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Our resolve was a timely one.

CHAPTER IV

Martha, who had hitherto shown such self-possession, was now seized with the greatest anxiety. She changed color constantly. She tried in vain to control her feelings, but at last her anxiety as well as mine became so great that we drove to the city. The crops were being already gathered from such fields as lay facing the south; nearly all the reapers were women.

While driving up the hill towards the court-house, I saw Edward Levi, the iron merchant, turn about suddenly as he caught sight of us and go towards his house. That was not the way he usually received us; so at once I feared that there was some bad news awaiting us, and that he did not wish to be the first one to tell it to us.

We halted before the court-house, but no one came to the windows; no one came to meet us. We went upstairs into the hall. The councillor's wife stood by the round table in the centre. She kept her hand on the table for a moment; then advancing towards Martha, and taking her hand, she said, "I awaited you here; I did not wish to cause you any emotion on the stairs, much less in the street. Your brother-dear Martha-your brother-died-an heroic death."

She said this with a firm voice; but when she had finished, she sobbed aloud and embraced Martha. The latter sank down beside her. We raised her; her faintness was of short duration, and her mother whispered, "Don't be alarmed! the shock will not harm her."

"My brother!" cried Martha, "I shall never see you more; never call you brother again. Pardon me, mother, I distress you instead of helping you. Where is father?"

"He is gone to the battle-field with Baron Arven. He has telegraphed that he is bringing the body with him. Ludwig, Wolfgang, and that sturdy Ikwarte are of the greatest assistance to him."

"Where is my sister?"

"She is at work in the town-hall. That is the best, the only thing to do-to care for others while you are bowed down with grief. As soon as you are restored, we will go to work together. Only do not idly mourn now! I have had your brother's room put in order; we will take charge of some wounded man and nurse him."

Martha looked wonderingly at her mother. How was such self-control possible! That is the blessing which long and careful culture brings, while it, at the same time, strengthens the moral sense. Her mother was dressed with care; she looked as she did in more peaceful days, and displayed no emotion, deeply as her heart was torn by the loss of her dearly beloved son. She told me that a messenger had come after bandages and to get help for the battle-field, and that her husband had sent word by him that the young lieutenant had been the first officer that had fallen. He had not been rash, but had moved forward at the head of his men with steadfast courage, had broken the ranks of the enemy, and, while crying, "The day is ours! the day is ours!" he had fallen with a bullet in his heart.

Martha was now restored, and a half hour after our arrival we were on our way to the town-hall. Her sister, who was engaged in cutting out garments, came towards us, gave Martha her hand, and repressed the rising tears. She spoke softly to Martha: she evidently begged her not to give vent to her grief before those who were present. Martha accompanied her quietly to the table, and helped to spread out the linen.

The daughter of Councillor Reckingen, who was just budding into womanhood, and who had hitherto been a stubborn, proud girl, lording it over every one, sat among the workers and was in entire harmony with them, while her father had cast aside his grief and joined his comrades in the field. She was placed specially in Christiane's charge.

The children, who were making lint in the basement, were singing the song of "The Good Comrade" – in the hall upstairs everything was still. Orders were given quietly, and the women and maidens passed silently to and fro. It seemed as if some one was lying dead in the adjoining room; but, above all this affliction and sorrow, there was a spirit which had never before shown itself among those present. All class distinctions had ceased, for all were united in their sympathy for their fellow-men.

Why does this spirit of friendship, this unanimity, appear only in times of trouble and sorrow; why not in every-day life?

I felt sure that this union of hearts would remain with us and beautify our lives, and this thought was strengthened by the remark of the lady at whose side I sat, who said, "You see, – this activity is the salvation of many, as you can perceive in your grand-daughter Christiane. She is untiring, and the dissatisfied air her face used to wear is gone. We are now all united. It will not last; but hereafter the thought that there once was a time when the children of the poorer and of the upper classes did not ask 'Who are you, after all?' will greatly benefit us."

I stayed in the city. The next evening, just as it was growing dark, the councillor arrived with his son's body. The whole town, young and old, was collected at the railway station. The children carried wreaths and flowers, the bells were ringing, and thus was the body taken from the station to the churchyard. After a hymn was sung, the clergyman delivered his address. What could he say? He explained in few words that this was not an ordinary funeral, but that we were now parts of one great whole, even in death.

The father, mother, and sisters cast the first clods of earth on the young hero's coffin; the grave was then filled in and covered with flowers.

We had buried the first one who had died for the union and independence of our Fatherland. I was staying with the family which had thus lost its only son. They sat at home in silence; indeed, what could be said?

The parson had added a text from the Bible, and had made some earnest remarks thereon; yet I thought, and am sure that these stricken ones thought as I did, that all political feeling is foreign to that holy book. Patient endurance here, and the hope of better things beyond, suit a nation that is kept in subjection, but not one that is gladly battling and sacrificing itself for its existence. What an entirely different comprehension the Greeks had of exertion carried to its utmost limit. I remembered how, while in prison, the speech of Pericles, delivered at the funeral rites in Athens, had illumined and elevated my soul; and I could almost see the words, for they seemed to have been hewn out of stone, like a finely chiselled piece of sculpture. I found the book in the house, and read the address to the parents and children. I had to stop frequently, for sometimes the father and sometimes the mother would exclaim: "That is intended for us, for to-day."

"No enemy has ever seen our entire forces," says Pericles, and so say we.

"Bold, daring, and calm consideration of what we undertake, are united in us. He among us who does not concern himself about matters of state, is not regarded as a peaceable, but as a useless, man." Pericles shows that he possesses the true religion when he cries: "You must constantly keep before your eyes the powers of the state, and must love them. Seek for happiness in liberty, and for liberty in your own courage."

CHAPTER V

"A Prussian doesn't let go his grip from anything he holds," said Ikwarte to the councillor, when the latter called to him not to let a badly wounded man, who was being carefully carried by, drop. This was, in a certain sense, a motto for us all.

Prussia has the Frenchman in her grip, and will not let him go; and our troops have gone bravely on. The blood of the South and North German has been shed together. Grief for the individual was assuaged by the thought of the result which would be achieved.

The union of the German people is now indissoluble.

The councillor returned to the army.

I was greatly grieved that I could not also lend a hand, and that I was forced to return home, there to watch and wait. But the councillor assured me, and I dare say he was right, that I would be unable to stand the sights of the battle-field. On the first day, he himself, even before he knew of his son's fate, had become so crushed and dazed that he could hardly keep his feet. Now he no longer thought of the misery itself, but solely of the means of remedying it.

Rontheim related, to our momentary amusement, how the vicar had lost the trunk containing his robes of office, and how he therefore had to perform his duties without his distinctive dress: a circumstance which worked no harm, as he was of great service at any rate. Martha took a quantity of goods along, which she wanted either to finish up at home, or to use as a means of instructing the children of our village. We drove home. It seemed like a dream to me that the saw-mill was running, that wagons loaded with wood met us, and that people were at work in the fields. Everything goes its gait, and yonder rages the battle.

At the newspaper-tree we met Carl's mother and Marie, and she called out to me, "Do you see the flock of hungry crows! They are flying beyond the Rhine, to where the boys who used to sing are lying dead-and each of them had a mother."

"Your Carl has written that he is safe and sound."

"Yes, yes, until to-morrow. Come! We'll go home."

The two boundary posts were united by means of a black, red, and gold flag, which had been wound around them. Joseph, whom we met there, had done it. He was greatly shocked at the sight of Martha in mourning, although he had already heard that her brother had fallen; but all life was now so uncertain, that he feared she might also be mourning for Julius. She gave him a letter which her father had brought from Julius. It was full of sadness, but at the same time he wrote with pride of his dead brother-in-law, and expressed himself as being convinced that he would return from the war uninjured.

The days passed by quietly. The school-master reported that the children had become so inattentive that he did not know what to do, for they would not study their lessons, and talked of nothing but the war. He determined to let the children read the newspapers aloud, and copy the reports from the seat of war.

The game-keeper who reported to Joseph told us that fewer crimes were being committed than usual, although the taverns were constantly full. There was a good deal of trespassing on the woods; but that was none of his business.

Short and precise letters came from Carl, and he never forgot to mention that he had enough to eat and drink, for he knew that such news would gladden his mother's heart.

Martha reported that Marie and Carl's mother had stopped going to the newspaper-tree. Marie had learned, to her astonishment, that you could buy your own newspapers, and so she procured one daily. Living in constant dread of her father, she subscribed for it in the name of the schoolmaster, and receiving it every evening, she undertook the troublesome task of reading it aloud to the old woman at night. The worst part of it was that the latter insisted on having the lists of the dead and wounded read to her. She did not know what she should do in case the awful news were to come.

I live among peasants, and see a great deal of rudeness, as well as good feeling; but the greatest affection I ever saw lay in the conduct of Marie towards Carl's mother.

The wagons of our district were ordered to Alsace, and my wagon and team of bays had to go along. I wanted to employ one of the workmen engaged in regulating the course of the river to drive them, but Rothfuss insisted on taking charge of the team himself, so I had to let him go. He was in great spirits, and declared that he would return with the wagon wreathed in flowers, and that Martella and Ernst would sit in it.

Our house became still more quiet now, and when our horses were gone, we felt as if we were cut off from the world.

The nights were so calm and peaceful, the moon shone so clear; no leaf stirred, and even the brook ran dreamily along. And yet, at this time, there were thousands attempting to kill each other.

Martha was often busy looking at the pages of an album through a magnifying glass. This book contained a collection of mosses and ferns, which Julius had arranged for her. Underneath each specimen was noted the place from which it came and when it had been gathered; and there were always added the words "for Martha."

We were in almost daily receipt of postal cards from Julius, and with the same minuteness which he had shown in the album, he gave us the day, hour, and place of writing. Sometimes a sealed letter from him would also reach us. Martha let me read them, and only once did she blushingly cover a postscript with her hand. Conny called my attention to Martha; what a touching and hallowed vision she seemed to be, and how humbly and modestly she bore her life's great secret!

While I was examining the mosses, Martha told me, with radiant face and sparkling eyes, how she had become acquainted with Julius. She had danced with him at a country ball, but they had seen no more of each other.

On the next morning, as she and her sister were walking in the "Rockenthal" and were passing through the shrubbery, they suddenly came to a large pine-tree under which a hunter was sleeping. His dog sat at his side, and they motioned to him to remain quiet, while they both stood there examining the man's youthful, browned features and white brow. Martha summoned up her courage, seized his hat and took out the feathers, replacing them with a bunch of freshly gathered flowers. After this bold deed, the sisters fled to the shrubbery; but the dog barked, and the hunter awoke. He stared about him, seized his gun and hat, apparently puzzled to find the alteration that had been made, and uttered an energetic oath. He just caught sight of the two sisters in their light-blue summer dresses, as they disappeared in the shrubbery. He called after them, and they ran, until Martha stumbled over the root of a tree and fell. "Your voice is too good to swear with," said the sister who had remained standing, and then the young hunter pulled off his hat, and looked confused. Recovering himself immediately, he said, "It was not you, but your sister, who played the robber. She has the feathers yet. I-I thank you for the exchange." Then, as Martha handed him the feathers, and as he held his hat out towards her, he succeeded in touching her hand with his lips. He escorted the two girls through the woods, and starting with the joke of having caught them trespassing, they ended by having a merry talk. He soon begged Martha to sing, for he said that he could see that she, like him, was in the humor of singing. So these two began to sing their favorite songs, which, strangely enough, were the same; and when they reached the road, both of the sisters stretched out their hands to Julius. He held Martha's hand in his the longest, and from that moment their fate was fixed, and became more blissful every day.

He arranged the album while they were engaged. It was filled with the fondest memories, and even I learned much from it that was new to me. Each tree showed me new forms of existence, and in a little while I was able to forget, while contemplating these minute products of nature, the great commotion that was raging so near us. A bird is perched on the telegraph wire, while beneath it the most stirring news is passing silently and invisibly. I often regarded the wires that were stretched in front of my woods. Who knows the news that is flashing through them? We were soon to hear it.

CHAPTER VI

"It thunders, booms, tumbles, and crashes; the mountains are falling, the world is coming to an end!" – thus did Carl's mother cry out in the village street. She refused to be comforted, and when she saw Martha in mourning, she began to shriek out: "Black! black! We shall all be charred to death!"

We succeeded at last in calming her, and then led her home, while round about us a noise like thunder seemed to come from the hills; although not a cloud was visible in the sky.

We knew that Strasburg was being bombarded. The fact was, that the sound of the cannonade struck against the rock behind the spinner's cottage, and rolled thence along the little valleys between the hills.

This lone woman, who could scarcely hear a man's voice, could distinctly perceive the roar of the artillery which shook her cottage.

"My boy is there, my good, my brave son," she cried, when she was told that Strasburg was being bombarded. Then she broke out into a sort of chant: "In Strasburg is the minster; I was in service for five years in the Blauwolken Street; in Strasburg, in Strasburg, in Strasburg," – it sounded like a doleful song. We wanted to induce her to come to us; even Marie wanted to take charge of her; but she caught hold of her table, crying, "No, no! I shall not go from here until I am carried out."

That evening Joseph came for me, saying, that from the top of the stone-wall, the shells could be seen flying through the air. We accompanied him to the spot, and could see the shells rising, then falling and disappearing in little clouds of smoke. The stone-cutter, who had seen service as a soldier, pointed out to us the shells that exploded harmlessly in the air, and those which spread destruction as they burst.

How is it with the people over there on whom this rain of fire is falling? What are they doing at home? What do they say, and think, and what consolation and support do they bring each other? I imagined myself among them, living with them. And my niece was there, too. She had thought to find protection there, and now she was in the greatest danger. And how must my sister, yonder in the forest of Hagenau, be wringing her hands at these sounds and sights! And we are sending death and destruction among those to whom we want to cry, "Come to us, stay with us." The language the cannon speak is a dreadful one.

We had to return home at last. I was so confused and shocked, that Joseph had to lead me. I could hear the guns as I lay in bed; but after a while sleep comes to you in spite of noise and sorrow.

Marie told me the next morning that the spinner had counted the shots by the hour during the night. When she had reached one hundred, beyond which she could not count, she buried her head in the pillow, crying, "I can count no further; I cannot; it is enough!" and had then fallen asleep. Marie asked our aid, for the spinner had said that, when daylight came, she would stand it no longer; she would go to her son.

However, when the next day came she had forgotten her intention. She sat in her room, spinning, and whenever she heard the sound of a gun, would merely open her mouth, but say nothing. Not a word passed her lips for days.

Joseph wanted to visit the besiegers, but I asked him to remain with us, as I wanted to have one of my men about the house.

Every evening the young folks from the village would climb to the top of the hill behind the little stone wall, and, with the light-heartedness of youth, would enjoy themselves in spite of the destruction that was going on before their very eyes.

My sister and her daughter surprised us. The former had visited the camp; had luckily found Julius, and through him had obtained permission for her daughter to leave the fortress. She had left all her property at the mercy of the shells and of the plundering soldiers; for the opinion of the citizens was, that the German soldiers would sack the city. As Germans, they had been regarded with aversion by their neighbors and acquaintances. She left us soon again, so as to be with her husband; but her daughter, who was greatly overcome, remained with us.

Martha and Conny nursed the young wife carefully; and Martha spoke French to her, so as to please her.

A large detachment of captured and wounded French and Algerians came through our valley. The people from all the villages flocked to the high-road to see them pass. I feared that the people would show their irritation, and jeer these unfortunates: but, as if by a tacit agreement, every one kept aloof, and only words of sympathy were heard. It was only when the fantastic, and sometimes terrible-looking Africans appeared, that the dismay of the people showed itself, as they called out, "There they are, the men that were going to burn our towns and forests, the cannibals!"

Rothfuss, with my team of bays, was also in the procession. He halted a moment at the saw-mill near the bridge, and gave a merry account of the kind of load he was carrying. It consisted of wounded Turcos, and he laid great stress on the fact that the French would have nothing in common with these wicked apes. He had to keep on his way.

Great excitement was caused in the village when it was reported that Carl had returned. We all accompanied his mother and Marie down the valley, where he had halted with a squad of prisoners. Marie embraced him before us all, and the prisoners smiled, and imitated the sound of their smacking lips.

Carl had much to tell me, and could not find words to say all he wanted to, particularly in praise of the Pomeranian lancers. He said they were the right sort of fellows-as quiet and strong as the pine-trees; and it was strange to see, when they first saw the Rhine, about which so much had been sung and said, how, in their enthusiasm, they wanted to ride directly into the stream.

His mother and sweetheart accompanied him for some distance on the road, and when they turned to come back the old woman said, "Now I am satisfied; now no one shall hear me complain; I am sure that nothing will happen to him in this war."

We harvested our crops; we placed the green bough on the top of the new mill down in the valley; we began to cut wood in the forest; yet still the thunder of the bombardment of Strasburg continued.

The old meadow farmer lay at home very ill, and often said, "I shall be buried like a soldier; they will fire over my grave."

We buried the old fellow on the morning of September 2d. He had given orders that his St. Helena medal should be buried with him; but his son did not see fit to let this be done. He looked upon this so-called mark of distinction as a means of preservation, in case the French should come after all.

While we were standing at the open grave, Joseph came riding up the hill, his horse very much blown, and cried, "Napoleon is a prisoner!" We all hurried to the road where Joseph, still on horseback, read the extra aloud. It was the account of the capture of Napoleon at Sedan.

What strange coincidences occur in life! We had just buried the last man in our village who wore on his breast the badge of the infamy of our alliance with Napoleon; and now we had his successor and heir a prisoner in our hands.

As if by a preconcerted signal, the young people of the village struck up, "Die Wacht am Rhein."

Without awaiting the parson's permission-very likely he wouldn't have given it-the church-bells were rung, and the German flag was thrown to the breeze from the top of the church spire. We returned home as if in a dream.

When my niece, the Alsacienne, heard the news, she shook her head, and refused to be convinced of its truth.

She had been always accustomed to hear the lying despatches of her countrymen.

After the Sedan campaign, we all thought that the war was ended; but the French people, in their overweening confidence, still insisted on retaining the first place among nations, and resented the idea of their giving up the German provinces, of which in former days they had robbed us.

The war went on without ceasing.