter was

standing there engaged in an excited conversation with the gondoliers

who, having placed the traveller’s trunk in the hall, were cursing and

crying aloud for their money. While the waiter was assuring them, that

it was not decided whether the stranger would remain with them or not,

and perhaps they would have to carry his trunk farther, the host nodded

smilingly at the head waiter and said, proudly, “His excellency is not

only a German, but a Prussian.”

The clouded faces of the waiters and gondoliers cleared immediately, and

they gazed at the traveller with a significant smile as he mounted the

splendid steps with the host.

“He is a Prussian!” cried the waiters. “Evviva il Re di Prussia!” cried

the gondoliers, as they raised the trunk and carried it nimbly up the

steps.

The saloon into which the host conducted his guest was certainly

different from the small, unclean rooms he had shown him before. All was

elegance, and with a feeling of pride he led the stranger to the balcony

which offered a splendid view of the imposing and glorious Canale

Grande, with its proud churches and palaces.

“And now, signor,” said the host, humbly, “command me. If I can serve

you in any manner, I shall do so with pleasure. Any information you

desire, I am ready to give. Perhaps your excellency has--?”

“No,” said the stranger, quickly, “I have no political mission, and my

letter to the prior is of a very innocent nature. I am a merchant, and

by chance have become possessed of several costly relics, and hope that

the prior of the cloister may purchase them.”

“Ah, relics,” said the host, with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders;

“do you know, sir, that no one now is enthusiastic about such things?

Politics leave us no time for piety; the Pope has lost his influence,

and even the Romans are good Prussiani, and care not for Frederick the

Great being a heretic. The Pope blesses his enemies and celebrates their

victories with brilliant masses and costly presents. The Romans are

indifferent to all this, and pray for their hero-king, the Great

Frederick, and in spite of the Pope desire him to triumph.”

“Ah,” said the traveller, with apparent sadness, “then I shall certainly

not succeed with my relics, but I hope I shall do better in the city

with my fans; for them I desire your advice. Will you please tell me the

names of a few large commercial houses where they might buy some of my

beautiful fans? But they must be good Prussiani, as you will soon

see.” He stepped to his trunk, unlocked it, and took from it an etui

containing a number of fans.

“Look here, sir. I saw these fans in Geneva, and thinking I might

perhaps do a good business with them in Italy, I bought several dozen.

Examine the charming and tasteful paintings.” He opened one of the

fans; it was of white satin, with quite an artistic painting of a large

Prussian eagle about to devour a white lily.

The host clapped his hands with delight. “Delicious!” he cried,

laughing. “The Prussian eagle devouring the French lily; this is

charming prophecy, a wonderful satire. You bought these fans in Geneva;

there are Prussians in Geneva also, then.”

“Every lady in Geneva has such a fan, and there are no better Prussians

in Berlin than in Geneva.”

“I am delighted, truly delighted,” cried the Italian, enthusiastically.”

The time will come when all the people of Europe will be Prussians and

only princes Teresiani.”

“Nevertheless, the people will have to obey their princes,” said the

stranger, with a watchful glance; “and if they command it, will war

against the great king.”

“Not we, not the Italians,” cried the host, violently; “our Doge would

not dare to side with the Teresiani, for he knows very well that would

occasion a revolution in Venice and, perhaps, endanger his own throne.

No, no, signor; our exalted government is too wise not to adopt a

neutral position, while secretly they are as good Prussians as we are.”

“But the Lombardians and the Sardinians?” asked the stranger,

expectantly.

“They also are Prussians; even if their king is a Teresiano, as they

say, his people are Prussians like ourselves.”

“And the Neapolitans?”

“Well, the Neapolitans,” said the host, laughing, “the Neapolitans are,

as you know, not renowned for their bravery; and if they do not love

the great Frederick, they fear him. The Neapolitans are the children

of Italy, knowing only that Naples is a beautiful city, and fearing a

barbarian might come and devour it. In their terror they forget that no

one is thinking of them, and that they are separated by Italy and the

Alps from all warlike people. The king of Naples thinks it possible that

Frederick may one day ascend Vesuvius with his conquering army and take

possession of Naples. Since the king’s last victories, Ferdinand

has increased the number of his troops and doubled the guard in his

capital.”

The host laughed so heartily at this account, that the stranger was

irresistibly compelled to join him.

“The King of Naples is but a boy nine years old. His ministers are older

than himself, and should know a little more geography, signor. But corpo

di Bacco, here I am talking and talking of politics forgetting entirely

that your excellency is doubtless hungry, and desires a strengthening

meal.”

“‘Tis true, I am a little hungry,” said the stranger, smiling.

“In a quarter of an hour the most splendid dinner, that the celebrated

White Lion can prepare, shall be ready for you, signor,” cried the host,

as he rushed hastily from the room.

The stranger gazed thoughtfully after him. “It appears to me that I have

been very fortunate in coming here; the good host seems to be a good

Prussian, and I have learned more from him in a quarter of an hour than

I would have done in a long journey through Italy. I shall now be able

to act with zeal and energy. But I must not forget the role I have to

play. I am a merchant trading with fans, curiosities, and relics, and

very anxious to bring my wares to market.”

The entrance of the waiter interrupted him, and soon the savory dishes

invited the traveller to refresh himself.

CHAPTER II. FREDERICK THE GREAT AS A SAINT.

“And now to business,” said the Traveller, when he had finished dining.

“It is high time I were on my way, if I am to leave this place to-day.”

He hastened to his trunk and took from it several bundles and packages,

some of which he put in his pockets and some, like a true merchant, he

carried under his arm. Then putting on his large, black felt hat, he

turned to leave the room. In passing the mirror he looked at himself,

and broke out into a merry laugh at his appearance.

“Truly,” said he, “I look like a veritable shop-keeper, and he who takes

me for any thing else, must be of a more political turn of mind than my

host, Signor Montardo, the Prussiano.”

He turned and left the room to obtain the address of some merchants

and a guide from his host. In spite of remonstrances Signer Montardo

insisted on accompanying him.

“Otherwise,” said he, “some one might address you who is not on our

side, and if you were then to show him your fans, there would be a

fearful scandal; the other party is quite as hot-headed as we are, and

many a pitched battle has taken place between the Teresiani and the

Prussiani. Come, sir; I must accompany you. We will not go by the canal,

but through the small by-streets; they will lead us quickest to the Riva

di Schiavoni, and then to the Rialto, which is our destination.”

“Is that far from the convent of San Giovanni e Paolo?” asked the

stranger.

“Ah, you are still determined to offer your relics to the abbot?” said

the host, laughing.

“Yes, and hope to sell them.”

“Well, I wish you luck. The Rialto is not far from there. I will go with

you until within the vicinity of the convent, but not farther.”

“And why not?”

“Because the door-keeper is a raging Teresiano, and would undoubtedly

close the door in your face, were I at your side.”

“But did you not tell me the abbot was a Prussia, no?”

“Yes, the abbot, but the porter is not; nor are many of the monks, I am

sorry to say.”

“Ah, even the monks are occupied with politics?”

“Signor,” cried the host, pathetically, “every one here interests

himself in politics; and when you hear that our little children are

divided into Teresiani and Prussiani, you will credit me. There was a

slight revolution yesterday in the Riva Peschiera. It was occasioned

by a fishwoman’s refusing to sell my cook some beautiful trout; she

declared God had not created fish for the Prussiani, which, in her

opinion, was another name for heathen and unbeliever. My cook insisted

on having the fish, and, as unfortunately there were many Prussiani

among the fishwomen, it soon came to hard words and still harder blows,

and was terminated by the arrest of the principal disturbers.”

They were now entering the Riva di Schiavoni, and the talkative Signor

Montardo was continuing his merry tales when he was interrupted by cries

and shouts of laughter and derision, and they were almost surrounded by

a large crowd of excited men.

“We are fortunately at the end of our walk,” said Signor Montardo,

“for there is the house of my worthy friend Cicernachi, dealer in fancy

goods, and it is to him we are going. Let us press forward to see what

this crowd means. I presume my friend Cicernachi has prepared another

surprise for the good people of Venice.”

He made a way for himself and friend with his broad shoulders, and soon

stood in front of the shop around which the crowd was collected. A cry

of astonishment escaped the stranger, and he pointed to the entrance of

the shop. “You see there,” said he, “a speaking likeness of Frederick

the Great.”

There hung at the front of the store a large engraving in a rich golden

frame. It was the portrait of Prussia’s hero king--of Frederick the

Great--and beneath burnt a bright lamp, its light shedding a rosy tint

over Frederick’s noble countenance.

“Ah! I understand it now,” whispered the host. “Cicernachi has done this

to enrage the Teresiani. To show his boundless reverence for the king,

he has placed a burning lamp beneath his picture, an honor due only in

our country to the saints. Let us hear what the people have to say of

it.”

Just then a Teresiano commenced a speech, accompanied by violent

gesticulations, against this insult to the Church. “How can you suffer

this heretic to be represented by you as a saint?” cried he, in a voice

of rage. “Do you not know that the Pope has excommunicated the King of

Prussia? Do you not know that he is an enemy to God, to the Church, and

to our holy Catholic religion? Away, then, with this lamp! The fires

of hell will devour him, but no holy lamp shall enlighten his darkened

soul.”

“He is right, he is right,” cried some among the crowd. “Away with the

lamp! Break Cicernachi’s windows, for he is a Prussiano. He makes a

saint of a heretic! Put out the lamp!”

“Do not venture to touch the lamp,” cried others. “Back! back! or

our fists shall close your eyes until neither the lamp nor the great

Frederick is visible to you.”

“Put out the lamp, in God’s name!” cried the infuriated Teresiani. And

the cry was repeated by many of his party, as they pressed forward. But

the Prussiani, amongst whom were our host and the stranger, had already

formed a wall of defence before the store, and were energetically

beating back the approaching Teresiani. And then there occurred a

tumult, such as can only occur among passionate Italians. Wild shouts,

curses, and threats were heard--eyes sparkling with rage, doubled fists,

and here and there a dagger or a knife was seen.

But the noise suddenly ceased, and a deep stillness prevailed. No sound

was heard but the quiet even tread of the solemn silent forms that stood

suddenly, as if they had risen from the earth in their midst. No one

had seen them come--no word was spoken by them, and still many retreated

timidly, fearfully from them; their presence was enough to quiet these

enraged masses, to silence their anger. Even Signor Montardo deserted

his prominent position before the lamp, and was gazing anxiously at the

dark forms passing slowly through the crowd.

“The sbirri!” whispered he to the stranger. “The servants of the Council

of Ten! Whom will they take with them?”

But it seemed as if these much-feared men only desired to cause the

people to remember them only, to threaten--not to punish. They wished to

remind the people that the law was watching over them. Completely hid by

their long mantles, they passed with bowed heads through the crowd.

Thus without addressing or noticing any one, they passed into one of the

small by-streets leading from the Rialto.

As the last one disappeared, life once more animated the crowd. All

breathed more freely when relieved from their much-feared presence, and

soon they commenced talking again of Cicernachi’s new saint.

“You see,” whispered Montardo to the stranger, “that our government is

neutral. It will not punish neither the Prussiani nor the Teresiani;

only warns us not to carry our zeal too far, and reminds us that it is

against the law to carry a dagger or a knife in the streets. But now let

us enter the shop, and I will introduce you to Cicernachi.”

He took the stranger’s arm, and entered the shop, where a tall, slim man

met him. His long black hair hung in wild disorder on both sides of his

expressive countenance, his eyes sparkled with fire, and on his full red

lip there was a proud, triumphant smile.

“Well, Montardo,” said he, “you come undoubtedly to congratulate me on

this victory over these miserable Teresiani.”

“Certainly, sir.” cried Montardo, laughingly, “it was a most original

idea.”

“Do you know why I have done it?” said Cicernachi, “yesterday the

Teresiani placed before their restaurants the bull of Pope Clement

XI., which has just been confirmed and renewed by Clement XIII. It was

printed on white satin, and enclosed in a beautiful gilt frame, and

underneath it burnt a sacred lamp.”

“What are the contents of this bull?” said Montardo.

“I will tell you the beginning.” said Cicernachi, “I do not recollect

all. It sounded thus: ‘You have long known that Frederick, margrave

of Brandenburg, in contempt for the authority of the Church, took to

himself the name and insignia of king, a profane and unheard of act

among Christians. He has thus unwisely enough become one of those of

whom it is said in the Bible, ‘They reigned, but not through Me; they

were princes, but I did not know them.’ Do you conceive now why I placed

the king’s picture before my store? why I burnt a lamp beneath it? I

think this glorious portrait is more deserving of a sacred lamp than the

Pope’s nonsensical bull.”

“You are right, signor,” said the stranger, advancing to Cicernachi and

shaking hands with him. “Permit me to thank you in the name of my great

and noble king whom you have this day defended in so original a manner

from the malicious charges of his enemies. I give you my word of honor

that the king shall hear of it through me; I know it will rejoice him.”

“Ah, signor,” said Montardo, laughing, “you forget that you are an

honest merchant who does not concern himself about politics.”

“I can never forget I am a Prussian,” said the traveller; “and how could

I forget it?” continued he, laughing. “My whole business consists of

Prussian wares.”

“Truly you have some very beautiful articles,” said Montardo. “You will

be charmed with them, Cicernachi; it will be another opportunity to

annoy the Teresiani. Look at this merchant’s fans.”

The stranger opened several fans. Cicernachi’s eyes sparkled with

delight at the sight of the painting. “How many have you, signor?” said

he.

“Twelve.”

“I take them all, and regret you have not more.”

“But Cicernachi, where has all your wisdom gone to?” cried Montardo.

“You have not even asked the price; or do you, perhaps, think the

stranger gives them to you for nothing?”

“No, no; I forgot it,” said Cicernachi, gazing with delight at the fans

which the stranger was spreading out before him. “What is their price,

signor?”

The stranger was silent for a moment, and then said, in a hesitating

manner: “I paid ten francs for each fan in Geneva.”

“I give twice that,” said Cicernachi, quickly.

The stranger started up hastily, blushing with annoyance. “Sir,” said

he, “I take from no one a higher price than I gave.”

“Ah, signor, signor,” cried Montardo, “you have again forgotten that

you are but a merchant. No merchant sells his goods for what he gave for

them. Remember that.”

“I will make a good business with these fans,” said Cicernachi. “I give

you twenty-four francs, and will ask fifty for them. The ladies of our

nobility, many of whom are Prussiani, will be delighted to annoy their

opponents in so elegant a manner. Are you content, sir?”

“I am satisfied,” said the stranger, blushing with embarrassment.

“Is this all you have for sale?”

“No, I have something else,” said the stranger, opening another package.

“As you are Prussiano, these neat little coins and medals, with pretty

caricatures of the enemies of the king on them, will no doubt please

you.”

“Ah, let us see them,” cried both Italians. They examined with eagerness

the medals upon which the enemies of Frederick were represented in

various laughable situations and positions.

“I take them all!” cried Cicernachi, enraptured.

The stranger laughed. “I cannot sell you my whole business,” said he; “I

must retain something. I will give you one of each. You must accept them

as a token of my esteem, and must not pay me for them.”

“Signor!” cried Montardo, in an imploring tone, “remain at my hotel as

long as you please, and when I bring you your bill lay some of these

coins upon it, and I shall be richly paid.”

The stranger promised: then having received, with visible annoyance, the

money for the fans, left the store with Montardo to pay his visit to the

Convent Giovanni e Paolo.

CHAPTER III. THE CLOISTER BROTHERS OF SAN GIOVANNI E PAOLO.

The Prior of San Giovanni e Paolo had just returned from the second mass

celebrated in the beautiful church of his cloister, the burial-place

of the great Titiano Vicelli. With his arms folded across his back, he

walked slowly and thoughtfully backward and forward, then stood before a

large table at which a monk was occupied in unfolding letters and maps.

“This, your worship,” said the monk, opening a new paper, “is an exact

plan of the region around Mayen; we have just received it, and the

positions of the two armies are plainly marked down. If agreeable to

your worship, I will read the bulletins aloud, and you can follow the

movements of the troops upon the map.”

The prior shook his head softly. “No, Brother Anselmo, do not read again

the triumphant bulletins of the Austrians and Russians; they pain my

ears and my heart. Let us rather look at the map to see if the present

position of the army offers any ground of hope.”

“I have marked it all out with pins,” said Father Anselmo; “the black

pins signify the army of the allies, the white pins the army of the King

of Prussia.”

The prior bowed over the map, and his eye followed thoughtfully the

lines which Father Anselmo marked out. “Your pins are a sad omen,” he

said, shaking his head. “The black ones surround like a churchyard wall

the white ones, which stand like crosses upon the solitary graves in the

midst of their black enclosures.”

“But the white pins will break through the enclosure,” said Father

Anselmo, confidently. “The great king--“Father Anselmo stopped

speaking; suddenly the door opened, and the father guardian asked if he

might enter.

The prior blushed slightly, and stepped back from the table as the sharp

eyes of the father guardian wandered around the room and fell at last

with a sarcastic expression upon the table covered with maps and plans.

“Welcome, Brother Theodore,” said the prior, with a slight nod of the

head.

“I fear that I disturb your worship in your favorite occupation,” said

the father guardian, pointing to the maps. “Your worship is considering

the unfortunate condition of the heretical king whom God, as it appears,

will soon cast down in the dust, and crush at the feet of the triumphant

Church.”

“We must leave results, at all events, to God,” said the prior, softly;

“He has so often evidently lent his aid to the King of Prussia, that I

think no one can count confidently upon Frederick’s destruction now.”

“The Holy Father at Rome has blessed the weapons of his adversaries,

consequently they must triumph,” cried Father Theodore, unctuously. “But

pardon, your worship, I forgot my errand. A stranger wishes to see the

prior of the cloister; he has rare and beautiful relics to sell, which

he will only show to your worship.”

“Our church is rich enough in relics,” said the prior.

“Your worship does not attach any especial value to such things,” said

the father guardian with a derisive smile; “but I must allow myself to

recall to you that the Holy Father in Rome has only lately addressed a

circular to all the cloisters, recommending the purchase of rare relics

to the awakening and advancing of the true faith.”

“You, father guardian, must understand that matter best,” said Brother

Anselmo, sticking four new pins into his map. “I think you brought back

this circular about six months since, when you returned to take the

place of guardian.”

The father was in the act of giving an angry answer, but the prior came

forward, and pointing to the door, said, “Introduce the stranger with

the relics.”

A few moments later the traveller from the hotel of Signor Montardo

entered the prior’s room. He received a kindly welcome, and was asked to

show his treasures.

The stranger hesitated, and looked significantly at the two monks. “I

begged to be allowed to show them to your worship alone,” said he.

“These two fathers are consecrated priests, and may therefore dare

to look upon the holy treasures,” said the prior, with a scarcely

perceptible smile.

“I solemnly swore to the man from whom I bought these relics that I

would only show them to the most worthy member of your order; he was

a very pious man, and bitter necessity alone forced him to sell his

precious treasures; he prayed to God to grant them a worthy place, and

never to allow them to be desecrated by unholy eyes or hands. As the

most holy and worthy brother is ever chosen to be the prior, I swore to

show the relics only to the prior. Your worship will surely not ask me

to break my oath?”

The prior made no answer, but nodded to the two monks, who silently left

the room.

“And now, sir, show your treasures,” said the prior, as the door closed

behind them.

“Your worship,” said the stranger, rapidly, “I have nothing but a letter

from the Abbe Bastiani, which I was to give to your own hands.” He drew

a letter from his bosom, which he handed to the prior, who received

it with anxious haste and hid it in his robe; then, with quick but

noiseless steps he passed hastily through the room, and with a rapid

movement dashed open the door; a low cry was heard, and a black figure

tumbled back upon the floor.

“Ah! is that you, father guardian?” said the prior, in a tone of

sympathy. “I fear that I hurt you.”

“Not so, your worship; I only returned to say to you that it is the hour

for dinner, and the pious brothers are already assembled in the hall.”

“And I opened the door to call after you, father, and entreat you to

take my place at the table. As I am in the act of looking at these holy

relics, and touching them, I dare not soil my hands so soon afterward

with earthly food. You will, therefore, kindly take my place, and I will

not appear till the evening meal. Go, then, worthy brother, and may God

bless you richly.” He bowed and raising his right hand, made the sign of

the cross, while the father guardian slowly, and with a frowning brow,

passed through the room. Having reached the opposite door, he paused and

looked back; but seeing the prior still standing upon the threshold of

his room, and gazing after him, he dashed open the door and disappeared.

“Now, sir,” said the prior, entering and closing the door carefully, “we

are alone, and I am ready to listen to you.”

“I pray your worship to read first the letter of your brother, the Abbe

Bastiani.”

“Ah! he has told you that I am his brother?” said the prior, eagerly.

“He trusts you then, fully? Well, I will read the letter.” He opened and

read it impatiently. “This is a very laconic and enigmatical letter,”

said he. “My brother refers me wholly to you; he assures me I can

confide entirely in your silence and discretion, and entreats me to

assist you in the attainment of your object. Make known to me then,

signor, in what way I can serve you, and what aim you have in view.”

“First, I will give your worship a proof that I trust you fully and

unconditionally. I will tell you who I am, and then make known my

purpose; you will then be able to decide how far you can give me counsel

and aid.”

“Let us step into this window-niche,” said the prior; “we will be more

secure from eavesdroppers. Now, signor, I am ready to listen.”

The stranger bowed. “First, I must pray your worship’s forgiveness, for

having dared to deceive you. I am no merchant, and have nothing to do

with relics; I am a soldier! my name is Cocceji, and I have the honor to

be an adjutant of the King of Prussia. My royal master has intrusted me

with a most important and secret mission, and I am commissioned by your

brother, the Abbe Bastiani, to ask in his name for your assistance in

this great matter.”

“In what does your mission consist?” said the prior, calmly.

The Baron Cocceji smiled. “It is difficult--yes, impossible to tell you

in a few words. Your worship must allow me a wider scope, in order to

explain myself fully.”

“Speak on!” said the prior.

“I see, by the maps and the arrangements of the pins, that your worship

knows exactly the position and circumstances of my royal master, whom

all Europe admires and wonders at, and whom his enemies fear most when

they have just defeated him. They know that my king is never so great,

never so energetic and bold in action, as when he is seemingly at a

disadvantage, and overwhelmed by misfortunes. The bold glance of the

great Frederick discovers ever-new fountains of help; he creates in

himself both power and strength, and when his enemies think they have

caught the royal lion in their nets, his bold eye has already discovered

the weak spot; he tears it apart, and makes his foes, bewildered with

terror and astonishment, fly before him. It is true, the king has

just lost three battles! The Austrians and Russians defeated him at

Hochkirch, at Kunersdorf, and at Mayen. But what have they gained?

They have, in these three battles, lost more than the king; they have

exhausted their resources--their own, and those of their allies; but

Frederick stands still opposed to them, full of strength and power. His

army is enlarged; from every side, from every province, shouting crowds

stream onward to join the colors of their king. Enthusiasm makes a youth

of the graybeard, and changes boys to men. Each one of them will have

his part in the experience and fame of the great Frederick, and demands

this of him as a holy right. The king’s treasury is not exhausted; the

people, with joy and gladness, have offered up upon the altar of the

fatherland, their possessions, their jewels, and their precious things,

and submit with enthusiasm to all the restrictions and self-denials

which the war imposes upon them. They desire nothing but to see

their king victorious; to help him to this, they will give property,

blood--yes, life itself. It is this warm, enthusiastic love of his

people which makes the king so fearful to his enemies; it protects him

like a diamond shield, steels him against the balls of his adversaries,

and fills his proud, heroic soul with assurances of triumph. All Europe

shares this enthusiasm and these convictions of ultimate success with

the Prussians and their dear-loved king. All Europe greets the hero with

loud hosannas, who alone defies so many and such mighty foes, who has

often overcome them, and from whom they have not yet wrung one single

strip of the land they have watered with their blood, and in whose bosom

their fallen hosts lie buried in giant graves. This has won for him the

sympathy of all Europe, and the love and admiration of even the subjects

of his great and powerful foes. In France--that France, whose warriors

suffered so shameful a defeat at Rossbach, and whose government is

filled with rage and thirsty for revenge against this heroic king--even

in France is Frederick admired and worshipped. Even in the palace of

the king, they no longer refuse to acknowledge his worth and glory. But

lately, the young Duke de Belleisle exhorted the Marquise de Pompadour

to implore King Louis to prosecute the war with earnestness and ardor,

otherwise King Frederick might soon be expected in Paris with his army.

The Marquise de Pompadour cried out warmly, ‘Good! then I shall at

last see a king!’ In Germany, his enemies seek in vain to arouse

the fanaticism of the people against the heretical king. Catholic

Bavaria--the Palatinate-Main--enter murmuringly and reluctantly into

this war against this Protestant king, although they wear the beads in

their pockets, and the scapular over their shoulders. Even if Frederick

the Second is now overcome by his enemies, in the public opinion he

is the conqueror, and the whole world sympathizes with him. But public

opinion is his only ally, and the sympathy of the people is his only

source of revenue, outside of the subsidy from England, which will soon

be exhausted. Frederick, therefore, must look after other allies, other

friends, who will render him assistance, in so far as not to unsheathe

the sword against him, and to prepare some difficulties for his

adversaries, and occupy a portion of their attention. Such friends the

king hopes to find in Italy; and to attain this object, I would ask

counsel and help of your worship.”

“And in how far is it thought that I can be useful in this matter?” said

the prior, thoughtfully.

“Your worship has a second brother, who is minister of the King of

Sardinia, and it is well known he is the king’s especial confidant and

favorite.”

“And my noble brother, Giovanni, merits fully the favor of his king!”

said the prior, heartily. “He is the most faithful, the most exalted

servant of his master!”

“In all his great and good characteristics, he resembles his brother,

the Prior of San Giovanni, and I hope, in this also, that he is the

friend of the King of Prussia!” said the stranger.

“But I fear neither the friendship of my brother Giovanni nor my own

can be useful to the King of Prussia. I am a poor and powerless

monk, suspected and watched. My offence is, that I have not, like the

fanatical priests of the Church, wished for the destruction and death of

the great Frederick. My brother is the minister of a king, whose land

is neither rich enough in gold to pay subsidies, nor in men to place an

army in the field.”

“Well, then, we must take occasion to increase the territory of the King

of Sardinia!” said Baron Cocceji. “We must give him so large a realm,

that he will be a dangerous neighbor to France and Austria. This is the

plan and the intention of my king. Upon these points turn the proposals

I will make in Turin, for the furtherance of which, I pray your

assistance. The King of Sardinia has well-grounded claim to Milan, to

Mantua, and to Bologna, by the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle; why not make

himself King of Lombardy? Unhappy Italy is like unhappy Germany--torn to

pieces. In place of obeying one master, they must submit to the yoke of

many. The dwellers in Italy, instead of being Italians, call themselves

Milanese, Venetians, Sardinians, Tuscans, Romans, Neapolitans, and I

know not what. All this weakens the national pride, and takes from the

people the joyful consciousness of their greatness. Italy must be one

in herself, in order to be once more great and powerful. Let the King of

Sardinia take possession of Upper Italy, and he will, with his rightful

inheritance, and as King of Lombardy, be a powerful prince--feared by

his enemies, and welcomed by his allies.”

“And do you think that Naples would look quietly on and witness this

rapid growth of Sardinia?” said the prior, laughing.

“We will give to Naples an opportunity at the same time to enlarge her

borders the young King of Naples has energy; he has proved it. When his

father, Don Carlos, was called by right of succession to the Spanish

throne, he had himself declared King of Naples, not regarding the

right of the Duke of Parma, to whom, according to the treaty of

Aix-la-Chapelle, the Neapolitan throne rightly belonged. King Ferdinand

is already a usurper! Let him go on, even as successfully in the same

path--he has taken Naples--let him take Tuscany and the States of the

Church, and, as King of Lower Italy, he will be as powerful as the King

of Sardinia. In order that both may obtain possession of these lands

uninterrupted and uninjured, will the King of Prussia so completely

occupy the attention of Austria and France in Germany and Flanders as

to make it impossible for them to interfere with Naples and Sardinia?”

[Footnote: Preuss, “History of Frederick the Great.”]

“By Heaven! a great and bold idea; altogether in harmony with the

energetic spirit of Frederick,” cried the prior. “If the two Italian

kings resemble the great Frederick, they will adopt this plan with

enthusiasm.”

He had risen, and stepped hastily backward and forward, now and then

murmuring a few disconnected words; he then drew near the table and

stood earnestly regarding the maps.

Cocceji did not dare to interrupt him by word or sound; he watched him,

however, closely. At last, however, the inward struggle seemed to be

over, he stood quietly before the baron, and, fixing his dark, earnest

eyes with a thoughtful expression upon him, he said, softly: “You have

confided to me a great and dangerous enterprise. If I did my duty as the

unconditional subject of the Pope, and as a priest of the holy Church,

of which Frederick is the bitter antagonist, I should arrest you here,

as a dangerous negotiator and enemy, and above all, I should give speedy

notice of this conspiracy, which not only threatens Clement as head

of the Church, but as sovereign of the States of the Church. But--what

would you have?--I was not born a priest, and my heart and my spirit

have never been able to accommodate themselves fully to the discipline

of my order. I have always remained, I fear,” said he, with a graceful

smile, “the true brother of the free-thinking Abbe Bastiani; and it

appears to me, it lies in our blood to love and pay homage to the great

and intellectual King of Prussia. I will, therefore, listen to and

follow the voice of my blood and of my heart, and forget a little that

I am a priest of the only church in which salvation can be found. As

far as it lies in my power, I will promote your object. I will give

you letters to Turin, not only to my brother Giovanni, but to Father

Tomaseo, the king’s confessor. He is my most faithful friend, and

sympathizes fully with me. If you can win him and my brother Giovanni,

you have won the king, and he will lend a willing ear to your proposals.

Your plans are bold, but my brother and Father Tomaseo are daring,

undaunted men; the progress of Italy and the greatness of their king

lies nearest their hearts. They are both influenced by my judgment,

and when you hand them my letters, you will at least be a most welcome

guest.”

He gave the baron his hand, and listened with a kindly smile to the

enthusiastic thanks of the over-happy soldier, whose first diplomatic

mission seemed to promise so favorably.

“Be, however, always prudent and discreet, signor,” said the prior,

laughing. “Play your role as merchant; do not lay it aside for one

moment while in Turin. Leave Venice as quickly as possible; no doubt the

brother guardian, who was sent from Rome as a spy, who watches not

only all my actions, but my words and thoughts, has remarked our long

interview, and is already suspicious. As he has a fine nose, he may soon

discover a part of your secret! Do not return to the cloister. During

the day I will send you the promised letters by a faithful brother.

As soon as you receive them, be off! My best wishes and my prayers

accompany you. Without doubt, you are, like your great king, a heretic.

I cannot, therefore commend you to Mary Mother, and the saints, but I

will pray to God to watch over you.”

The prior stopped suddenly and listened! Loud cries of wild alarm forced

themselves upon his ear; the sounds appeared to come from directly under

his feet, and waxed louder and fiercer every moment.

“It is in the dining-room,” said the prior, “follow me, sir, I beg you,

we may need your help--some one is murdering my monks!” They hastened

from the room with flying feet; they passed through the long corridors

and down the steps; the cries and roars and howls and curses became ever

clearer.

“I was not mistaken,” said the prior, “this comes from the refectory.”

He rushed to the door and threw it hastily open, then stood, as if

chained to the threshold, and stared with horror at the mad spectacle

before him.

There were no murderous strangers there playing wild havoc amongst his

monks: but the worthy fathers themselves were making the fierce tumult

which filled the prior with alarm. The saloon no longer resembled the

ascetic, peaceful refectory of cloister brothers. It was changed into

a battle-field, upon which the two hosts thirsting for blood stood

opposed.

The table upon which the glasses, plates, and dishes seemed to have been

thrown together in wild disorder, was shoved to one side, and in the

open space the monks stood with flashing eyes, uttering curses and

imprecations; not one of them remarked that the prior and Cocceji stood

at the door, astonished spectators of this unheard-of combat.

“Silence!” said the father guardian, making frantic gesticulations

toward the monks who stood opposed to him and his adherents--“silence!

no one shall dare within these sacred walls to speak of the Prussian

heretical king in any other way than with imprecations. Whoever wishes

success to his arms is an apostate, a traitor, and heretic. God has

raised the sword of His wrath against him, and He will crush him

utterly; He has blessed the weapons of his adversaries as Clement has

also done. Long live Maria Theresa, her apostolic majesty!”

The monks by his side roared out, “Long live Maria Theresa, her

apostolic majesty!”

“She will not be victorious over Frederick of Prussia,” cried Father

Anselmo, the leader of the opposite party. “The Pope has blessed the

arms of Daun, but God himself has blessed the weapons of Frederick. Long

live the King of Prussia! Long live the great Frederick!”

“Long live the great Frederick!” cried the monks by the side of Father

Anselmo.

The party of the father guardian rushed upon them with doubled fists;

the adversaries followed their example. “Long live Theresa!” cried the

one. “Long live Frederick!” cried the other--and the blows and kicks

fell thickly right and left, with the most lavish prodigality.

It was in vain that the prior advanced among them and commanded

peace--no one regarded him. In their wild and indiscriminate rage they

pressed him and shoved him from side to side, and in the heat of the

battle several powerful blows fell upon his breast; so the poor prior

took refuge again at the door near Cocceji, who was laughing merrily at

the wild disorder.

The cries of “Long live Theresa!”

“Long live Frederick!” were mingling lustily in the bloody strife.

The father guardian was enraged beyond bearing, and his flashing eye

looked around for some sharp weapon with which to demolish Father

Anselmo, who had just exclaimed, “Long live Frederick, the victor of

Leuthen and Zorndorf!” He seized a large tin cup, which was near him

upon the table, and with a fierce curse he dashed it in the face of

Father Anselmo, and the blood burst from his nose. This was the signal

for a new order of attack. Both parties rushed to the table to arm

themselves; the cups whizzed through the air and wounded severely the

heads against which they were well aimed. Here and there might be

heard whimperings and piteous complaints, mixed with curses and frantic

battle-cries--“Long live Theresa!”

“Long live Frederick!” Some of the warriors crept from the contest into

the corners to wipe the blood from their wounds and return with renewed

courage to the contest. A few cowards had crept under the table to

escape the cups and kicks which were falling in every direction.

Father Anselmo remarked them, and with loud, derisive laughter he

pointed them out.

“The Teresiani live under the table, no Prussiano has crept there. All

the Teresiani would gladly hide as they have often done before.”

The Prussiani accompanied these words of their leader with joyous

shouts.

The father guardian trembled with rage; he seized a large dish from

the table and dashed it at Anselmo, who dodged in time, and then with

a powerful arm returned the compliment. It was a well-directed javelin.

The tin dish struck the father guardian exactly in the back--he lost his

balance, and fell to the earth. The Prussiani greeted this heroic deed

of their chief with shouts of triumph. “So shall all the Teresiani

perish!”

The battle waxed hotter and fiercer, the air was thick with missiles.

“They will murder each other!” cried the prior, turning to the Baron

Cocceji. “Not so, your worship; there will only be a few blue swellings

and bleeding noses--nothing more,” said Cocceji, laughing.

“Ah, you laugh young man; you laugh at this sad spectacle!”

“Forgive me, your worship; but I swear to you, I have never seen

warriors more eager in the fray, and I have never been more curious to

witness the result of any battle.”

“But you shall not witness it,” said the prior, resolutely. “You shall

no longer be a spectator of the unworthy and shameful conduct of my

monks. I pray you to withdraw instantly; in a few hours I will send

you the letters, and if you believe that I have rendered you the least

service, I ask in return that you will tell no one what you have seen.”

“I promise, your worship,” said Cocceji, with forced gravity. “If the

people without shall ask me what all this tumult means, I will say

that the pious fathers in the cloister are singing their ‘floras.’”

[Footnote: Baron Cocceji did not keep his word, as this whole scene is

historic.]

Baron Cocceji bowed to the prior, and returned with gay and hopeful

thoughts to the hotel of the “White Lion.”

A few hours later, a monk appeared and desired to speak with the

stranger about the holy relics.

Cocceji recognized in him the worthy Father Anselmo, the victor over the

father guardian.

“Will you do me a great pleasure, worthy father?” said he. “Tell

me which party remained in possession of the field after your great

battle.”

An expression of triumphant joy flashed in Father Anselmo’s eyes.

“The Prussiani were victorious, and I think the Teresiani will never

dare to recommence the strife; four of their monks lie in their cells

with broken noses, and it will be some weeks before the father guardian

will be capable of performing his duties as spy; he is sore and stiff,

and his mouth is poorer by a few teeth. May all the enemies of the

great Frederick share his fate! May God bless the King of Prussia and be

gracious to his friends!”

He greeted the baron with the sign of the cross, and withdrew.

The baron remembered the warning of the prior, and hastened quietly

from Venice. Already the next morning he was on the highway to Turin.

[Footnote: This diplomatic mission failed, because of the faint heart

of the King of Sardinia. He rejected the bold propositions of Frederick

entirely, and said, in justification of himself, that since the alliance

between the powers of France and Austria, he had his head between a

pair of tongs, which were ever threatening to close and crush him. Baron

Cocceji was not more fortunate in Naples, and after many vain efforts

he was forced to return home, having accomplished nothing.--Duten’s

“Memoirs of a Traveller.”]

CHAPTER IV. THE RETURN FROM THE ARMY.

It was a sunny, summer day-one of those days which incline the heart to

prayer, and bring tears of happiness to the eyes. There are no such days

in cities; if we would enjoy them we must go into the country--we must

seek them in peaceful valleys, in fragrant forests, where the silence is

unbroken, except by the fluttering leaves and the singing of birds. We

must understand the eloquent silence of Nature in order to enjoy the

holy Sabbath quiet of a summer day; and we must be able to hear the

language which the flowers breathe forth, to understand the sighing of

the wind, and the rustling of the trees.

Very few can do this, but few would care for it. God has not opened the

eyes of the hearts of many of us to this extent; these things are hidden

by a thick veil from the many; they cannot see the heavenly beauty of

Nature--they do not understand the fairy tale which she is ever telling.

This is gentle, idyllic, fairy lore, unsought by the learned. It

whispers of roses, of dancing elves, of weeping clouds, of dreaming

violets.

Happy are those who listen to these fables, who are not called by the

necessities of life to hear the roar of cannon--to find all these

sweet and holy songs overpowered by the noise of war, the horrors of

bloodshed!

War, destructive war, still held a lighted torch over unhappy Germany;

cities and villages were in ruins--even the peace of Nature was

destroyed. The valleys, usually so quiet, now often resounded with the

roar of cannon. The fields remained uncultivated, the meadows uncared

for; there were no strong hands to work. The men and youths were gone,

only the old graybeards and the women were in the villages, and the work

advanced but slowly under their trembling hands. Unhappiness and want,

care and sorrow were in the land.

Even in the once peaceful and happy village of Brunen on the Rhine,

misery had made itself felt. Grief and anguish dwelt with the bereaved

mothers, with the forsaken brides, and the weak old men; with the

useless cripples, who had returned from the war, and who spent their

time in relating the dangers through which they had passed, in telling

of the sons, the brothers, the husbands, and the fathers of those

who listened to their tales--those dear ones who were, perhaps, now

stretched upon the battle-field.

But on this bright day no one in the village gave a thought to the

beauties of Nature, for a new misfortune weighed heavily upon the hearts

of the unhappy inhabitants. They were no longer the subjects of the

hero-king, who was so worshipped by all; under whose colors their

fathers and sons still fought. The French army, led by the Duke de

Broglie and the Count de St Germain, had taken possession of all that

part of the country, and held it in the name of their king. It was

declared a French province, and the inhabitants, helpless and forsaken,

were compelled to acknowledge the French as their masters, and to meet

the taxes which were imposed upon them.

It was a most bitter necessity, and no one felt it more deeply than the

old shepherd Buschman, the father of Charles Henry. He sat, as we first

saw him, on the slope of the field where his flock was grazing, guarded

and kept in order by the faithful Phylax. His eye was not clear and

bright as then, but troubled and sorrowful, and his countenance bore

an expression of the deepest grief. He had no one to whom he could pour

forth his sorrows--no one to comfort him--he was quite alone Even his

youngest son, Charles Henry, the real Charles Henry, had been compelled

to leave him. The recruiting officers of the king had come a short time

before the French troops had taken possession of the province, and had

conscripted the few strong men who were still left in the village of

Brunen.

But this time the men of Brunen had not answered joyfully to the demand.

Even old Buschman had wished to keep his son Charles Henry with him. Had

he not sent six sons to the field of battle, and had they not all died

as heroes? Charles Henry was his last treasure, his one remaining child;

his grief-torn heart clung to him with the deepest devotion. To

be parted from him seemed more bitter than death itself. When the

recruiting officer came into the hut of Buschman and summoned Charles

Henry to follow him as a soldier, the eyes of the old man filled with

tears, and he laid his hands upon the arm of his son as if he feared to

see him instantly torn from his sight.

“Captain,” he said, with a trembling voice, “I have sent the king six

sons already; they have all died in his service. Tell me truly, is the

king in great need? If so, take me as well as my son--if not, leave me

my son.”

The officer smiled, and extended his hand to the old man. “Keep your

son,” he said. “If you have lost six sons in the war, it is right that

you should keep the seventh.”

Buschman uttered a cry of joy, and would have embraced his son, but

Charles Henry pushed him gently back, and his father read in his

countenance a determination and energy that he had rarely seen there.

“No, father,” he said, “let me go--let me be a soldier as my brothers

were. I should have gone four years ago, when I was prevented, and Anna

Sophia--Ah, let me be a soldier, father,” he said, interrupting himself.

“All the young men of the village are going, and I am ashamed to remain

at home.”

The old man bent his head sadly. “Go then, my son,” he said; “God’s

blessing rest upon you!”

Thus Charles Henry went; not from a feeling of enthusiasm for the life

of a soldier--not from love to his king--but merely because he was

ashamed to remain at home.

He had now been absent several months, and his father had not heard from

him. But the news of the lately lost battle had reached the village, and

it was said that the Prince Royal of Brunswick, in whose corps Charles

Henry was, had been defeated. The old shepherd remembered this as he

sat in the meadow this bright summer morning. His thoughts were with his

distant son, and when he raised his eyes to heaven it was not to

admire its dazzling blue, or its immeasurable depth, but to pray to the

Almighty to spare his son. The peaceful tranquillity of Nature alarmed

the old man--she speaks alone to those who have an ear attuned to

her voice--she says nothing to those who listen with a divided heart.

Buschman could endure it no longer; he arose and started toward the

village. He longed to see some human being--to encounter some look of

love--to receive sympathy from some one who understood his grief, who

suffered as he did, and who did not wear the eternal smile that Nature

wore.

He went to the village, therefore, and left the care of his flock to

Phylax. It comforted his heart as he passed through the principal street

of Brunen and received kind greetings from every hut he passed. He

felt consoled and almost happy when here and there the peasants hurried

toward him as he passed their huts, and begged him to come in and join

them at their simple mid-day meal, and were quite hurt when he refused

because his own dinner was prepared for him at home. These men loved

him--they pitied his loneliness--they told him of their own cares, their

own fears--and as he endeavored to console and encourage them, he felt

his strength increase--he was more hopeful, more able to bear whatever

God might send.

“We must be united in love,” said Buschman; “we will help each

other to bear the sorrows that may come upon us. To-morrow is Sunday; in

the morning we will go to the house of God, and after we have whispered

to Him the prayers which He alone must hear, we will assemble together

under the linden-tree in the square and talk of the old times and those

who have left us. Do you not remember that it was under the linden-tree

we heard of the first victory that our king gained in this fearful

war? It was there that Anna Sophia Detzloff read the news to us, and we

rejoiced over the battle of Losovitz, And I also rejoiced and thanked

God, although the victory had cost me the lives of two of my sons. But

they perished as heroes. I could glory in such a death; and Anna Sophia

read their praises from the paper. Ah, if Anna lived, I would at least

have a daughter.”

He could speak no more, emotion arrested the words on his lips; he bowed

to his friends and passed on to his lonely hut. His little table was

spread, and the young girl who served him, and who slept in his hut at

night, was just placing a dish of steaming potatoes before his plate.

The old man sat down to his solitary meal; he ate only to sustain his

body; his thoughts were far away; he took no pleasure in his food. In

the middle of his meal he started up; a shadow had fallen across the

window, and two loving, well-known eyes had seemed to look in on him.

Buschman, as if paralyzed with delight, let fall his spoon and looked

toward the door. Yes, the bolt moved, the door opened, and there stood

the tall figure of a Prussian soldier.

The old man uttered a cry and extended his arms. “Oh, my son, my beloved

son, do I indeed see you once more?”

“Yes, father, I am here; and God willing, we will never again be

parted.” And Charles Henry hastened to the outstretched arms of his

father, and kissing him tenderly, pressed him to his heart.

“The thought of you, dear father, has led me here,” he said; “but for

you I would not have returned to Brunen; I should have wandered forth

into the world--the world which is so much greater and more beautiful

than I ever dreamed. But your dear old eyes were before me; I heard your

loved voice, which called to me, and I returned to you.”

“God be praised!” said his father, folding his hands, and raising his

eyes gratefully toward heaven. “Oh how kind and merciful is God, to give

me back my last, my only son, the support of my old age, the delight

of my eyes! You will not leave me again. This is not merely a leave of

absence; you have obtained your release, the war is ended, the king has

declared peace.”

The eyes of the old man were dimmed with tears; he did not perceive how

Charles Henry trembled, and that a deep flush mounted to his brow.

“No, father,” he said, with downcast eyes, “I will never leave you

again. We have all returned home. It will be bright and gay once more

in the village, and the work will go forward, for there is a great

difference between a dozen old men and as many young ones. It was most

needful for us to return. The corn is ripe, and should have been already

gathered. We must go to work. To-morrow shall be a happy day for the

village; the whole neighborhood shall perceive that the twelve young men

of Brunen have returned. We met a violinist on the way, and we engaged

him for to-morrow. He must play for us under the linden tree, and our

fathers and mothers, and sisters and sweethearts must join us, and we

will dance and sing and make merry.”

“What a coincidence!” said the old shepherd, with a bright smile. “We

had already decided that we would meet together tomorrow under the

linden. We wished to sit there and mourn together over our lost sons. To

sing and dance is much better, and perhaps the old grayheads will join

you.”

“You must dance with me, father,” said Charles Henry, laughing. “I will

take no refusal.”

“I will, my son, I will; joy has made me young again, and if Phylax, the

old graybeard, does not mind, and will allow me, I will dance with you,

but you know he is always jealous of you. I am sure the whole village

will envy you your gay young partner. But now, my son,” he continued

gravely, “tell me of our king, and how is it that he has declared peace

so suddenly, and whether he has been victorious or the reverse.”

“I know nothing of the king,” said Charles Henry; “I was not near him,

but in the division of the Duke of Brunswick.”

“I know that, my son; but the duke would not proclaim peace without the

knowledge and consent of the king.”

“Oh, father, they will compel the king to make peace,” cried Charles

Henry. “And as for the Duke of Brunswick, he has given up the attack

against Wesel and has withdrawn to Westphalia, and the French are in

possession of the entire lowlands, which, it is to be hoped, they will

retain.”

“You hope that?” asked his father, with astonishment.

“Well, yes, father. The French king is now, and perhaps will always be,

the lord of Cleve; and, as his subjects, we must wish him success, and

hope that he will always conquer the King of Prussia.”

“What do you say, my son?” asked the old man, with a bewildered

expression. “I fear you are right. The French are our masters now, and,

as our king has declared peace with France, we have the unhappiness of

being French subjects. May God protect us from such a fate! It would be

fearful if we dared not call the great hero--king our king, and, if we

should live to see the day when our sons should be compelled, as French

soldiers, to go to battle against their king. Only think, Charles Henry,

you would not be allowed to wear your fine Prussian uniform on Sundays,

and it is so becoming to you, and is as good as new. But how is it, my

son, that they have left you the uniform? They are usually taken from

the released soldiers and put amongst the army stores.”

“We all came home in our Prussian uniforms,” said Charles Henry, “but of

course we will lay them aside to-day.”

“Why to-day?”

“Because we are French subjects, and therefore it is not proper for us

to wear the uniform of the enemy, the King of Prussia. That is also the

reason why we have returned home. When we learned that Cleve had fallen

into the possession of the French, we knew that we were no longer the

subjects of the King of Prussia, and we dared not fight under his flag

against the French, whose subjects we had become. We considered that,

and we thought how much it would injure you all here in Brunen if

it were known that your sons were in the army of the Prussian king.

Principally on that account we determined to return home, and we left

our regiment yesterday morning, which was on the point of marching off

to Minden, and we walked the entire day and half the night. We slept

a few hours in a forest, and at the break of day we recommenced our

journey. And now, father, that I have seen you, and you know every

thing, I will go to my room and take off this uniform, and become a

peasant once more.” He sought to leave the room hastily, for the amazed,

horror-struck expression of his father was most disagreeable to him.

But Buschman placed his hand so heavily upon his son’s arm that he

was compelled to remain. “Say it is a jest, Charles,” he cried, in an

excited voice. “It is not possible for my son, the brother of my six

hero-boys, to speak thus! It is merely a jest, Charles. You wished to

joke with your old father. It is not true that you have deserted the

flag of our king; put an end to this cruel jest, Charles Henry, and

show me your leave of absence which every honest soldier obtains

before leaving his regiment. Do you hear, Charles Henry? Show it to me

quickly.” He extended his trembling hand toward his son, while with the

other he still held his arm in a powerful grasp.

“Father,” said Charles Henry, fiercely, “I have no such paper. It is as

I told you; we have left the Prussian army because we are no longer

the subjects of the King of Prussia, and it is not necessary for us to

remain in the service. We wish to become peasants once more.”

“You lie! you lie!” cried his father. “You are no deserter--it is

impossible that my son should be a deserter.”

“No, father, I am no deserter,” returned his son, defiantly, as he freed

his arm from the old man’s grasp. “I am no deserter--I have only done my

duty as a subject of the French king. I have left the flag of the enemy,

and I am here ready and willing to obey my new master as a true subject.

That is all I have to say, father, and I believe when you consider, you

will see that I was right, and that you will be pleased for me to take

off the Prussian uniform and remain with you.” He did not wait for his

father’s answer, but left the room hastily, as if he feared to be again

detained.

The old man arose to follow him, but his feet refused their accustomed

office; with a deep groan, he sank upon his chair, and as the scalding

tears streamed from his eyes, he murmured: “Oh, my God! my son is a

deserter! Why did you permit me to live to see this shame? Why did you

not close my eyes that they might not meet this disgrace?”

CHAPTER V. THE BRAVE FATHERS AND THE COWARDLY SONS.

The clear bell of the village church was sounding for mass, calling the

pious inhabitants of Brunen to worship in the temple of God. All the

hut-doors were opening, and men and women in Sunday attire wending

their way in solemn stillness to church. They were followed by their

children--the maidens with downcast, modest eyes, the boys with bright

and joyous faces, proud of the thought that they were old enough to go

to church.

From the distant farm came the servants, two and two, up the broad

chestnut alley, greeting here and there the church-goers, and walking

on with them, chatting softly. They all remained standing a short

time under the great linden, waiting until the bell ceased, until the

church-door was opened and the minister appeared with the sacristan

and the four choir-boys. Not until then were they allowed to enter the

church.

A bright-looking crowd was assembled under the linden; it seemed as if

all the inhabitants of the village were there. All felt the necessity

of visiting God’s house to-day to thank Him for the safe return of their

sons, brothers, and lovers. The twelve boys who had returned were under

the linden in their handsomest Sunday attire. But why did they stand

alone? Why was such a wide space left between them and the other

villagers? Why did the men avoid looking at them? Why did the maidens

step timidly back and remain silent when they approached and tried to

speak with them? Why were they all whispering together, pointing at the

boys and turning their backs upon them when they drew near?

“Leave them alone,” whispered one of the boys to the others; “they will

be more friendly this afternoon when the music is playing and the wine

and cake is handed.”

“There is my father, and I must go and meet him,” said Charles Henry, as

he hastened toward the old man who was approaching the square.

All drew back from Charles Henry, and as he stood opposite his father,

like actors upon the stage they found themselves alone amongst the

spectators, who were gazing at them with breathless expectation.

“Good-morning, father,” said Charles Henry, with forced gayety, as he

offered his hand to his father. “You slept so late to-day, and went to

bed so early yesterday, that I have not been able to speak to you since

our first greeting. So I bid you good-morrow now.”

The old man looked quietly at him, but he did not take the proffered

hand, and tried to pass him.

“Father,” continued Charles Henry, “you must be tired; our hut lies at

the other end of the village, and that is a long walk for your old legs.

Rest yourself on me, father, and allow your son to lead you to church.”

He stretched forth his hand to take the old man’s arm, but Buschman

pushed it back, and passed him, without looking, without even speaking

to him.

Charles Henry sprang after him. “Father,” he cried, “do you not hear me?

Can you--”

The old man did not really appear to hear him, for he walked toward the

village justice with a quiet, unmoved face, as the latter advanced to

meet him.

“Friend,” said Buschman, in a loud, firm voice, “I am fatigued with my

walk; will you lend me your arm?”

He leaned heavily upon the offered arm, and walked quickly onward. All

heard these words, but only the justice saw the tears which rolled down

his pale, sunken cheeks.

“You were very harsh, father,” murmured the justice, as they walked on.

“Were you more forgiving?” said the old man, with a trembling voice.

“Was not your son amongst the twelve, and did you speak to him, or look

at him?”

“He did not pass the night in my house; I drove him away!” said the

justice gloomily.

“Oh, oh!” sighed the old man; “how bitter is our grief! We love our

children most when they give us most sorrow; but it must be so, friend,

we cannot act otherwise. Let us enter the church, and pray God to give

us strength to do what is right.”

Supported by the justice, he entered the churchyard, while from the

other side the minister, followed by the sacristan and the choirboys,

was just appearing.

“See,” murmured the justice, “our good old minister has not come to-day

to preach to us; but has sent his assistant. There is certainly some

disagreeable order of the archbishop to read to us, and our pastor

is not willing to read it; he is a good Prussian, and loves the great

king.”

The young minister advanced smilingly to meet the two old men.

“Well,” said he, with sanctimonious friendliness, as he offered both of

them a hand, “allow me to congratulate you.”

“For what?” asked both of them, astonished.

“For the happiness of yesterday. Can there be a greater joy for fathers

than to receive their sons safe and sound from the tumult of battle?

Your sons have returned home, faithfully fulfilling their duty to their

new master, his Catholic majesty of France. They abandoned the flag of

the heretic king, laid aside his uniform, and are again simple peasants,

ready to assist their fathers in the field. Come, my young friends, that

I may give you the blessing of the Church, for so resolutely fulfilling

your duty.”

He held out his hand to the young men, who were just entering the

churchyard. They obeyed his call the more readily, as it was the first

welcome they had received--the first kind word they had heard since

their return. As they approached the minister, the other men drew back,

and entered the church hastily, followed by their wives and children.

“You will see, father,” murmured the justice, as they seated themselves

together in the pew, “that there is an order to-day. Whenever the

assistant is so delighted and friendly, there is something wrong. They

are certainly meditating some villanous trick against Frederick, and

therefore our good pastor is not here.”

The justice had prophesied aright. When the services were over, and the

congregation about to leave the church, the assistant again mounted the

pulpit, and desired them to remain for a while, and hear what he had

to communicate, in the name of the archbishop, Sir Clement Augustus of

Bavaria.

“His eminence, the most honorable archbishop, sends his dear and

faithful children the holy blessing and salutation of the Church. These

are his words: ‘We, Clement Augustus, archbishop of Bavaria, entreat and

command our children in Christ to be faithful to their new government

and their new king, Louis XV. of France, whose apostolic majesty has

taken the sword of the Lord into his blessed hand, to fight the enemies

of the Church, and to chastise and punish the rebellious heretic prince

who has arbitrarily named himself King of Prussia. God’s anger is

against him, and He will crush and destroy the presumptuous mockers of

the Lord. Woe unto them who will not listen to God’s voice, who in their

mad blindness cling to this heretic! Woe unto you if, in the delusion of

your hearts, you still offer him love and faith! You are released

from all duty to him as subjects, and you now have the blessing of the

Church. I, as your shepherd, made so by the holy Pope of Rome, command

you, therefore, to be faithful to your new master--pray that God may

bless his arms, and grant him victory over his ungodly enemy. My

anger and dire punishment shall reach any one who refuses to obey

this command. He who dares to stand by the heretic king, is himself a

heretic, and a rebellious subject of the Church. Be on your guard; heavy

punishment shall meet those who dare to rejoice over the fame of the

so-called great Frederick. Such rejoicing will be regarded as blasphemy

against the holy Mother Church. To conclude, we remain your loving

father, and send our dear children in Christ our most gracious love and

greeting.’”

The men listened to the message of the fanatic archbishop with gloomy

faces and downcast eyes; but the twelve boys, who at first stood alone

in the aisle, not daring to seat themselves with the others, now gazed

boldly and triumphantly around, seeming to ask if the villagers did not

now acknowledge that they had acted wisely in returning.

With renewed courage, and somewhat proudly, they were the first to leave

the church, and placed themselves in two rows at the door. While

the congregation was passing by they invited their dear friends and

relations to meet them that afternoon under the great linden, where they

would hold a little festival to celebrate their safe return.

“We shall come,” said the men, with earnest, solemn voices. “We will

be there,” said the mothers, gazing with tearful eyes at the triumphant

faces of their sons. The young maidens whom the boys invited to dance,

passed them in silence.

Old Buschman, alone, did not answer his son’s invitation, nor did he

follow the rest to the village, but turned to the side of the churchyard

where his wife was buried. He seated himself upon her grave, and

murmured a few words with trembling lips, raising his face toward

heaven. A sob escaped him every now and then, and the tears rolled

slowly from his eyes. From time to time he wrung his hands, as if

bewailing his sorrow to God and beseeching His mercy, then brushed away

his tears--angry with himself for being so moved.

He sat there a long, long time, struggling with his grief--alone with

God and his shame. Approaching steps aroused him; he looked up. The

village justice stood before him, and gazed at him with a melancholy

smile.

“I knew I would find you here, Father Buschman, and I came for you. The

time is come; we are all assembled on the square awaiting you.”

“I come!” said the old man, as he stood up resolutely, giving a last

loving farewell glance at his wife’s grave.

The old man no longer needed his friend’s arm to support him, his steps

were firm; his form manly and erect, his venerable countenance glowed

with energy.

By the side of the village justice he walked to the square, under the

great linden. There every thing looked bright and gay. The boys had

taken advantage of the dinner hour to make worthy preparations for their

festival. They had brought fresh evergreens from the woods, and had

made wreaths and festooned them from tree to tree around the square. The

ground was covered prettily with flowers and leaves, and the bench under

the tree was decorated with a wreath of field-flowers.

On one side of the square stood several tables covered with bottles of

wine and beer and cake and bread; not far from the tables was a throne

adorned with flowers, where sat the fiddler, gazing proudly around him,

like a king who knows he is the crowning point of the feast.

It certainly had been a long time since the merry sound of the fiddle

had been heard in the village of Brunen. The throne was surrounded by

little boys and girls listening with wondering delight at the gay music.

But the grown girls stood afar off and did not look even once at the

enticing fiddler, but hid themselves timidly behind the mothers, who

were standing with stern faces gazing at the groups of men waiting

anxiously on the other side of the square.

The stillness and universal silence began at last to make the boys

uneasy. They had tried in vain to engage the men in conversation. They

received no answer to their questions, and when they turned to the women

and the maidens, they also remained dumb. The returned soldiers then

went to the other side of the square to talk to the fiddler and the

children; but when they began to fondle and play with the little ones,

they were called by their fathers and mothers and bade to remain at

their side.

The boys gazed questioningly at one another.

“I am curious to know what this means; are we to remain standing here

all night?” muttered one of them.

“It appears to me that they are waiting for some one,” murmured another.

“They are expecting my father,” said Charles Henry; “and see, there he

comes from the churchyard. The justice went for him.”

When the old man arrived at the square the men advanced to meet him,

conducted him gravely to the bench under the great linden, and assisted

him to stand upon it. There he towered above them, and his pale,

venerable face, his silver hairs were visible to all. Every eye was

directed to him, and breathless silence ensued. The old man raised his

arm and pointed toward the side where the twelve boys stood.

“Come to me, Charles Henry Buschman,” he said, solemnly; and as his son

advanced rapidly to him, he continued: “I ask you in the name of God, if

what you told me yesterday is true? Have you secretly left the flag of

your king, our sovereign--the great King Frederick of Prussia? Is it

true that you have forsaken your regiment and the flag to which you

swore to be faithful?”

“It is true,” said Charles Henry, with assumed daring, “but we were

not only justified in doing so--our duty compelled us. We are no longer

Prussian subjects, but subjects of the King of France. You all heard

to-day what the minister read to us in church--how the archbishop

commanded us to be faithful to our new sovereign. We could no longer

wear the Prussian uniform or be Prussian soldiers, therefore we returned

to our village.”

“You returned as dishonored, faithless soldiers!” cried the old man,

looking angrily at his son--“you returned covered with shame--miserable

deserters--to the disgrace of your fathers, mothers, your brothers,

sisters, sweethearts, and your friends. You have deserted the flag of

your rightful king, to whom you swore the oath of allegiance--an oath

which God received, and which no man can annul. Men of Brunen! shall

we stand this shame that our sons bring upon us? Shall the world point

their fingers at us and say: ‘These are the fathers of soldiers who

deserted their regiment, and were false to their king?’”

“No!” cried they all, as with one voice--“no, we will not stand this--we

will have no deserters as sons!”

The old man bowed his head in silence; then turned slowly to the side

where the women stood.

“Women and maidens of Brunen! Will you allow your sons and brothers

who are covered with shame, to stay amongst you? Will you receive the

deserters in your houses and at your tables? Will you open your arms to

them and call them sons and brothers?”

“No, no!” cried the women and maidens, simultaneously; “we will not

receive them in our houses, or at our tables. We will have no deserters

for sons or brothers!”

The old man stood erect, and, as if inspired with a mighty enthusiasm,

raised his arm toward heaven, and his countenance beamed with holy

light.

“They must return to their flag,” he cried, in a commanding voice “With

your blood you must wash the shame from your brows, and from ours. If

God preserves your lives, and you redeem your honor as brave soldiers of

the King of Prussia, then and then only we will receive you as our sons

and welcome you to our arms.”

“So shall it be!” cried the men and the women, and the maidens murmured

their acquiescence.

The old man stepped from the bench and walked forward slowly to the

other side of the square where the twelve young men were standing gazing

at him with terrified faces.

“Return!” cried the old man, stretching his arm toward them--“return to

the flag of your king; we want no deserters amongst us; away with you!”

“Away with you!” cried the men--“away from our village!”

The children, influenced by their parents, cried out with shrill voices:

“Away from our village--away!”

The youths were at first stunned, and gazed with staring eyes at the

crowd of angry faces and flashing eyes which menaced them, then seized

with terror, they fled.

“Away with you! away with the deserters!” was thundered after them.

“Away with you!” cried their mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, and

friends.

This fearful cry sounded to them like the peal of the last judgment.

With trembling knees, and faces pale as death, they rushed down the

principal street of the village. The crowd started after them, and like

the howling of a storm, shouted behind them: “Away with you!--away with

the deserters!”

On they ran, as if pursued by furies, farther, farther down the street,

but the villagers still chased them. Once only Charles Henry dared to

look around at the pursuers. It was a fearful sight. At the head of the

rest he saw his old father, with his pale face, his white hair flying in

the wind; raising his arms threateningly toward him, he cried out in a

thundering voice: “Away with you!--away with the deserters!”

Charles Henry rushed onward--a cry of terror escaped his lips, and he

fled like a madman.

They had passed the borders of the village--it was quiet behind

them--they dared to look back--they were alone. But on the boundary-line

the villagers stood--their faces turned toward the fugitives--and like

the distant croakings of a raven there sounded in the air: “Away with

you!--away with the deserters!”

Breathless, with tottering knees, the boys sank down--with hollow eyes,

speechless with terror, sorrow, and humility, they gazed at each other.

They did not dare return to the village. Perhaps to appease the anger of

their relations, perhaps because they repented of their cowardice, they

returned to their regiment, acknowledged their crime, and prayed for

forgiveness.

Thus the brave fathers of the village of Brunen punished their cowardly

sons, and drove the dishonored and faithless boys to their duty, perhaps

to their death. [Footnote: This account is historical.]

CHAPTER VI. THE TRAITOR’S BETRAYAL.