The Murderer and the Attack.
A clear, balmy autumn night lay over vale and upland. The dark,
sharply-defined outlines of the mountains stood in such bold relief
against the unclouded sky, that every cleft as well as every jagged
peak was visible. Higher up the forests dissolved in a sombre, formless
mass, over which rested a fleecy mist like shimmering gauze, but at the
mountain's base, every tree and shrub was as clearly defined as in the
full light of day.
Upon a low, rocky plateau at the entrance of the defile, close by the
foot of a giant fir-tree, stood Henry Alison. He had gained some
distance upon his rival, and had found the path clear. Nothing of all
the wild excitement that ruled there an hour later, now disturbed the
silence. Insuperable obstacles often arise in the way of duty and
rescue, while crime unrestrained, goes on its way, as if guarded by
demoniac powers.
Atkins' words had proved true. Now that Henry's uncontrollable nature
had burst its barriers, it knew no limits. But it broke forth into no
wild fury; the head of the American remained clear and cool. While
seeking revenge against the hated rival, he must care for his own
safety, and he had assured it. Every one knew that the mountains were
unsafe, and the German officer found dead in the morning would be
supposed to have fallen by the bullet of a French sharpshooter: such
things often happen in war, people would say; why had the foolhardy man
ventured alone, by night, into the mountains? The guards, who held
every avenue would declare that they had let no one pass, and Alison
would not be supposed to have left the circuit of the park.
Discovery was impossible, and consciousness augmented Alison's cool,
determined composure. He was disturbed by no moral barriers by no ideal
scruples of conscience. He had offered his enemy combat on equal terms,
and had stood ready to peril his own life. The rival would not consent;
well then, let him suffer the consequences!
The situation could not have been better chosen; Henry stood in the
shadow of the cliff, at the foot of the fir-tree and quite concealed by
its branches. Right below led the mountain-road and the foot-path. He
commanded both with eye and weapon. No human being coming in the
direction of S. could escape him, and Henry's revolver was one that
never missed its aim; his skill in shooting had always been the
admiration of his associates.
He waited, his eyes fixed upon the opening of the road where Fernow
must appear; all his powers of mind concentrated in this breathless
spying and listening; what happened near him or behind him did not
concern him; he did not hear the low, mysterious mutterings up in the
firs.
Deep solitude in the mountains! Only now and then resounds the cry of a
bird of prey sweeping over the forest in its slow, ponderous flight,
and then vanishing in the darkness. Now and then a gust of wind sweeps
over the rocky wall, swaying the tree-tops to and fro. Now the shrubs
flutter and nod in the moonlight, now the boughs of the fir-tree rustle
softly but uncannily as if wailing or lamenting.
There, at last! At the winding of the road, looms up a dusky form and
approaches slowly but with steady tread. Alison recognizes Fernow's
gait and bearing; now he recognizes his features also. He has already
reached the rocky plateau, and is about to enter the path gradually
winding upward, Alison raises his revolver.
Then, all at once, come shots from another direction. From out the
thicket of firs on the opposite side of the mountain, rush strange
forms, and throw themselves in the German's path. He springs aside,
firing at the same moment, but the enemy, conscious of superior
strength, retreats only for an instant.
Walter is driven against the cliff, and in a moment, he is surrounded
on all sides.
Henry stands motionless, the loaded weapon in his hand, and glances
upon the tragic spectacle at his feet; Walter still stands upright,
leaning against the cliff, but the blood already trickles over his
forehead, and he defends himself only with his sword. It is evident
that the enemy wish to overpower him living; not a single one makes
further use of his musket; as he is protected in the rear they attack
him at the front and side; the next moment all will be over.
Henry sees this; he sees also that the horrible deed will be spared
him; he need not take this life, it is in any event doomed, for Walter
will not yield. Six against one! At this thought a wild, glowing
sensation of shame darts through the American's breast: he would have
committed the murder with a steady hand, but to look on passively and
see it consummated before his eyes, that he cannot do. There is a
fearful momentary struggle, and Henry's noble nature breaks forcibly
through hatred and fury, and bears him irresistibly on to help, to
rescue.
One shot, and the hindmost of the French sharpshooters lies upon the
ground; a second, and the one next him falls also. Confounded, the
others pause; they leave Walter, and in their withdrawal give only a
better mark for Henry. For the third time! The Frenchmen gaze in horror
up the height whence come these solitary, spirit-like balls, every one
of which with deadly certainty fells its victim; and as the man they
have attacked now rouses himself, and makes use of his sword, the other
three take flight. A last shot from the American hisses past them, and
the half-audible oath with which one of them lets fall his weapon and
gripes at his shoulder, while at a still more rapid pace, he dashes on
after his comrades, proves that this last ball has not missed its aim.
They all vanish in the fir-shadows on the other side of the path whence
they came.
While Walter stands there breathless, he all at once feels himself
seized by the arm, and drawn away. "Fly!" whispered a voice in his ear;
"they must not suspect there are only two of us."
He followed mechanically; in a few moments they were in the secure
shadow of the cliff and the fir boughs. The rescued man leaned against
the trunk of the tree, pale, bleeding, half unconscious, and his
rescuer stood near him, grim and silent, but breathing heavily, as if
freed from an oppressive burden.
For the present they were safe; from here they could remark every
approach of the enemy. They had really had to do with only a few
patrols; the Frenchmen did not think of returning; no further trace of
them appeared.
"Mr. Alison--is it you!"
"Are you wounded?" asked Alison curtly.
Walter passed his hand to his forehead. "It is of no account!" he said.
"One of the first balls must have grazed my forehead. It is nothing!"
Instead of answering, Alison drew forth his handkerchief and reached it
to him. He looked on silently while Fernow bound it around his forehead
whence the blood trickled down drop by drop; but he did not make the
slightest effort to help him.
With his own handkerchief, Walter wiped the blood from his face, then
he approached his rescuer, and silently offered him his hand. Alison
drew back.
"Mr. Alison," said Walter in a voice thrilled by the deepest emotion,
"they did you bitter wrong this evening, and it was your own countryman
that calumniated you. I had more confidence in you than he."
Morosely and coldly, Alison repelled the proffered hand. "Be on your
guard with your confidences, Lieutenant Fernow!" he said roughly. "You
came within a hair's-breadth of being deceived."
"You have rescued me, rescued me at the peril of your own life. The
French fusileers might have discovered you, and seized you. From the
manner in which we met two hours ago, I had not expected this. I relied
upon your honor, not upon your help! You must not now repel my thanks;
in spite of all that lies between us, they come from my full heart, and
you will also--"
"Be silent!" interrupted Alison with savage fury, "I wish no thanks;
you owe thanks to me least of all!"
Walter drew back and gazed at him in astonishment. Alison's behavior
was enigmatical to him.
"_Thanks!_" repeated Alison, with annihilating scorn. "Well, I cannot
dissemble, and before you extol me as your magnanimous preserver, you
shall know the truth. I stood there not to protect you, but to kill
you! Do not recoil from me in this way, Lieutenant Fernow! I was in
bloody earnest; my revolver was loaded for you; one step more, and I
should have shot yon down. You must thank that attack; that saved you,
that alone. When I saw six men falling upon one,--then I took your
part."
A deep, momentary silence followed these words. Walter stood there
calm, and gazed steadily and gravely at his rival; then he stepped up
to him, and again offered his hand.
"I thank you, Mr. Alison," he said; "I thank you even for that
confession. Your heart speaks better than your lips, and in spite of
all, we can no longer be enemies."
Alison laughed bitterly. "We cannot? You seem to forget that we are not
of one origin. According to your German sentimentality, we ought now to
fall into each other's arms, and swear eternal friendship. I am
constituted otherwise; if I hate, I hate until my last breath; and I
hate you, Lieutenant Fernow, because you have robbed me of the one
dearest to me in the whole world. Do not believe that I release you
from your promise to meet me at the end of the war, or that I will then
spare you; do not believe that Jane Forest can ever belong to you. I
hold you fast to your word, and to your oath, and if she is to die of
this love for you, she shall still be my wife!"
Walter's eyes fell, and an expression of unendurable agony lay upon his
face.
"I did not think of that," he said softly, "I only wished to thank you;
but you are right, Mr. Alison; we two are differently constituted, we
shall never understand each other.--Farewell,--I must go on!"
"You must go on?" asked Alison in astonishment. "Not further into the
mountain! You must have seen how unsafe it is; the French sharpshooters
are everywhere."
"I know it. Their main body lies an hour's distance from here. But I
must force my way through, if it is possible."
The American stared at him in consternation. "Alone? Wounded? Has this
attack not shown you the impossibility of such a step?"
"This very attack gives me courage. It came from below; the French
patrols avoid the mountain-road; my way is clear."
"Hardly! You rush on to your destruction, Lieutenant Fernow."
"Well, then," replied Walter, while the old melancholy smile flitted
over his face, "another meeting will be spared me, and to you, murder
in a duel; for after what has just happened, I will never draw a weapon
against you.--But one thing more, Mr. Alison. I do not know how you
came past the guard, and I will not ask you; but I demand your word of
honor not to follow me further, and to go back immediately by the path
on which you came. I am forced to demand this. Do not refuse it."
Alison gazed at him morosely. "I have nothing more to seek in the
mountains," he said; "I will go back immediately."
"I thank you, and now--farewell!"
Walter turned away and vanished in the shrubbery.
Alison gazed after him.
"There he goes, right into the midst of the enemy, with that calmness
and those eyes before which mine almost fell. Oh, this German!"--he
clinched his hands in savage fury. "I can force her to be my wife, but
her heart will never forget him; it cannot,--I understand that!"
* * *
On the evening of the next day, Captain Schwarz with his battalion,
which Lieutenant Fernow had now joined, entered S. It had been almost a
whole day upon the march, as it had taken the by-road through E., but
it brought welcome news. The very next morning, the colonel and his
staff, with the rest of the regiment from L. re-enforced and instructed
to fall on the enemy if he still obstructed the pass, went to join the
other detachments in S. The regiment had been recalled from its post,
and had at the same time received orders to march on to Paris.