“Where are you? You are hurt?”
“Not much. I keep the ruins from falling in to crush us. Be quiet, they
are coming.”
A shout answered the faint halloo he gave as if to guide them to the
spot, and a moment after, five of the students were swarming about the
wreck, intent on saving the three whose lives were still in danger.
A lamp torn from some demolished carriage was held through an opening,
and Helen saw a sight that made her blood chill in her veins. Across her
feet, crushed and bleeding, lay the youngest of the students, and
kneeling close beside him was Hoffman, supporting by main strength a
mass of timber, which otherwise would fall and crush them all. His face
was ghastly pale, his eyes haggard with suffering and suspense, and
great drops stood upon his forehead. But as she looked, he smiled with a
cheery,—
“Bear up, dear lady, we shall soon be out of danger. Now, lads, work
with a will; my strength is going fast.”
They did work like heroes, and even in her pain and peril, Helen admired
the skill, energy, and courage of the young men, who, an hour ago, had
seemed to have no ideas above pipes and beer. Soon Hoffman was free, the
poor senseless youth lifted out, and then, as tenderly as if she were a
child, they raised and set her down, faint but unhurt, in a wide meadow,
already strewn with sad tokens of the wreck.
Karl was taken possession of as well as herself, forced to rest a
moment, drink a cordial draught from some one’s flask, and be praised,
embraced, and enthusiastically blessed by the impetuous youths.
“Where is the boy who was hurt? Bring him to me. I am strong now. I want
to help. I have salts in my pocket, and I can bind up his wounds,” said
Helen, soon herself again.
Karl and Helen soon brought back life and sense to the boy, and never
had human face looked so lovely as did Helen’s to the anxious comrades
when she looked up in the moonlight with a joyful smile, and softly
whispered,—
“He is alive.”
For an hour terrible confusion reigned, then the panic subsided a
little, and such of the carriages as were whole were made ready to carry
away as many as possible; the rest must wait till a return train could
be sent for them.
A struggle of course ensued, for every one wished to go on, and fear
made many selfish. The wounded, the women and children, were taken, as
far as possible, and the laden train moved away, leaving many anxious
watchers behind.
Helen had refused to go, and had given her place to poor Conrad, thereby
overwhelming his brother and comrades with gratitude. Two went on with
the wounded lad; the rest remained, and chivalrously devoted themselves
to Helen as a body-guard.
The moon shone clearly, the wide field was miles from any hamlet, and a
desolate silence succeeded to the late uproar, as the band of waiters
roamed about, longing for help and dawn.
“Mademoiselle, you shiver; the dew falls, and it is damp here; we must
have a fire;” and Karl was away to a neighboring hedge, intent on
warming his delicate charge if he felled a forest to do it.
The students rushed after him, and soon returned in triumph to build a
glorious fire, which drew all forlorn wanderers to its hospitable
circle. A motley assemblage; but mutual danger and discomfort produced
mutual sympathy and good will, and a general atmosphere of friendship
pervaded the party.
“Where is the brave Hoffman?” asked Wilhelm, the blond student, who,
being in the Werther period of youth, was already madly in love with
Helen, and sat at her feet catching cold in the most romantic manner.
“Behold me! The little ones cry for hunger, so I ransack the ruins and
bring away my spoils. Eat, Kinder, eat and be patient.”
As he spoke, Karl appeared with an odd collection of baskets, bags, and
bottles, and with a fatherly air that won all the mothers, he gave the
children whatever first appeared, making them laugh in spite of
weariness and hunger by the merry speeches which accompanied his gifts.
“You too need something. Here is your own basket with the lunch I
ordered you. In a sad state of confusion but still eatable. See, it is
not bad,” and he deftly spread on a napkin before Helen cold chicken,
sandwiches, and fruit.
His care for the little ones as well as for herself touched her and made
her eyes fill, as she remembered that she owed her life to him, and
recalled the sight of his face in the overturned car.
Her voice trembled a little as she thanked him, and the moonlight
betrayed her wet eyes. He fancied she was worn out with excitement and
fatigue, and anxious to cheer her spirits, he whispered to Wilhelm and
his mates,—
“Sing, then, comrades, and while away this tedious night. It is hard for
all to wait so long, and the babies need a lullaby.”
The young men laughed and sang as only German students can sing, making
the night musical with blithe drinking songs, tender love-lays,
battle-hymns, and Volkslieder sweeter than any songs across the water.
Every heart was cheered and warmed by the magic of the music, the babies
fell asleep, strangers grew friendly, fear changed to courage, and the
most forlorn felt the romance of that bivouac under the summer sky.
Dawn was reddening the east when a welcome whistle broke up the camp.
Every one hurried to the railway, but Helen paused to gather a handful
of blue forget-me-nots, saying to Hoffman, who waited with her wraps on
his arm,—
“It has been a happy night, in spite of the danger and discomfort. I
shall not soon forget it; and take these as a souvenir.”
He smiled, standing bare-headed in the chilly wind, for his hat was
lost, his coat torn, hair dishevelled, and one hand carelessly bound up
in his handkerchief. Helen saw these marks of the night’s labors and
perils for the first time, and as soon as they were seated desired to
see his hand.
“It is nothing,—a scratch, a mere scratch, I give you my word,
mademoiselle,” he began, but Wilhelm unceremoniously removed the
handkerchief, showing a torn and bleeding hand which must have been
exquisitely painful.
Helen turned pale, and with a reproachful glance skilfully bound it up
again, saying, as she handed a silken scarf to Wilhelm,—
“Make of that a sling, please, and put the poor hand in it. Care must be
taken, or harm will come of it.”
Hoffman submitted in bashful silence, as if surprised and touched by the
young lady’s interest. She saw that, and added gratefully,—
“I do not forget that you saved my life, though you seem to have done
so. My uncle will thank you better than I can.”
“I already have my reward, mademoiselle,” he returned, with a respectful
inclination and a look she could neither understand nor forget.
* * * * *