BLECHOW.
Lieutenant von Wendenstein slowly recovered after the crisis was
happily passed; and though at times he suffered from great weakness
there was no serious drawback in his convalescence, and the physician
gave his friends good hopes that his health in the future would not be
impaired.
But no sooner did he really progress, no sooner did his strength really
return, his eyes grow bright, and a slight colour tinge his cheek, than
Helena withdrew from her office of nurse, and left the care of the
invalid entirely to the charge of Madame von Wendenstein and his
sister, whilst she bestowed all her attentions upon the old lady, as if
anxious lest she should miss any of her home comforts.
It was very unnecessary, for Madame von Wendenstein wanted nothing more
than the sight of her son's improvement day by day.
With beaming eyes and radiant smile she watched the progress of his
recovery, and with the quick perceptions of a mother's love she noted
every shade of colour and of expression on the face of her son
betokening the return of life and youthful strength.
She grew lively and cheerful, and showed much interest in the
arrangements of the Lohmeier household; she had often expressed her
surprise and great satisfaction at the orderly way in which everything
was arranged; at the beautiful house linen, the excellent cooking, and
the order in the house work, and she was amazed that so young a girl as
Margaret should be so good a manager. She had kindly bestowed the rich
treasures of her experience upon her young hostess, for whom she felt
great affection, and old Lohmeier regarded this distinguished lady, who
yet was so well acquainted with all household details, with the
greatest veneration, especially when he saw the interest his daughter,
the pride of his heart, had excited in her mind.
The lieutenant remarked that Helena no longer appeared at his bed-side;
his eyes often rested upon her enquiringly when he was able to rise and
go into his mother's room, but he said very little, he was not quite
sure whether the sweet and charming picture which filled his mind was
the result of a feverish imagination or the truth.
Helena was quiet and dreamy; she seldom looked at Wendenstein, the
feelings she had so plainly shown in the days of anguish and danger
were now most carefully concealed.
Madame von Wendenstein often turned her mild eyes sympathizingly upon
the young girl; but she did not say a word, for she held that every
true woman's heart is a tender flower, which must bud and blossom in
its own way, shrinking back and closing at a rough touch. In her quiet
pious way she had committed both these young hearts into God's hand,
and she trusted that in His good time they would come to a happy
understanding.
The candidate came very little. He was unwearied in consoling and
exhorting the sick, and the whole town spoke of him with esteem and
admiration. He said a few kind and hearty words to Lieutenant von
Wendenstein when he first saw him, after his recovery appeared certain,
reminding him of the gratitude he ought to feel for the life restored
to him when on the threshold of death; but Wendenstein felt a strange
shudder pass through him as he spoke, and he sat still afterwards for
some time in deep thought, pursuing the frightful and alarming
recollections which arose in his mind, but which he could not
completely recall. Whenever he saw the candidate the same feeling of
cold and deadly fear returned, and again his memory refused to recall
the reason. He blamed himself greatly for his aversion to so excellent
a man, and the more his recovery progressed and his nerves
strengthened, the more he struggled to feel kindness and friendship for
the young clergyman.
After some time of this quiet life, the day came when the ladies and
the lieutenant, who could now walk slowly, determined to return home.
Notwithstanding her joy at her son's recovery Madame von Wendenstein
had a new and deep cause for grief. The incorporation of Hanover with
Prussia was quite decided upon, and the president had told his wife in
a short and mournful letter that he should resign, as he could not at
his age change his masters. He should go to Hanover for a time, and
then he would buy an estate for his son the lieutenant, as he no longer
wished him to remain in the army under present circumstances. The whole
family could reside with him.
This letter Madame von Wendenstein received the evening before her
journey. As she read it large tears ran slowly down her cheeks. She was
then to return, only to leave the old house that for so many years had
sheltered her, the home filled with so many remembrances of her quiet
happy life. But she was accustomed always to conform to her husband's
will without questioning it, and when she thought of leaving the old
house at Blechow, which after all belonged to the office the president
was about to resign, and of going to an estate which would really be
her son's, and of the pleasure of arranging and founding a house for
him, she dried her tears. She thought of the children and grandchildren
who would always live there, and a smile played round her lips as she
again read the president's letter.
The lieutenant's eyes sparkled with joy.
"Oh! how I thank my father!" he cried; "how grateful I am to him for
allowing me to leave the service. It would have been too painful to
forget the old flag for which I shed my blood."
And holding out his hand to his mother with a smile he said--
"And how beautiful my dear mother will make our new home; oh! it will
be charming!"
He gazed at Helena who sat opposite to him, bending over her work. She
did not raise her eyes; but she felt his look, and a deep blush passed
over her face, and Madame von Wendenstein saw it with a quiet smile;
from the sorrowful present she foresaw a bright and happy future.
Whilst this went on in the apartments upstairs, Margaret sat with her
father and Fritz Deyke at their simple evening meal.
The young girl turned the new potatoes skilfully out of their brown
coats, they were first-fruits of the year, and she prepared them for
her father and the guest who had become like one of themselves.
They were all three silent, and the young peasant looked very mournful.
"You do not eat," said the old man, looking at his guest's plate,
though he himself showed but little appetite.
"Perhaps I have not done them well," said Margaret, trying to make a
little joke; but her voice was dismal.
Fritz Deyke gave a quick glance at her pale face and downcast eyes.
"I cannot!" he cried, as he threw down his knife and fork upon the
plate. "When I think that I am to go to-morrow, I really wish I had
never come; when I sit at home and think of how happy we used to be,
especially how beautifully Margaret did everything at dinner time--no
wonder I cannot eat!"
Old Lohmeier looked at him sympathetically, it was plain that he was
sorry to part with the kind, goodhearted young fellow.
"Stay here," he said simply, "you know we should like to keep you."
Margaret looked at him with bright eyes swimming with tears.
"I cannot help it," he said, "I must go some time, and the longer I
stay the worse it will be."
He sighed deeply, and his eyes met those of the young girl.
Margaret put down her head and sobbed aloud. Then she sprang up,
covered her face with her hands, and leaned her head against a large
chest that stood in the corner, weeping bitterly.
Fritz Deyke rushed to her.
"My God!" he cried, and tried to withdraw her hands from her face, "I
cannot bear it, you will break my heart!"
He stood still for a moment before the weeping girl with his eyes fixed
thoughtfully upon the ground. Then he walked quickly back to the table
and stood before the old man.
"Herr Lohmeier," he said in a firm tone, "I can no longer restrain my
feelings. I intended to go home first and come to an understanding with
my father, and then to come back here, but I cannot do it. I cannot see
her cry, I must speak, and as to my father, I know beforehand quite
well what he will say. Herr Lohmeier, I cannot be happy without
Margaret, I have enough, much more than enough to keep a wife. I know
you think me an honest fellow--give me your daughter!"
Margaret did not move, she kept her hands over her face, the low sound
of her weeping was heard throughout the room, whilst Fritz Deyke looked
at her father in breathless suspense.
He gazed gravely before him. He did not look much surprised, perhaps he
had expected something of the kind, but for a time he was silent and
thoughtful.
"It is all right as far as I am concerned," he said at last, "I have
grown very fond of you, and I can trust my daughter's happiness to you,
but there are two persons to ask about it--in the first place, my
daughter."
With one bound Fritz was by Margaret's side.
"Margaret," he cried, "will you go with me?" And putting his arm round
her, he drew her gently to the table opposite to her father.
She let her hands glide down from her face; her eyes were full of
tears, but they beamed with affection and confidence, and whilst she
gazed at her young lover, she said in a loud firm voice:
"Yes!"
"Well, that is one person," said old Lohmeier, laughing, "but the
consent of the second is a graver matter, I mean your father. These are
sad times, and your father, a thorough-going Hanoverian, will scarcely
welcome a Prussian daughter-in-law to his house; she is the daughter of
a stiff true Prussian, and I would disinherit her if she ever forgot
the love she owes her king."
Fritz Deyke was silent for a moment.
"Herr Lohmeier," he then said, "you know I am a Hanoverian with all my
heart and soul, and that it is a great grief to me that we are now to
be Prussian, but what can I do, or how can Margaret help it? We did not
make the politics and we can't change them; would to God Prussia and
Hanover could come to as good an understanding as we have done.
However," he added more warmly, "I cannot complain, for if Prussia
takes my country at least it gives me the best thing it has, and my
annexation is a peaceful one, of heart to heart."
He embraced Margaret, and looked imploringly at the old man.
But he continued grave and thoughtful--
"Will your father think so?" he asked.
Fritz considered a moment, then he cried suddenly,
"Wait a moment!" and rushed from the room.
Lohmeier looked after him with surprise. "Where is he going?" he asked.
"I think I know," said Margaret; "he has often told me what a great
respect his father has for Madame von Wendenstein, and how he will do
anything at a word from her."
Fritz soon came back.
"Madame von Wendenstein begs you to go to her," said he to old Lohmeier
with a look of delight.
He stood up at once, brushed his sleeve with the tips of his fingers,
stroked his grey hair with the palm of his hand and went upstairs.
Fritz and Margaret remained alone.
He seated himself and gently drew the young girl into a chair beside
him.
What did they say? So little and yet so much, their speech was so old
and yet so new, one more variation on the eternal melody of love, that
rings in the human heart from the cradle to the grave, and whose
endearing tones pass with the soul into the great harmony of Eternity.
Madame von Wendenstein led old Lohmeier into her son's sick room, and
there they remained together for half an hour, and the result of their
conversation was, that he consented to his daughter's betrothal to
Fritz, upon condition that old Deyke's approval was gained; and that he
might learn to know his future daughter-in-law, Madame von Wendenstein
invited Margaret to go home with her. She undertook to introduce her
lover's father to her, and to instruct her in the house-keeping
arrangements of her own country. Old Lohmeier accepted the invitation
with much pride, for his veneration for this lady who had passed many
weeks in his house, was immense. He informed the young people with
great dignity and importance, "that he had talked the matter over with
his much honoured friend Madame von Wendenstein," and they both felt
extremely happy, though Margaret was rather alarmed at the prospect of
meeting with the stern old Bauermeister, of whom Fritz always spoke in
terms of the greatest respect.
Thus their departure drew near. Some time before, Madame von
Wendenstein had endeavoured to propose some remuneration for all the
trouble and expense her son's illness had occasioned, but it had been
so decidedly refused by the old brewer, and he had appeared so hurt at
the proposal, that she had never again renewed it. On the day of her
departure she gave Margaret a beautiful cross of rubies and diamonds,
on a string of large pearls.
"I have wept many tears here," she said gently. "Let the pearls remind
you of this, my child; but the sacred love we adore in the Cross, the
sign of the Holy Passion and of our redemption, has dried my tears, and
raised and comforted my heart. Let the cross remind you of this; and if
you, too, shed tears of grief, look at this cross, with firm faith and
loving resignation."
Tears were in Margaret's eyes as she received the cross; and old
Lohmeier took Madame von Wendenstein's fine white hand in his own with
emotion, and pressed his lips upon it. He carefully locked up the pearl
necklace and the cross in an old oaken chest, in which he kept the
simple but massive ornaments of his late wife; they were all to be
Margaret's when she married, and entered the large old farmhouse as its
mistress.
And then they set out, accompanied by a thousand good wishes from old
Lohmeier, who promised, when all was arranged, to think of retiring
from his business, and of spending the last years of his life quietly
near his daughter's new home.
Thus in the spot where so bloody a battle had raged between Hanover and
Prussia, Christian compassion had caused two young hearts to reap a
harvest of love from the seeds of hatred. Thus was the will of the
Eternal accomplished, who turns evil into good; and where demons have
led men into strife and hatred, His unwearied care removes their gloomy
traces by that bright child of heaven--Reconciliation.
Their return to Blechow was grave and sad. The president silently
strained to his breast the son restored to him from the gates of death;
silently, too, he kissed the brow of his wife. The days that followed
were calm and melancholy.
The president worked hard with Auditor von Bergfeld, that he might
leave everything in the most perfect order for his successor. Madame
von Wendenstein went quietly about the house, occupied in the
melancholy task of displacing the treasures collected during more than
twenty years of house-keeping, and the remembrances they awakened were
known only to her eye and her heart. All those treasures had to be
packed in huge coffers, and conveyed to the new house. And the enormous
oaken chests looked so sad, with their opened doors and their empty
trays, and throughout the house sighed the gloomy spirit of departure
and separation, the spirit that moves through human life like a
messenger of death, touching the heart with a shrinking foreboding of
the last great farewell of eternity. Every farewell breaks a flower
from the wreath adorning the spring-time of our lives, until the last
blooms are buried beneath the wintry snows of death. But every blossom
leaves a fruit behind, whose seed is in itself; and these will bear
purer, fairer flowers, and spring up into imperishable beauty beneath
the life-breath of eternal spring.
Fritz Deyke had a long conversation with his father, who looked very
black at first, when he heard what his son had to say. He loved his
son, he had unbounded confidence in him, and he knew he would make no
unworthy choice; but to have a town young lady for his daughter-in-law,
to have a Prussian mistress in Hanoverian Wendland was not at all to
his mind. But he said nothing, and, at his son's request, he went to
the castle to see Madame von Wendenstein.
The old lady he had always regarded as a model of womanly perfection,
and she told him of all the attention and kindness her son had received
in old Lohmeier's house, taking care to describe the excellent burgher
position held by Margaret's father. Then she kindly and warmly urged
him not to visit the misfortunes of the times upon innocent heads; and
he held out his hand to her, and said,--
"It shall be as my son wishes. He is good and true: the wife he brings
to my house shall be welcome, and my blessing shall rest upon her."
Then Madame von Wendenstein opened the door into the next room, and
Margaret, blushing deeply, and trembling from agitation, entered; but
her eyes were bright and candid. She was dressed in the costume of the
rich peasant women of Wendland. She went up quickly to the old man, and
kissed his hand, and a warm tear fell upon the hand hardened with toil.
A gentle smile passed over the stern, furrowed face of the old peasant;
his eyes looked milder than they had done for many a day, as he gazed
down upon the young girl's strong, yet slender form. He stroked her
glossy hair, and said, in a low voice,--
"God bless you, my daughter!"
Then everything was said, and everything was settled. Old Deyke was a
man of few words; but his words were like a rock--you might have built
a house upon them when they were spoken.
He took Margaret to his farm, and as she walked at his side, and told
him artlessly how amazed she had been at the wonderful treasures of the
old castle, and as she let a word fall showing every now and then, how
much she knew about housekeeping, his face grew brighter and brighter.
But when she sent the maidservants out of the kitchen, and lighted the
fire, and cooked the dinner herself with skilful hands; when she laid
the cloth, arranging everything so quickly and prettily, whilst Fritz
watched her with delighted eyes; when at last she brought the old man's
pipe, and lighted it for him, and then looked up at him with loving,
imploring eyes, he looked at her through tears: the image of his dead
wife rose before him, and he held out his hand to his son, saying,--
"I thank you for bringing me such a daughter."
The young people knelt down before him, and he said, in a low half
choking voice:
"God bless and keep you, my dear, dear children!"
The lieutenant was very quiet and thoughtful. His wound was quite
healed, his nerves were grown strong again, and the wonderful
reparatory powers of youth sent his blood through his veins as quickly
as before. He seldom saw Helena: when she came up from the Vicarage she
was surrounded by the others, and he could only exchange a few words
with her. The old merry confidence between the two friends from
childhood would not return; there was something new and strange between
them, which closed their lips when it sought expression in words.
One afternoon, when the president was hard at work with Auditor von
Bergfeld, and Madame von Wendenstein, her daughters and Margaret were
busy in the melancholy occupation of dismantling the house, the
lieutenant walked slowly and thoughtfully towards the pastor's.
The roses had withered in the pretty little garden, and the autumnal
asters raised their many-coloured heads, overtopped by the tall and
brilliant sunflowers.
Helena sat at the open window, and often raised her eyes from her work
to look dreamily over the cornfields; her father and the candidate had
gone out to make some visits in the village; she was alone with her
thoughts.
Suddenly she trembled slightly, a blush spread hastily over her
delicate face, she let her work fall into her lap; Lieutenant von
Wendenstein had entered the garden, and was approaching the house.
A moment later he knocked at the door of the sitting-room; she made an
effort to cry "Come in," and he entered.
He looked delighted when he saw that Helena was alone.
He came to her quickly and took her hand.
"My father is out," she said, with downcast eyes and trembling voice,
"will you take a chair?"
The lieutenant remained standing before her, and looked at her long and
affectionately. Then he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss
upon it.
Blushing deeply, she tried to draw her hand away; he held it with
gentle force.
"I am so very glad to find you alone," he said; "I have wanted so long
to ask you something I am not quite sure about."
She raised her eyes to his with surprise and enquiry, she wished to
speak, but she found no words.
"Helena," he said, in a low voice, "when I was wounded and ill in
Langensalza, without strength enough to think clearly, dizzy with
fever, a sweet image was always before me,--I saw a consoling angel
looking at me so kindly, so lovingly,--I held her helping hand in mine,
I pressed it to my lips, and from the depths of my heart I said, 'dear
Helena.'"
She withdrew her hand quickly, and seated herself on the chair near the
window; pale and trembling, her eyes sought the ground.
He went up to her and continued in urgent terms:
"Tell me,--for sometimes a gloomy veil comes over my memory,--tell me,
this image that never leaves my heart, that follows me everywhere--was
it real?"
She gave no answer, but sat still and motionless.
"Helena," he said imploringly, "I saw eyes that told me such good and
loving things in a mute language,--those eyes are near me night and
day. Helena, look at me once more, that I may see whether the image in
my heart was the dream of fever, or the truth."
He sank on his knees before her, and seized her hand as it hung beside
her, looking up at her with an earnest loving gaze.
Then she slowly raised her eyes, and in her eyes lay her answer; those
eyes again spoke the mute language that found an echo in his heart.
Again he pressed her hand to his lips, and again she permitted it with
a loving smile, and in a soft voice, happy and triumphant, he
whispered, "Dear, dear Helena!"
They sat for a long time in silence; he was never weary of gazing on
the beloved features which in the days of his deadly peril were graven
so deeply in his soul.
Then he sprang up, bent over her and held her in his arms.
The door opened, the pastor and candidate entered.
The old gentleman looked much surprised at this unexpected scene, an
evil flash of hatred darted from the candidate's sharp eyes, but he
quickly fixed them on the ground and an oily smile played around his
mouth.
Helena bent down her head in charming confusion. The lieutenant
hastened to the pastor and seized his hand energetically.
"Dear sir," he said, in a decided voice, "my dear playmate, Helena,
watched over my life, and saved it when it hung on the feeblest
thread,--I have implored her to watch over it henceforth,--for
ever,--and--she will." He looked at the young girl with eyes full of
happiness and continued, "Will you unite our hands before the altar of
our dear old church, where we made our vows at our confirmation?"
And he looked the old clergyman honestly in the face.
He was still lost in astonishment at the turn affairs had taken, and
which he had never perceived.
He looked at his daughter. Her deep blushes, and the bashful, yet
imploring expression of her eyes, convinced him that God had joined two
hearts together, and that it would ill beseem him to part them. He
loved von Wendenstein, and could only rejoice at the prospect of being
more closely connected with him; but his intentions and plans for his
daughter had been so different, he could not accommodate himself at
once to the change.
Helena sprang to her feet, she hurried to her father and threw herself
upon his breast.
The old gentleman looked gravely at his nephew, he stood with downcast
eyes, and gentle smiles.
"My dear Herr von Wendenstein," said the pastor, "you well know the
great esteem I have ever entertained for you and your family, and if my
daughter has given you her heart, as a father and as a priest I must
lay my hand upon your heads and bless you. I must own, however, that
all this has greatly surprised me. I had quite different ideas as to my
daughter's future life," and he again looked enquiringly at the
candidate.
But he came up to the pastor, and said in a calm voice, though without
raising his eyes:
"Let there be no discord in the friendly harmony of this hour, my dear
uncle. You know I am devoted above all things to my sacred calling;
earthly wishes, however dear to my heart, cannot disturb the spiritual
calm of my soul, and if heaven has decreed that my hopes and desires
are to be denied, I shall only see a gracious dispensation of
Providence, intended to turn away my soul from earthly things, that all
its powers may be devoted to the accomplishment of my sacred office. I
shall pray for my cousin's happiness with my whole soul! I congratulate
you most heartily, Herr von Wendenstein," he added, holding out his
hand to the young officer. He seized it and looked at the young
clergyman with emotion. But the hand was cold as ice, and a deep
shudder passed through his nerves, as he felt its smooth serpent-like
pressure.
The last time that all the family friends assembled around the
hospitable board of the old Castle of Blechow, was at the celebration
of the lieutenant's betrothal with Helena. The president had thus
willed it, and he also insisted that old Deyke, Fritz, and Margaret, as
well as Lohmeier, who was with them, should take part in the family
festivity, which was also a day of farewell. The president wished to
make a sad farewell less melancholy, by thus solemnizing the union of
two hearts.
He wished that all should carry away a happy recollection of their last
day at Blechow, and that the last rays of the old times should sink
brightly into the ocean of the past.
Everything was packed up, and ready to start; only the dinner service
and the heavy old plate was still used, and displayed its glories for
the last time.
The president's eldest son had arrived early in the morning, and had
had a long and serious conversation with his father.
He told him he had been offered the assistant-secretaryship in the
Ministry of the Interior in Berlin, and he expressed a wish to accept
the appointment, since he hoped by this means to alleviate the
condition of his native country, under its new circumstances. Yet he
left the decision entirely to his father.
The president stood for a long time in grave thought
"You are young, my son," he said, at last, in a gentle voice; "your
life belongs to the future--you must go forth and work in the
present--you ought not to bury yourself in the past. The king has
released all his civil servants from their oath; you are therefore
free,--seize the opportunity of making a career for yourself, and of
labouring for the general good. But never forget that good and faithful
Hanover is your fatherland,--keep that remembrance sacredly in your
heart, and when you can, work that it may be treated lovingly, for the
sake of it; fair and honourable history in the past. My blessing be
upon you in your new path!"
The son kissed his father's hand in silence, and nothing more was said
by either of them on the subject.
The guests sat around the table in the dining-room of the old castle
with grave emotion. Old Deyke took his place beside the president with
great dignity. Fritz and Margaret sat beside each other embarrassed,
but happy,--the lieutenant's eyes sparkled with joy. Helena's fair face
expressed thoughtful happiness; and though a tear sometimes shone in
Madame von Wendenstein's soft eyes, when she looked at her son and his
lovely bride, such a happy smile came to her lips, that it was hard to
say whether the pearly drop came from the bitter cup of grief or the
pure spring of joy.
"Do you remember, dearest Helena," said the lieutenant, "how you showed
me the dark cloud, which was driven away from the silver beams of the
moon? You see it has returned, and now rests in its pure, full light;
but it brings no storm, no tempest, but blessing and happiness to the
garden of our lives!"
She looked at him with her loving eyes, smilingly.
"I think," she whispered, "you have found the magic key of the kingdom
of dreams and fancies, which you once thought you could only have from
my hands."
"And did I not have it from your hands?" he said; "you gave it to me
when I was on the borders of death, and I will guard it truly in the
golden light of life!"
The dessert was brought. A post-horn was heard.
The old servant in a few minutes announced Baron von Klentzin.
"The successor to your office in Blechow, my dear father," said the
assessor; "the civil commissioner von Hardenberg has desired him to
release you."
They all rose gravely.
The Prussian entered; he was a tall, slender young man, elegant in his
appearance, graceful in his movements.
The president advanced towards him with calm dignity.
"You are welcome, Baron von Klentzin, to my house,--the house that is
still mine, and that to-morrow will be yours. We are celebrating a
family festivity,--the betrothal of my son,--and I beg you will join
us."
He introduced the young man to his wife, and to the others, and then
requested him to be seated beside Madame von Wendenstein. He signed to
the servant to fill his guest's glass with champagne.
"To-morrow I shall resign my office to you, and I hope you will find
everything in order," said the old gentleman,--"to-day allow me to
treat you as my guest."
Baron von Klentzin bowed.
"I enter your circle as a stranger," he said, "and I feel I can
scarcely be welcome. But I beg you, sir, and all here present, to
believe that I deeply respect your feelings,--we know what love to the
Fatherland is,--and," he added warmly, "we come to you with open hands
and hearts. May the future unite us all, without grief or bitterness,
in one glorious Germany! Now, permit me to empty my glass to the
happiness of the youthful pair!"
"Sir," said the president, with deep melancholy in his voice, "it has
ever been the unalterable custom at my table to drink to the health of
our king and commander-in-chief. He is no longer sovereign of this
country. You will understand how I wish this last day not to deviate
from the old custom of my house. A new time arises, but let us think of
the old with thankfulness and love!"
Baron von Klentzin seized his glass.
"Only from love of the past can bloom a blessing on the future," he
said feelingly; "and far be it from me to prevent, by my presence, the
last farewell to such a past."
They all rose.
The president said, solemnly--
"'The King!' who was our lord, and to whom the service of my life
belongs. May God's blessing be upon him!"
They all repeated the toast.
Herr von Klentzin, deeply moved, touched his glass against his host's,
and the slight sound reverberated through the room.
They all emptied their glasses silently.
That was the last toast to George V. in the old castle of Blechow.
Klentzin looked down thoughtfully.
"We have won a fair country," he said to himself; "God grant that we
may win these hearts to true brotherhood."