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CHAPTER XIV

It was now highly important to find Ernst. We left the house before day-break; Bertha was still sleeping.

I permitted Martella and Rothfuss to conduct me to the hospital in which the Colonel was lying. I was scarcely conscious where I was, or whither I was going; I felt as if there was a heavy burden upon my shoulders, and could not help looking to the right and left, as if something was threatening me. But I could endure it and could proceed without assistance.

Rolunt seemed to have expected me. He said the Colonel was in about the same condition, neither better nor worse. I bade him send one of the female attendants to Bertha; I could not tell him who it was I sought.

When we left the house, my grandson, the vicar, approached me. "Grandfather, I know all," said he, "but at such a time one can bear manifold troubles. I also endure them; I have just come from my sad duties at a deathbed."

I told him that we were seeking Ernst, and we thought he might be with those with whom, just before the march, he had held a brief divine service. We went with him. The day began to dawn.

The graceful figure of Martella seemed to hover in the gray twilight, and as she turned and looked upon me, it seemed to me that the extraordinary depth of the sockets of her eyes was greater than ever. There was something sadly brilliant in her glance, and it seemed directed to a distance.

Before the village, on a plain in front of a small hill, the regiments were formed in deep squares, presenting masses that looked like church walls.

We searched around. Martella went to the left, Rothfuss to the right. They came back; they had not found Ernst, and yet he must be there. Martella stood quietly near me; only once did she look up at me, and her eye was piercingly brilliant. She folded her hands together convulsively, apparently, also, to conceal her trepidation.

A chorale was performed by the band, in which all the troops present joined, while the heavens reddened as the vicar, with steady steps, descended the hill, and wended his way towards us. Every one held his breath; perhaps Ernst is down there among them.

The vicar spoke with a clear voice. He had pleased by his written words, but when he spoke, it was still better and more inspiring.

"See here!" he exclaimed. "I have come here without any Bible. Holy is the Book of Revelation, thrice holy. With it the world has learned to comprehend itself and God, and will gather instruction from it to all eternity.

"I carry it in my heart, and from my heart I call out to you in the words of the Apostle Paul (Romans xiv. 7): 'For none of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself.' That should be in your soul, in your memory, should your soul be in a struggle, and, if it must be so, in death. Thou art not for thyself in this world, and goest not for thyself from this world. Thou art called, thou art mustered for the great universal battle for the holy kingdom of the spirit, of honor, of freedom, of unity.

"Just imagine, ye who have achieved the victory and must again win it, how it would be if all these things were reversed.

"The spirit of darkness hovers in the air like millions of black ravens, hiding the sun and blighting everything that hath life. Through the streets of thy native villages rage the wild hordes of Asia, and murder, robbery, outrage, and fire prevail everywhere.

"Thou who mournest thy brother, or thy fallen comrade, thou that liest wounded, forget thy pain. Open thine eyes! Through thee, through thy comrades, the light of the world is rescued: knowledge, justice, decency, honor, integrity. I say it to you and you may say it to each other; for thus has God willed it.

"And thou who still holdest the weapon in thy firm grasp, be of cheerful heart! The saints hover over the banners that you shall victoriously bring home; and when the bloody, cruel, terrible work is done, then you will permit no other pride to possess you, than that you were summoned to labor for the kingdom of freedom and unity, for the kingdom of the spirit, in which there is no enemy to be conquered, but in which each shall be a moving temple of the Holy Spirit. Keep yourselves firm: for none of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself. Amen!"

A quiet prayer was offered up; then the regiments moved into column, and the whole army set itself in motion.

The vicar came to me, and for a long while held me by the hand. We uttered no word. Then he followed the army, and I went with Rothfuss and Martella back to the hospital.

CHAPTER XV

We met Annette, whose presence had greatly improved Bertha's spirits.

Annette took us into an out-of-the-way room, and there said, "I have for a long time called you father from mere sentiment. You allowed me, but now I dare to do so because it is my right."

She gave me a letter from Richard, from head quarters, and the letter was addressed, "My beloved bride."

Annette kissed my trembling hands, and she kissed me again and again, when I told her that my wife in her dying hour had called out, "Richard will marry her after all."

Annette added that they did not intend to get married until peace was concluded.

"Of course," said Bertha, as if addressing me, "you will understand that we can give no expression to our joy just now."

Annette, indeed, did not permit us to linger long over this joyful message. She said that her patients now claimed all her time, and only while we were descending the steps, she once stopped and quietly related to us how her old custom of pouring out her feelings with every new experience had suddenly opened the hearts that had so long been as if sealed towards each other. She had said to Richard, who recently passed through here, "So long as men are well, they are all alike. When they are wounded or sick, each one displays the traits that are peculiar to him." Then Richard replied, "You speak from my mother's soul;" and on that day they were betrothed.

"Now I no more need," said Annette, as we went on, "to chloroform my soul with religion. I have learned to apply the real chloroform, and in helping others we help ourselves also."

Annette invited us to go with her to the patients; she might thereby make the tedious hours of watching more easy for Bertha. She first conducted us to a handsome young man with a full, blond beard, whose thigh had been fractured. Her mere appearance seemed to revive the sick man.

It was a pathetic look with which he gazed upon her, and stretched his thin hand towards her.

Annette introduced him to us as an artist of great repute, and, assuming a merry tone of voice, she said, "He has painted me in other colors. He does not like the dull and sombre black; indeed, the silver-gray dress with the white apron is much more cheerful. And why should we not be cheerful?"

The face of the young man brightened, and Annette bade Bertha to read something to him. In going the rounds, she made us acquainted with a wounded German officer, who never ceased heaping extravagant praises upon his nurse. Annette bade me to come quickly to a man from my village, for whom I could perhaps do something, and, with a trembling voice, mentioned Carl's name to me.

We approached his bed. He gazed upon me with staring eyes, and cried, in heart-rending tones, "Mother, mother!" I spoke to him; I asked him if he knew me. But he continually exclaimed, "Mother, mother, mother!"

The surgeon came and bade us leave the patient. Then he said to Annette, "Have a screen placed here. This young man may die at any moment, and the others should neither see nor know of it."

Just as the screen was put in its place, the door opened, and a voice was heard, "My child! my child! Carl! my child! Carl!"

"Mother, mother!" cried the wounded man, and he raised himself up, and mother and son were folded in each other's arms. Then Carl cried out, "Marie! you too! you too, there! Come!"

He then fell back.

The surgeon then approached and said, "He is extremely weak, and in a critical condition!" Restoratives were applied and he opened his eyes.

After a while he said, "How did you know that I-"

"Be quiet! don't speak so much! Don't exert yourself too much. Your eyes have already told me everything. And now, yes, it was the vicar, Waldfried's grandson, who wrote me where you were."

"I am hungry. Give me something to eat!"

"I have brought you one of our hens; I brought it all the way from home," said the old woman.

"I must eat, I must eat!" exclaimed Carl. His strength, wasted and exhausted through loss of blood, appeared to return, and he seemed rescued by the magic of love.

His mother ought to have left him, but she would not obey the surgeon. She obeyed me, however. When she saw Bertha, she cried out, "My son, my Carl, my child lives! Bertha! I tell you, your husband who lies there-Bertha, your husband is saved too: he will be saved."

"Bertha!" We heard a call from the adjoining room; it was the voice of the colonel.

Bertha almost swooned; I caught her in my arms. She collected herself and hurried towards the door; it was closed. Annette called to us from within, that we should wait quietly, for it was a critical moment.

What anxious moments were those, while we stood at the door listening to the movements and groans within.

After a while, the surgeon hastily opened the door, and said, "Now go away softly! There has been a hemorrhage, and the ball has come with it. There is now a chance of his recovery, but I must insist on perfect quiet!"

Bertha sank to the floor, while she placed her finger on her lips, and motioned me to be silent. They say that we were only waiting a quarter of an hour. But oh! how long it seemed! Then the surgeon opened the door again, and, seeing Bertha on the floor, said, "You may go in now and shake hands with the Colonel, but do not say anything to him, as he is not allowed to speak for the present."

Bertha went in. She reached her hand to her husband. He moved his eyes in recognition; then the surgeon motioned us to depart.

We went away. From afar, we could hear the rattle of musketry and the roar of artillery, and the reports constantly became louder and more frequent.

CHAPTER XVI

Evening was approaching, when the surgeon sent us word that his patient had been sleeping. He had awakened and asked for Bertha and me.

We went to him. He could only recognize us by glances, and a wonderful smile overspread his features. He turned his eyes to the surgeon, who understood him, and said, "Yes, your wife may sit here for a quarter of an hour. But you must both be perfectly quiet."

And so we sat there speechless, and heard the din of battle gradually cease; only occasional shots were now fired.

I was called to the front of the house. Martella and Rothfuss stood before me. Martella, breathless, told me that Ernst's company had again been in the fight, many were missing, and, among them, Ernst; he ought to be hunted up.

Rothfuss desired that I should stay behind; but Martella exclaimed, seizing my arm, "What do you mean? Father goes with us!"

She had made a wreath to take to Ernst, and she held it in her trembling hands. She carried Ernst's prize-cup and a bottle of wine in a basket on her arm.

We went through the village towards the hill. Four men approached with a litter.

"Ernst! Ernst!" cried Martella.

The two men stopped, and one asked, "Who's there? Who calls?" It was Ikwarte's voice.

"Set it down!" commanded the other. "Isn't that Martella?" It was Wolfgang who spoke.

We stepped nearer. They carried a man who had been shot in the leg. The man raised his head, and said, "That is his father." It was the son of the owner of the saw-mill down in the valley. "He commissioned me to carry his love to you. He made himself known to me."

"Where is he? Is he dead?"

"He must be lying up there. Oh! he has done great things."

"What has he done? Where is he?" anxiously inquired Martella. "Speak! be quick! listen, father!"

The wounded man raised himself with difficulty and spoke:

"We stood within range of the enemy's batteries. Shot after shot tore through our ranks. Many were falling. Everybody sheltered himself. Ernst stood upright, and said in a clear voice, 'Stand firm! Face the bullets! That's the way to be brave.' Finally, we advanced, when a lieutenant was shot in the forehead; our sergeant stepped into his place, and he also fell. Then Ernst took command, and marched along by the drummer. Bang! then the drummer was shot. Ernst unloosened the drum from his body, and drummed for us. He beat a powerful flourish, and cried out, 'Give it to them!' Then there came a shell, and I lay on the ground and saw nothing more. When I came to myself, I still heard drumming. But all at once there was a report, a cry-and the drumming ceased."

Martella tore up the wreath; but she quickly seized the grasses and flowers and held them with a convulsive grasp.

"Away! away! we must find him!" she exclaimed. "We must find him! He is living!"

Ikwarte and Wolfgang hastened with the wounded man into a neighboring house. Not far off, a wagon stopped. They returned with it, and Wolfgang and Martella sat in it with me. So we drove on through the entire night. Ikwarte knew where the miller's son was sheltered. We were silent; only Martella murmured to herself, "Keep up, Ernst; keep up! We are coming! Oh! mother in heaven, look down upon him!"

We were obliged to get out-the road crossed the fields. I went a little distance, but could go no farther. Both of the faithful servants begged that Wolfgang would stay with me. We sat down by the roadside, and noticed a moving object quite near us. It was a wounded horse, that raised its head, and then, with a rattle in its throat, fell back dead.

We heard Martella, across the field, calling, "Ernst! Ernst! my Ernst! where are you! Ernst! we are here, your father and I!" Then we heard nothing more.

A chill seized me. The ground was damp, and Wolfgang insisted that I should sit upon the dead horse, whose body was still warm. We quietly waited. In the heavens the clouds were scudding by, and here and there the stars sparkled. In the village a clock commenced striking. Wolfgang counted aloud: it struck eleven.

Now some one approached; my name was called. It was Ikwarte.

"We have found him," he joyfully exclaimed. "Come quickly!"

"Is he living?"

"Yes."

Accompanied by Ikwarte and Wolfgang, I went along. Oh! I cannot tell the horrors I then saw and heard.

"There, by the torch, there he is!"

My knees shook under me. Then a man came again towards us, and cried out, "Grandfather, come! There is yet time!"

It was my grandson, the vicar. We reached the place. There lay Martella on the ground bending over a figure. Rothfuss stood by her with the torch, and Martella cried, "Ernst, wake up! Your father is here!"

I kneeled down by him. I saw his face. His eyes were closed, but his breast rose and fell quickly.

"Ernst! my beloved child! my long-lost child! Ernst! your father calls you! Your mother calls you from eternity! Ernst, you shall live! you have repented; you have atoned! Ernst, Ernst! my son, my son!"

He opened his eyes and moved his hand towards me. I seized it; it was stiff.

"Father, forgive!" he moaned. "Martella, pardon! Oh! mother-father!"

He breathed his last breath. I just saw Martella throw herself upon him, with an agonizing cry; then I saw and heard nothing more.

BOOK SIXTH

CHAPTER I

"Stand firm! Face the bullets!" With these words, Ernst had encouraged his men to the last. My own experience illustrated them.

For a considerable time, I did not know what had happened, either to me or to those about me. I only knew that I lay behind a white curtain with blue flowers, and could not keep my eyes open for any length of time. The flowers assumed all sorts of odd shapes, and the fantastic figures seemed to be ever changing and rushing towards me.

I think I was not really sick, only inexpressibly weak; and the fatigue and exhaustion prevented me from directing my thoughts at will. I was childishly grateful for everything. I looked at the wood in the door and rejoiced that it was firm; I heard the fire in the stove and was delighted that it warmed me; I was grateful to the bed that supported me, so that I did not need to do it myself.

I remember that Bertha and Annette would occasionally visit me; but my grandson Wolfgang stayed with me nearly all the time. Through the hardships of war and constant exposure, Wolfgang had almost ripened into manhood. He had become stronger and stouter than of old, and his voice was now more manly.

"I am so glad, grandfather, to hear you call me by my own name again; you always used to call me Ernst," said Wolfgang one day, and from that hour I felt that the heavy clouds were slowly clearing away; and when they had disappeared, I saw everything around me distinctly, and by degrees I remembered what had happened.

"Is Ernst-buried?"

"Yes, grandfather."

I now asked Wolfgang to inform me what had occurred while I was unconscious, and what had become of Martella.

"Grandfather," said Wolfgang, "I must tell you the truth. Martella is no longer separated from Ernst. She has reached the goal."

I felt as if the clouds were again gathering before my eyes, but, through the mists, I met Gustava's lustrous eyes, saying, "She was true till death."

Wolfgang took my hand in his, and the youth's firm grasp gave me renewed strength. I begged him to tell me all, and he began:

"We brought you down to Aunt Annette, who, foreboding evil, had met us half-way. It then suddenly occurred to us that in our dreadful excitement and anxiety about you, no one had taken care of Martella, and that she had not followed us. Rothfuss said he was completely worn out, and must stay with his master. Ikwarte has nerves and muscles of steel. I felt as if my eyes burnt in their sockets; never before had I been so tired; but I returned with him, nevertheless, to the battle-field, half dead with sleep and fatigue." Wolfgang shivered, stopped awhile, and then continued: "We knew the place where Ernst lay, and soon found him. The moon lit up his face wonderfully. Beside him lay Martella, motionless; she clung to him in a close embrace, cheek to cheek, hand in hand. Is she dead, too? It were best! I bent down to her; she breathed heavily. I called her name. How she stared at me wildly and vacantly! Then she motioned us to be quiet, and whispered, 'He will soon be warm again; soon, very soon.' I tried to persuade her to follow us; she answered, 'O Wolfgang! you are so good; bring some wild honey. Oh, wait, Ernst! your nephew is coming with wild honey, and here I have your cup, your hunting cup.' I tried to persuade her, and she answered, 'Oh, you have mother's voice. Mother, tell him, oh, tell him to rise again.' She threw herself beside the corpse, and when I cried, 'Martella, get up; come with us,' she answered, 'You see he cannot move now, but I will follow you; you have my mother's voice.' She did not then seem to remember the dead. She went with me and let me lead her by the hand; but suddenly she tore away and returned, crying, 'They leave him lying alone on the cold ground, in the dark night.'

"She broke down. We tried to administer some restorative, but her mouth was firmly closed, and her breast was heaving violently. At last Ikwarte succeeded in administering the draught. We brought her to a ruined house in the vicinity. The doors had all been taken off-I had helped at the work myself; they had done service as litters.

"We placed Martella on a seat by the hearth, and I succeeded in gathering some wood and starting a fire. 'Oh, how good! Oh, how warm!' said she to the flickering flames. Her teeth chattered. We hoped that, after she was well warmed, she would be able to go farther with us. She sat there quietly, her elbows resting on her knees, her face covered with both her hands.

"'Wolfgang, keep me with you,' she said suddenly. 'Be good to me; you are his brother's child; keep me with you-do not leave me. Tell me how many years it is since he died? O Ernst, you are so happy that I cannot weep. Why are you glad? Oh, if I could but weep! You have been away so long, and why do you not return? What shall I do in this world without you! Mother, Ernst is with you; you do not need him; send him to me-he is mine. I have nothing more in this world. My dog is dead, too. My little red stockings-oh, I was so happy. Martella is lost. Hunt for her in the woods where the wild honey grows. Do you hear the cuckoo? Cuckoo!'

"She stared vacantly into the flames; then she cried: 'My eyes burn like fire! I cannot weep. O Ernst! Ernst!'

"She tore the satchel from her girdle, tore the letter of pardon into fragments, and cried: 'Everything shall burn just as my eyes do. Come here, your Highness, and see how your handwriting burns.'

"Dawn was breaking. Through the open door, we saw some men approaching with a litter.

"'Here is Herr Rautenkron,' said Ikwarte. Martella rushed out and saw the men carrying Ernst's body. She rushed towards them, sank beside the litter and cried: 'My Ernst! You are not dead!'

"A fearful shriek, which rang out far over the barren fields, was forced from her tortured breast. She clasped her hand to her heart while a flood of tears streamed over her cheeks. Suddenly she broke down and sank on the body of Ernst. A physician, who had come with the men, laid his hand on her heart. It was still: he listened for her breathing; it had ceased.

"'My child! my child!' cried Rautenkron; she heard nothing more."

So ended Wolfgang's story. His firm hand clasped mine, and I felt as if that alone held me there among the living.

"And what became of Rautenkron?" I was able to ask after a long interval.

"He had suddenly become an old man, with hollow cheeks and lustreless eyes. He sat on the ground, stared at the corpse, and did not speak a word. It rained in torrents. Every one endeavored to induce Rautenkron to seek the shelter of the hut, but he did not answer. At last he arose, pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, lit a cigar, and said to me, 'Stay here; I shall come back presently.' After a while, he returned with axe and spade. Alone, he dug the grave in which Ernst and Martella were laid."

Wolfgang paused, and I remembered the sacred verses from the lament of David for Jonathan:

"In death they were not divided."

"Where is Rautenkron?" I asked at last.

"When the grave was filled up, he disappeared. Later, we learned his fate. You remember that our men had taken the city near by and occupied it; but the French had so strengthened the castle which commanded it, that it seemed impossible to drive them out. Rautenkron volunteered to discover the mines which doubtless were under it. No one knows how he gained an entrance, but on the following day the powder-magazines in the cellars of the castle exploded and destroyed part of the castle, which was then stormed. Great numbers of the enemy were killed. Careful search was made for Rautenkron, but no trace of him was discovered, and as, up to this time, nothing has been heard of him, it seems sure that he was buried beneath the ruins."