It was a stormy night. The wind was howling through the pines, and driving the snow in dense clouds from the highway leading through, the forest. There was no sound, save that of the winter's gale, and the trees groaning beneath its power. A solitary light, twinkling as a star through the dark woods, was shedding its beams on this desolate scene. It proceeded from a small house near the main road, where the forest-keeper had peacefully lived with his wife for more than twenty years. On the hearth in the cottage a merry fire was burning, and Katharine, the forest-keeper's wife, was industriously occupied with it, while the young servant-girl, seated on a low cane chair near the hearth, her hands clasped on her lap, had fallen asleep.
"Martha," exclaimed the old woman, in an angry voice, "—are you asleep again?"
The girl opened her eyes lazily and yawned. "Why should I not sleep?" she asked. "It is time to do so, and every Christian has long since gone to bed. Let me also go to my bedchamber and sleep!"
"No, you must stay here," said Katharine, quickly; "I do not want to be alone in such a night. The wind is roaring in the chimney so fearfully that we might almost fancy Old Nick or the French were coming down to carry us away, or, at any rate, our last piece of bread and meat!"
"Meat!" ejaculated the servant-girl, laughing scornfully. "Old Nick, or even the French, would be unable to find any meat in your house. Would that I could only get the wages you owe me for the last six months, I should leave forthwith this miserable place, where one has so little to eat, and where it is so dreadfully tiresome!"
"You have not suffered hunger as yet, Martha," said the old woman, deprecatingly. "It is true, we have no meat left; the last ham we had has been consumed, and our last chickens had to be taken to town to be sold there—"
"And your husband has taken away your only cow," cried Martha, half angrily, half sadly; "he is going to sell the good animal that always gave us such excellent milk and butter. I tell you it is a shame that he should do so, and I shall never go back to the stable where my dear cow's lowing will no more greet me!"
"You will, nevertheless, have to go back, Martha, for the two goats are still there; you must give them fodder, so that they may give us milk. They are all we have left! Do you think it did not grieve me to part with our fine cow which I had raised myself? I wept for her all last night, and would have given away my hand rather than sell her. But no one would have paid any thing for my old hand. We had to have money to pay your wages, so as not to be obliged to listen longer to your continued importunities. That was the reason why my good old man took the cow to town. It cut him to the quick to hear you dunning us all the time for a few dollars."
The servant-girl cast down her eyes and blushed. "I did not mean any harm, Mde. Katharine," she said, in confusion. "It was mere talk; I always hoped master would take a lesson from me and dun the count in the same manner for his own wages. But the great lords are living sumptuously, and do not care whether their servants are starving to death or not!"
"Our count, Martha, does not live sumptuously," said Katharine, heaving a sigh. "The French destroyed his palace, and—but hush! Did you not hear something outside? I thought I heard some one call."
The two women were silent and listened; but nothing was to be heard. The storm was howling, and rattling the windows. At times an iron hand seemed to pass across the panes—it was the snow which the wind lashed against the house as if intending to awaken the inmates from their slumbers.
"A terrible night!" murmured Katharine, shuddering. "I hope that my dear old man won't return in such a storm, but stop with one of his friends at the neighboring village. Heaven preserve any human being out in such a night as this on the highway, and from—"
A loud knock at the window-panes interrupted her, and a voice outside shouted imperiously, "Open the door!"
The two women uttered a shrill scream, and Martha clung anxiously and with both her hands to Katharine's arm.
"I beseech you, Mde. Katharine," she whispered with quivering lips, "don't open. It is assuredly Old Nick or the French that want to come in!"
"Fiddlesticks! The devil does not wait for the door to open, but comes down the flue," said Katharine; "and as to the French, the Parlez-vous, why, they cannot speak German. Just listen how they are commanding and begging outside. 'Open the door!' Well, yes, yes! I am coming. No one shall say that old Katharine suffered people to freeze to death in the forest while she had fire on her hearth." Disengaging herself from Martha's grasp, she hastened to the door, and opening it quickly, said, "Whoever you may be, you are welcome!"
The storm rushed in with a terrible noise, driving the snow into the house, and blowing up the fire on the hearth into a still brighter blaze.
There appeared on the threshold a tall lady, wrapped in a dark velvet cloak, trimmed with fur; her head covered with a silken cape, to which a white lace veil was fastened. Behind her were another richly-dressed lady, and two men in blue coats, splendidly embroidered with silver.
"You permit us, then, my dear woman, to enter your house and stop here overnight?" asked the veiled lady, in a gentle, sonorous voice.
Old Katharine stood staring at her. She felt as frightened as if a sorceress had entered her house. "First let me see your face," she said, growing bold notwithstanding her inward terror; "I must see who you are."
An indignant murmur arose among the attendants of the lady, but she ordered them to be quiet with a wave of her hand. She then turned once more to Katharine. "Well, my good woman, look at me," she said, drawing back her veil.
A pale, wondrously beautiful face was visible, and eyes more lustrous than the old woman had ever seen before, looked at her gently and kindly.
"Do you know me now?" asked the lady, with a smile full of touching melancholy.
"No," said Katharine, "I do not know you, but you are as beautiful as the angels that sometimes appear to me in my dreams, or as the fairies of whom my mother used to tell me when I was a little child. Come in, you as well as the others. There is room at the hearth for all who are cold."
The strange lady smiled and advanced into the cottage; before doing so, however, she turned around. "M. von Schladen," she said, in French, "pray, give orders to all not to betray my incognito. I am here the Countess von Hohenzieritz; please inform the servants of it."
The gentleman, who had just appeared on the threshold, bowed and stepped back. She and her companion approached the fire; the two servants, in their gorgeous liveries, stood in silence at the open door. The lady took off her fur gloves with a hasty motion, and held her small white hands toward the fire. A ring with large diamonds was sparkling on her forefinger. Old Katharine had never before seen any thing like it—she stood staring at the lady, and dreaming again of the fairy-stories of her childhood, while Martha sat on her cane chair as if petrified, and afraid lest the slightest noise should dispel the enchanting apparition.
"Oh, how pleasant this is!" said the lady, drawing a deep breath; "my hands were quite chilled. Countess Truchsess, come here and follow my example!"
The young lady, who was standing near in a silent and respectful attitude, approached the fire, and eagerly stretched her small hands toward it.
"How comfortable, is it not?" asked the lady who had styled herself Countess von Hohenzieritz. "Oh, after suffering from the cold a whole day, we learn to appreciate the boon of the fire which otherwise we fear as a dangerous element." And thoughtfully looking into the warm glow, she muttered to herself, "We are now wandering about in the cold, and are chilled; will no hospitable fire warm our hearts again?" She bent forward without uttering a complaint, or heaving a sigh.
Katharine could not avert her eyes; she gazed at the lady's sparkling jewels, and then looked at her face. Suddenly she noticed two diamond drops roll slowly over her transparent cheeks; but they were no diamonds like those flashing on her hands—they were tears. She shook them off with an impetuous motion, and turned to old Katharine, who, clasping her hands, asked herself wonderingly whether angels could weep.
"My good woman," said the countess, "will you permit us to stay here until daybreak? We have lost our way in the snow-storm. We thought to reach Königsberg before nightfall, but, I suppose, the city is yet quite distant?"
"Ten hours, at least," said Katharine, timidly. "You have lost your way, indeed—probably at the cross-roads, two miles from here. Instead of following the main one, you took the side-road. Well, such things may happen to the most skilful driver, in a snow-storm, when he cannot see his hand before him."
"I believe that such things may happen, and do not blame any one for what has occurred," said the countess, gently. "Tell me now, have you room and beds for all of us?"
"The two ladies may sleep in my bed, provided they occupy it together. But I have no others," said Katharine.
"I need no bed," exclaimed the younger lady, quickly; "I shall content myself with sitting at the fireside."
"And I," said M. von Schiaden, who had just entered, "I beg leave to be allowed to pass the night in the travelling-coach."
"You will catch cold in the carriage, sir," said Katharine, "and there is danger, moreover, that, falling asleep, you might never wake again. But in the hay-loft it is warm and soft; you and the other gentleman may sleep there, if you please."
The Countess Hohenzieritz smiled. "Well," she said, "a high-chamberlain in a hay-loft! That is a melancholy adventure, I should think?"
"No, gracious countess, it sounds quite ludicrous," said the high-chamberlain, "and if only your—if only the gracious countess had a good bed, I should have no reason whatever for being melancholy. There are thousands nowadays sleeping on the hard ground, without a bunch of hay for a pillow!"
"Our dead of Jena and Auerstadt, for instance," said the countess, sighing. "But they are well: the dead sleep gently! At times I feel like envying them, for their rest is more peaceful than that of the living. Let us not murmur, but rejoice at having found shelter for the night! We shall remain, then, in this room, and the high-chamberlain will sleep in the hay-loft. But where shall we place our servants, and what is to become of our horses?"
"How many horses have you?" asked Katharine.
"Six horses and an outrider," said M. von Schiaden.
"What!" exclaimed Katharine, in dismay. "Six horses! How extravagant in times so wretched as these, when the king himself would be glad to have two horses to his carriage, and—"
"Silence!" interrupted the high-chamberlain in great excitement.
"You are right, my dear woman," said the countess, smiling. "The king will certainly be glad to have two horses left, especially if they always draw him in the right way. But it was no wanton arrogance on our part to take so many horses; we did so only on account of the bad roads, and in order to travel as rapidly as possible."
"Well, the horses can stand in the cow-stable and the wood-shed," said Katharine. "Go, Martha, light the lanterns, and show the coachman to the stable, and the gentleman to the hay-loft. I will make the bed for the ladies." And, drawing back the blue-striped linen curtains covering the large old family-bed, she muttered to herself: "It is very lucky that my old man has not come home; otherwise I should really be at a loss where to place my high-born guests."
Half an hour afterward tranquillity again reigned in the cottage. The horses, the servants, and the high-chamberlain, had been conducted to their quarters in the cow-stable, wood-shed, and hay-loft. Katharine and Martha had withdrawn to the servant-girl's small chamber, and on the lower floor, which served, at the same time, as a kitchen, hall, and sitting-room, a couch had been prepared for the two ladies. But the young Countess von Truchsess could not be prevailed upon to occupy one-half. She placed the cane chair against the high bedstead, and, sitting on it as on a tabouret at the foot of a throne, she supported her head on the cushions of the bed, over which the crimson satin blanket, lined with fur, that the ladies had wrapped around their feet in the carriage, had been spread. The Countess von Hohenzieritz was reposing on this, her noble form still wrapped in the fur robe, falling down to her feet in ample folds; her head was leaning back on the cushions, and the crimson of the blanket contrasted strikingly with her white cheeks and light-brown hair. She had clasped her small, slender hands on her lap; her large eyes looked upward in devotion, and her lips uttered fervent words, which no one heard and understood but He to whom they were addressed.
The fire on the hearth, to which large logs of wood had been added, continued blazing merrily; at times, when the wind came down the chimney violently, the flames rose high, and the beautiful figure in the miserable room was illuminated by the red light as by a halo. Her countenance was as pale and peaceful as that of the blessed dead, and yet an ardent vitality was beaming in her unclosed eyes. On the wretched bed in the peasant's cottage she was dreaming of her former happiness—of the magnificent days which she had seen, and which, she believed, would never return. But she did not bewail her departed glory, and her menaced welfare caused her no regret.
"Preserve to me, merciful God! the love of my husband," she whispered; "let my children grow great in name and in soul. Oh, if I could purchase happiness for them by sacrificing my life, I would gladly let my heart's blood ebb away drop by drop—if by my death I could restore to my husband his former power, how cheerfully I would die! O my God, save and protect Prussia: but if such should not be Thy will, teach us how to fall and die with her in an honorable manner! Preserve us from disgrace and despondency; teach us how to bear great disasters with dignified resignation, and grant that we may never be so faint-hearted as to sink beneath petty calamities!"
She paused, and looked upward with radiant eyes; just then the storm outside was howling with awful violence, and made the cottage tremble. "Such a storm without, and peace within! Let it always be so, my God," she whispered, gently pressing her hand against her breast. "O peace, sweet peace, when will it descend to us from heaven!" Gradually the words died away on her lips; her eyelids drooped. Heaven sent to her the brother of peace—sleep—that it might comfort her weary eyes and invigorate her after the troubles and exertions of the previous day. The storm continued all night long, but the beautiful sleeper heard it only as a lullaby hushing her to sweet repose.
At daybreak there was a stir in the cottage. Katharine came to rekindle the extinct fire, and the two ladies rose, chilled and shuddering, to prepare for their journey. The travelling-coach, drawn by the six horses, rolled up to the door, and High-chamberlain von Schladen rapped timidly and begged leave to enter. The countess bade him come in, and replied with a sweet smile to his inquiries as to her night's rest. "I have slept," she said, "and feel sufficiently invigorated now to continue the journey."
"In four hours we shall be in Königsberg," said M. von Schladen. "It is a clear morning; the storm is over, and the sun will soon burst forth from behind the clouds."
"'The sun will soon burst forth from behind the clouds,'" repeated the countess, musingly. "Those are cheering words; could they but be fulfilled for all of us! Let us hasten to reach Königsberg; for there at least will be one sunbeam for me—I shall see my children again, and my husband also will join us on returning from the Russian camp."
M. von Schladen advanced a few steps, and said in a low and hurried voice: "The king is already in Königsberg. I have seen a peasant, the owner of this cottage, who has come from Königsberg. He walked all night, and left the city just at the moment when the king with his suite returned."
"And did the man bring other news?" asked the lady, hastily.
"A rumor was in circulation in Königsberg that the French were advancing from Posen, and, the Russian columns being also on the move, it was generally believed that a battle would soon take place."
The lady walked rapidly to the door. "Let us set out as soon as possible," she said; suddenly, however, she turned pale and leaned against the wall to prevent herself from falling.
"Oh," she murmured faintly, "what weak, pitiful beings we are, after all! The soul is strong enough to bear the heaviest burden, but the body is so weak that a twelve hours' fast is sufficient to overpower it!"
Just then Katharine entered the room; on seeing the lady looking so faint, she hastened to her, and asked sympathizingly for the cause of her pallor and exhaustion.
"I will tell you, my dear woman," whispered the lady, with a sad smile, "I am hungry!"
"Oh," sighed M. von Schladen, "and we have no refreshments with us!"
"But I have some for the beautiful lady," said Katharine, proudly. "I was right in thinking that high-born people must eat sometimes, and are not refreshed merely by their magnificent dresses and the splendor surrounding them, but are obliged to put something into their mouths, like us common people. Look, there is Martha with the breakfast!" And, in truth, Martha was just entering the door, holding in her hand a pitcher filled with fresh, smoking milk.
Katharine took an earthen cup from the shelf near the hearth, and filled it to the brim. "Now drink," she said, handing the cup to the countess; "it will strengthen you; it is splendid goat's milk, so fine and warm that city folks never get any thing like it; no fire warmed this milk, but God, who gave life and warmth to my dear goat. Drink, then, in His name!"
"No refreshment has ever been presented to me in so cordial a manner," said the countess, nodding kindly to the old peasant-woman. "I shall carefully remember your heart-felt words, and drink the milk in the name of the good Lord, but only provided you, Countess Truchsess, and you, too, M. von Schiaden, can likewise have a cup of this splendid milk."
"We shall have some," said the Countess von Truchsess; "please your—, the gracious countess will please drink her milk." The countess placed the cup on the window-sill without having touched it with her lips. "You see I am waiting," she said—"make haste!" She herself then hastened to the cupboard near the hearth, and took from it two small earthen jars, which she handed to Katharine to fill with milk.
"And have you not something to eat with the milk, my dear woman?" asked M. von Schladen, in a low voice.
"I have but a loaf of stale brown bread," said Katharine, "but I am afraid it will be too hard for the fine teeth of the countess."
"Give it to me at all events," said the countess, "my teeth will be able to manage it."
Old Katharine took a large loaf of bread from the cupboard, cut off a thick slice, and presented it on the bright pewter plate, the principal ornament of her house. The countess broke off a piece, and, leaning against the window, commenced eating her frugal breakfast.
The Countess von Truchsess and the high-chamberlain had retired to the hearth to partake of the strange and unwonted food. Katharine and Martha stood at the door, staring admiringly at the lady who was leaning against the window, and just lifting the stale brown bread to her mouth. She did not notice that the two were looking at her; she was gazing thoughtfully at the large bedstead in which she had passed the night in tears and prayers. Her glance then turned to the piece of bread which she held in her hand, and from which she had vainly tried to eat. The bread and the bed reminded her of an hour long past, when she was a happy queen—an hour when her mental eye descried the future, and the words of a beautiful and melancholy song aroused in her anxious forebodings, and seemed to her a prophecy of her own destiny. As she thought of those golden days, her eyes filled with tears, which rolled over her cheeks and trickled down on the bread in her hand. "Oh," she murmured, "now I shall be able to eat it; I am softening it with my tears!" And to conceal them she averted her head, and looked out at the forest, whose lofty pines were adorned with snow-wreaths. Her tears gradually ceased—she drew the large diamond ring from her finger, and, using the pointed stone as a pen, wrote rapidly on the window-pane.
Old Katharine and Martha stared at her in dismay; the characters appearing on the glass filled them with astonishment and superstitious awe, and they thought the handsome lady who knew how to write with a precious stone might after all be a fairy, who, persecuted by some evil sorcerer, had fled thither into the dark forest, and was writing some exorcising words on the window-pane, lest her enemy should pursue and have power over her.
The lady replaced the ring on her finger, and turned to the young countess and the high-chamberlain. "Now, I am ready," she said, "let us set out." She walked to the door, and shaking hands with old Katharine, thanked her for the hospitable reception she had met with in her cottage, and then stepped out of the low door for the carriage, at which the high-chamberlain was awaiting her.
"I beg leave, gracious countess, to take upon myself the functions of our outrider. The road is broken and full of holes, and as I have a keen eye, I shall see them in time, and call the attention of the coachman to them."
The countess thanked him with a kind glance. "I accept your offer," she said—"may a time come when I shall be able to thank my faithful friends for the attachment and devotion they manifest toward me during affliction, and which are engraven in diamond letters on my heart! But let us thank the good woman who received us so hospitably last night. I request you to give this to her in my name." She handed her purse filled with gold-pieces to the high-chamberlain, and entered the carriage. M. von Schladen stood still until the carriage rolled away. Before mounting he hastened into the house.
Old Katharine and Martha stood in the room, and were looking in silent astonishment at the neat characters on the pane, the meaning of which they were unable to decipher. "Oh, sir," exclaimed Katharine, when the high-chamberlain entered the room, "tell us the meaning of this—what did the lady write here?"
M. von Schladen stepped to the window. When he had read the lines, his eyes filled with tears, and profound emotion was depicted in his features. "Enviable inmates of this humble cottage," he said, "from this hour it has become a precious monument, and, when better times arrive, the Germans will make a pilgrimage to this spot to gaze with devout eyes at this historical relic of the days of adversity. Preserve the window carefully, for I tell you it is worth more than gold and diamonds."
"Is it really, then, an exorcism which the beautiful fairy has written there?" asked Katharine, anxiously.
"Yes, those are magic words," replied M. von Schladen, "and they read as follows:
"Ah, she ate her bread with tears to-day. I saw it," murmured Katharine. "But who is she, and what is her name? Tell us, so that we may pray for her, sir."
"Her name is Louisa," said M. von Schladen, in a tremulous voice. "At present she is a poor, afflicted woman, who is fleeing from town to town from her enemy, and eating her bread with tears, and weeping at night. But she is still the Queen of Prussia, and will remain so if there be justice in heaven!"
"The Queen of Prussia!" cried Katharine, holding up her hands in dismay. "She was here and wrote that?"
"Yes, she wrote that, and sends this to you as a reward for your trouble," said M. von Schladen, emptying the contents of the purse on the table. The purse itself he placed in his bosom. Without waiting for the thanks of the surprised woman, he departed, vaulted into the saddle, and followed the queen at a full gallop.
Perfidy and treachery everywhere! Magdeburg, Küstrin, the most important fortresses of Prussia, had fallen. Not only the hand of the triumphant conqueror had brought about their downfall, but the timidity and cowardice prevailing among the Prussians themselves. Magdeburg, although abundantly supplied with ammunition, and garrisoned by more than ten thousand men, had surrendered. Küstrin, Hameln, and a large majority of the other fortresses, had voluntarily capitulated, almost without a show of resistance, on receiving the first summons to surrender; the first cities of Prussia were now French; the French were lawgivers everywhere, and the humiliated Prussians had to bow to the scornful arrogance of the victors.
Still, there were at this time of sorrow and disgrace shining examples of courage, of bold energy, and unwavering fidelity—there were fortresses that had not voluntarily opened their gates to the enemy, and that, regardless of hunger and privation, were struggling bravely for honor and victory. As yet Colberg had not fallen; this fortress was courageously defended by Scharnhorst, the skilful and experienced colonel, by bold Ferdinand von Schill, and that noble citizen, Nettelbeck, who by word and deed fired the hearts of the soldiers and citizens to persist in their patient resistance and in the determined defence of the place.
Graudenz had not surrendered to the besieging forces. The commander of this fortress, M. de Courbières, had not yielded either to the threats or the flatteries of the enemy. "If it be true, as you assure me, that there is no longer a King of Prussia, I am King of Graudenz, and shall not surrender," he replied to the bearer of the French flag of truce, who summoned him in the name of the Duke de Rovigo to capitulate.
Silesia also had remained faithful, notwithstanding the action of Minister Count Hoym, who, in a public manifesto, had called upon the Silesians to meet the foe in the most amicable manner in case of an invasion, and to satisfy as much as possible all the demands of the hostile troops. The Silesians, more courageous and resolute than their minister, were unwilling to bend their neck voluntarily under the French yoke; they preferred to struggle for their honor and independence. It is true, the fortress of Glogau had fallen, but Breslau and Schweidnitz were still holding out. Twice had Breslau repulsed Jerome Bonaparte with his besieging troops—twice had the determination of the courageous in the place triumphed over the anxiety of the timid and of the secret friends of the French. At the head of these bold defenders of Breslau was a man whose glorious example in the hour of danger had inspired all—infused courage into the timid, and brought comfort to the suffering. This man was Count Frederick von Pückler. He did not take time to recover from the wounds he had received in Jena. Faithful to his oath, he devoted his services to his country, that stood so much in need of its sons. After a short repose on his estate at Gimmel, he repaired to the headquarters of King Frederick William at Ortelsburg.
It is true, he could not bring him a regiment, or any material help; still he was able to assist him with his ideas, and to show him the means of obtaining efficacious help.
Count Frederick von Pückler believed the king might derive assistance from the military resources of Silesia. He described to him, in ardent and eloquent words, the extensive means of defence retained by this rich province; he assured him its inhabitants were faithful and devoted, and ready to shed their blood for their king. He told his majesty, freely and honestly, that the old civil and military bureaucracy alone was to blame—that Silesia had not long an organized effective system of resistance—that this government had paralyzed the patriotic zeal of the citizens, instead of stimulating it—nay, that, by means of its insensate and ridiculous decrees, it had impeded in every way the development of the military resources of the province. He had not come, however, merely to find fault and to accuse, but, in spite of his sickness and his wounds, performed the long journey to the king's headquarters in order to indicate to his sovereign the remedies by which the mischief might be counteracted, and the country preserved from utter subjugation. He communicated a plan by which new forces might be raised, and be enabled to take the field in a few days. All the old soldiers were to be recalled into the service; the forest-keepers and their assistants were to be armed, and from these elements the landwehr was to be organized, and intrusted with the special task of defending the fortresses.
The king listened to the ardent and enthusiastic words of the count with growing interest, and finally Pückler's joyful confidence and hopeful courage filled him also with hope and consolation.
"You believe then that we could really obtain, by these new levies, brave troops for the defence of the fortress?" asked he.
"I am convinced of it," replied Count Pückler. "Ardent love for their fatherland and their king is glowing in the hearts of the Silesians, and they will be ready when called upon to defend the fortresses. Hitherto, however, nobody has thought of appealing to the able-bodied men. Count Hoym has retired to the most remote part of Silesia, and is now wandering about from city to city. The military governor of Silesia, General Lindener, visited all the fortresses and told their commanders that every thing was lost—that it only remained for them to protect themselves against a coup de main, so as to obtain good terms on their surrender."
The king started up, and an angry blush mantled his face for a moment. "If he said that, he is an infamous scoundrel, who ought to lose his head!" he exclaimed, vehemently.
Count Pückler smiled mournfully. "Alas!" he said, "your majesty would have to sign many death-warrants if you punish in these days of terror all who are wavering because their faith and hopes are gone. Possibly, only an admonishing, soul-stirring word may be required to invigorate the timid, and to encourage the doubtful. Sire, utter such a word! Send me back with it to Silesia! Order the governor to accept the propositions which I had the honor to lay before your majesty, and which I have taken the liberty to write down in this paper, and instruct him, in accordance with them, to garrison the fortresses with fresh defenders. Oh, your majesty, all Silesia is yearning for her king; she is longingly stretching out her hands toward you; permit her to fight for you!"
"You imagine, then, that Schweidnitz, and, above all, Breslau, in that case, would be able to hold out?" asked the king.
"I do not imagine it, I am convinced of it!" exclaimed the count. "I pledge my life that it is so; I say that Breslau, permitted to defend itself, would be impregnable; I am so well satisfied of it that I swear to your majesty that I will die as a traitor if I should be mistaken. Sire, send me to Breslau—permit me to participate in the organization of the new levies, and to arouse the zeal and energy of the authorities, and I swear to your majesty the Silesian fortresses shall be saved!"
"Well, then, I take you at your word," said the king, nodding kindly to the count. "I will send you to Breslau. Wait; I will immediately draw up the necessary orders." The king went to his desk and hastily wrote a few lines, Count Pückler stood near him, and smilingly said to himself, "I will defend Breslau as Schill is defending Colberg! Both of us, therefore, will fulfil the oath we have taken!"
"Read!" said the king, handing him the paper—"read it aloud!" Count Pückler read:
"The enclosed proposition of Count Pückler to reënforce the garrisons of the Silesian fortresses deserves the most serious and speedy consideration. Hence, I order you to carry it out without delay, and to save no expense in doing so. The fortresses must be defended at any price, and to the last man, and I shall cause such commanders to be beheaded as fail to do their duty.
"FREDERICK WILLIAM."
"Are you satisfied?" asked the king, when the count had finished.
"I thank your majesty in the name of Silesia," said the count, solemnly. "Breslau will not fall into the hands of the enemy. I pledge you my head that it will not. I now request your majesty to let me withdraw."
"When do you intend to set out?"
"This very hour."
"But you told me you had arrived only an hour ago. You ought to take rest till to-morrow."
"Your majesty, every day of delay exposes your Silesia to greater dangers. Permit me, therefore, to set out at once."
"Well, do so, and may God be with you!"
The king gazed after the count with a long, musing glance. "Oh," he sighed, mournfully, "if he had been commander of Magdeburg, it would be mine still!"
Count Pückler hastened back to Silesia with the king's written order. He visited all the fortresses and saw all the commanders. The king, to give more weight to the count's mission, had instructed the provisional authorities and the chief executive officers of the districts, in a special rescript, to gather the old soldiers at the headquarters of the recruiting stations; he had ordered all the commanders to confer personally with Count Pückler as to the best steps to be taken for the defence of the fortresses, by the addition of the new soldiers and riflemen to the regular garrisons.
Count Pückler, therefore, had accomplished his purpose; he was able to assist his country and to avenge himself for the disastrous day of Jena. A proud courage animated his heart; his eye was radiant with joy and confidence; his face was beaming with heroic energy. All who saw him were filled with his own courage; all who heard him were carried away by his enthusiasm, and gladly swore to die rather than prove recreant to the sacred cause of the country. Every one in Breslau knew Count Pückler, and confided in him. Always active, joyous, and indefatigable, he was to be found wherever there was danger; he encouraged the soldiers by standing at their side on the outworks, by toiling with them, and exposing himself to the balls which the enemy was hurling into the city. He maintained the enthusiasm of the citizens by patriotic speeches, so that they did not despair, but bore their sufferings patiently, and provided compassionately for the men standing on the ramparts in the storm and cold, in the face of an uninterrupted artillery-fire. A generous rivalry sprang up among the citizens and soldiers: the former contributed all they had to provide the troops with food and comforts of every description; and the latter vowed in their gratitude to fight as long as there was a drop of blood in their veins, and not suffer the inhabitants, in return for the privations they had undergone, and for the sacrifices they had made, to be surrendered to the tender mercies of the enemy. But this enthusiasm at last cooled. Every one would have borne days of privation and suffering courageously and joyously enough, but long weeks of anxiety and distress deadened the devotion of the besieged.
"Every thing is going on satisfactorily," said Count Pückler, on coming to the governor of the fortress, General Thile, on the morning of the 30th of December. "We shall hold out till the Prince von Pless, who has lately been appointed by the king governor-general of Silesia, arrives with his troops to succor us and to raise the siege of Breslau."
The governor shrugged his shoulders. "There will be no succor for us, and every thing will turn out wrong," he said.
"But the soldiers are faithful, and the citizens do not waver as yet."
The governor looked almost compassionately at the count. "You see none but the faithful, and hear none but the undaunted," he said. "I will show you the reverse of your bright medal!" He took a paper from his desk and beckoned the count to approach. "Just look at this; it is the morning report. Do you want to know how many soldiers deserted last night? Over a hundred, and in order to put a stop to further desertions, the countersign had to be changed three times."
"The deserters are the perfidious, treacherous Poles!" exclaimed Pückler, angrily.
"Yes, the Poles were the first to desert, and, unfortunately, more than half the garrison consists of Poles. They are the old soldiers who were organized in accordance with your proposition, my dear count. They are yearning for home, and long to obtain, in place of the scanty rations they receive here, the fleshpots which the Emperor Napoleon has promised to happy Poland."
"But they need not starve here; they are provided with sufficient food," exclaimed Pückler. "Only yesterday I saw a subscription-paper circulating among the citizens for the purpose of raising money to furnish the men on duty on the ramparts with meat, whiskey, and hot beer."
"How many had signed it?"
"More than a hundred, general."
"Well, I will show you another subscription-paper," said the governor, taking it from his desk. "A deputation of the citizens were here last night and presented this to me. It contains a request to give them, amidst so many sufferings, the hope of speedy succor, lest they be driven to despair. Over two hundred signed this paper. I could not hold out any hopes, and had to dismiss them without any consolation whatever."
"But succor will come," exclaimed Pückler.
"It will not come," said the governor, shrugging his shoulders.
At that moment the door opened, and an orderly entered. "Lieutenant Schorlemmer, in command of the forces at the Schweidnitz Gate, sent me here," he said. "He instructed me to inform the governor that the firing of field and siege artillery was to be heard, and the village of Dürgoy was burning!"
"The enemy is manoeuvring, and, no doubt, set the village unintentionally on fire. Tell Lieutenant Schorlemmer that is my reply."
No sooner had the orderly withdrawn than the officer in command of the engineers entered the room. "Your excellency," he exclaimed, hastily, "I have just come from the Ohlau Gate. The enemy is hurrying with his field-pieces and many troops from the trenches toward the Schweidnitz road, and the firing that began an hour ago is gradually approaching the fortress."
"The succoring troops are drawing near," exclaimed Count Pückler, joyfully. "The Prince von Pless at the head of his regiments has attacked the enemy!"
The governor cast an angry glance on the rash speaker. "It is true you know all these things a great deal better than old, experienced soldiers" he said; "you will permit me, however, to be guided by my own opinion. Now, I think that the enemy is only manoeuvring for the purpose of decoying the garrison from the city. We shall not be so foolish, however, as to be caught in such a manner. But I will go and satisfy myself about this matter. Come, Mr. Chief-Engineer, and accompany me to the Ohlau Gate. And you, Count Pückler, go to General Lindener to ascertain his opinion. He has good eyes and ears, and if he view the matter in the same light as I do, I shall be convinced that we are right."
Count Pückler hastened away, and while the governor, with the chief-engineer, was walking very leisurely to the Ohlau Gate, Pückler rushed into the house of General Lindener, determined to make the utmost efforts to induce the governor to order a sally of the garrison. But General Lindener had already left his palace and gone to the Taschen bastion for the purpose of making his observations. Count Pückler followed him; he could make but slow headway, for the streets were densely crowded; every one was inquiring why the enemy had suddenly ceased shelling the city.
Count Pückler rushed forward toward the Taschen bastion, and the constantly increasing multitude followed him. General Lindener stood amidst the superior officers on the rampart of the Taschenberg. He was scanning the horizon with scrutinizing glances. The officers now looked at him in great suspense, and now at the open field extending in front of them. Count Pückler approached, while the people, who had almost forcibly obtained admission, advanced to the brink and surveyed the enemy's position. The crowd, however, did not consist of vagabond idlers, but of respectable citizens—merchants and mechanics—who wished for the consolation the governor had refused them—the hope of succor! Gradually their care-worn faces lighted up. They saw distinctly that the enemy had left the trenches. Here and there they descried straggling French soldiers running in the direction of the fight in front of the fortress. They heard the booming of artillery and the rattling of musketry, and they beheld the shells exchanged between the opposing troops, exploding in the air. Keen eyes discovered Prussian cavalry in the neighborhood of the Jewish burial-ground, near the Schweidnitz suburb, and at this sight tremendous cheers burst from the citizens.
"Succor has come!" they shouted. "The Prince von Pless is coming to deliver us!"
All now looked to the general, expecting he would utter the decisive word, and order the garrison to make a sortie. But this order was not given.
General Lindener turned with the utmost composure to his officers. "I have no doubt," he said, "that the enemy Is merely manoeuvring for the purpose of drawing us out of the fortress. It is an ambush in which we should not allow ourselves to be caught."
"Your excellency," exclaimed Pückler, in dismay, "it is impossible that you can be in earnest. That is no manoeuvre; it is a combat. The long-hoped-for succor has come at last, and we must profit by it!"
"Ah," said the general, shrugging his shoulders, "you think because his majesty permitted you to participate in organizing the defence of the city, and to confer with the commander in regard to it, you ought to advise everywhere and to decide every thing!"
"No; I only think that the time for action has come," exclaimed Pückler. "Opinions and suppositions are out of the question here, for we can distinctly see what is going on in the front of Breslau. I beg the other officers to state whether they do not share my opinion—whether it is not a regular cannonade that we hear, and a real fight between hostile troops that we behold?"
"Yes," said one of the officers, loudly and emphatically—"yes, I am of the same opinion as Count Pückler; there is a combat going on; the Prince von Pless is approaching in order to raise the siege."
"That is my opinion too!" exclaimed each of the officers, in succession; "the succoring troops have come; the enemy has left the trenches in order to attack them."
"And as such is the case," exclaimed Count Pückler, joyfully, "we must make a sortie; prudence not only justifies, but commands it."
"Yes, we must do so!" exclaimed the officers. The citizens standing at some distance from them heard their words, and shouted joyously: "A sortie, a sortie! Succor has come! Breslau is saved!"
General Lindener glanced angrily at the officers. "Who dares advise the commanding general without being asked?" he said, sharply. "None of you must meddle with these matters; they concern myself alone, and I am possessed of sufficient judgment not to need any one's advice, but to make my own decisions!" With a last angry glance at Count Pückler, he left the bastion to return to his palace. Governor Thile was awaiting him there, and the two ascended to the roof of the building to survey the environs. The fog, which had covered the whole landscape until now, had risen a little, and even the dim eyes of the general and of the governor could not deny the truth any more. A combat was really going on. The smoke rising from the ground, and the flashes of powder from field-pieces, were distinctly to be seen. It was a fact: succor was at hand: a Prussian corps was approaching the city. The two generals left the roof, arm-in-arm, in silence, absorbed in their reflections, and descended to the ground-floor, where a luncheon had been served up for them. An hour later, they assembled the garrison, in order to make an attack, "in case the enemy should be defeated!"
But it seemed as if the enemy had not been defeated. The firing in front gradually died away; the sally did not take place, and in the evening the French recommenced throwing red-hot shot into the city.
"We have been betrayed," murmured the citizens, as they despondingly returned to their homes.
"The general did not want to make a sortie—he had no intention to save Breslau," groaned Count Pückler, when he was alone in his room. "All is lost, all is in vain! The wish of the timid sacrifices our honor and our lives! Oh, my unhappy country, my beloved Prussia, thou wilt irretrievably perish, for thy own sons are betraying thee! Thy independence and ancient glory are gone; conquered and chained, thou wilt prostrate thyself at the feet of the victor, and with scorn he will place his foot upon thy neck, and trample thy crown in the dust! I shall not live to see that disgrace! I will fulfil my oath, and, not being able to save my country, I must die with it! But not yet! I will wait patiently, for there is a faint glimmer of hope left. The Prince von Pless may make another attempt to raise the siege, and the citizens and soldiers may compel General Lindener to order an attack, and not to surrender. That is my last hope."
Great excitement reigned in the streets of Breslau on the following day. The people were standing in dense groups, and each of them was addressed by speakers, who recapitulated the sufferings that had already been undergone, and the agony in store for them if the city should persist in its resistance.
"Who will dare to resist the Emperor Napoleon and his army?" exclaimed one. "We were audacious enough to do so, and what has become of us! Our houses have been demolished—our money is gone—our sons, brothers, and fathers, have been crippled or killed! When Napoleon once stretches out his hand toward a country, and says, 'I will have it!' it is useless to resist him, for he always accomplishes what he intends. God or the devil has given him the power to do so!"
"Why torment ourselves by further efforts?" cried another. "We shall have to submit. Heaven itself is against us. See the ice-crust on the Oder. This cold weather is a fresh ally of the French! So soon as the Oder and the ditches are firmly frozen over, they will cross, and take the city by assault. Of course, we shall be required again to risk our lives in breaking the ice amid bullets and shells. The only question is, whether you will do so."
"No! no!" shouted the crowd. "We have suffered enough! We will neither break the ice in the Oder, nor extinguish the numerous fires. Too many of our countrymen have fallen already; it is time for us to think of saving the lives that remain!"
"No!" cried a powerful voice—"no! it is time for you to think of saving your honor!"
"Count Pückler!" murmured the people, looking at the tall, imperious man, who had mounted the curb-stone at the corner of the market-place, and cast angry glances on the crowd.
"Will you listen to me?" asked the count, almost imploringly.
"Yes, yes," exclaimed a hundred voices, "we will listen to you!" And all approached and encircled him.
"Now speak, count," said one of the men, standing closest to him. "We know that you are a good patriot, and a noble friend of the people. Tell us what we ought to do. Tell us whether you think that there is hope for us!"
"There is," replied Count Pückler. "There is hope of succor."
"Ah, succor will not come," cried the people, scornfully, "and though it should, the generals would act again as if they could not see any thing, keep the gates shut, and fail to make a sortie. Speak of other hopes that you think are still left to us, count!"
"Well, there is the hope that the weather will relax—that the Oder and the ditches will not freeze, and that the enemy, consequently, will be unable to cross them. By bombardment alone Breslau cannot be taken. Our fortifications will resist the enemy's artillery a long while; and, if you do not waver, but struggle on bravely, you may preserve to your king his most beloved province and one of his best fortresses. Think of the honor it would reflect on you if the whole world should say: 'The citizens of Breslau preserved to their king the great capital of Silesia! During the days of danger and distress they hastened fearlessly to the ramparts, not only to carry food and refreshments to the defenders, but to transform themselves into soldiers, to man the guns, and hurl balls at the enemy!'"
"Yes, yes, we will do so! That will be glorious!" shouted the men, and their eyes flashed, and they lifted up their arms as if they were grasping their swords. "Yes, we will march out to the ramparts—we will become brave soldiers, and fight for our city and for our king!"
"And you will lose your limbs," cried a sneering voice from the crowd; "you will be crippled—die of hunger—ruin yourselves and your children; and it will be in vain, after all! You will be unable to save Breslau, for the odds are too great, and we ourselves have already been weakened too much."
"Alas, he is right!" lamented the people, and those who were about to rush to the walls stood still, and their courage seemed to disappear.
"No!" exclaimed Count Pückler, ardently—"no, he is not right! It is not true; but even if it were true that we are too weak to hold out, would it not be much more honorable to be buried under the ruins of the city, than to live in disgrace and bow to a new master? Think of the shame of Magdeburg; remember that a cry of indignation was uttered by the whole of Prussia at the treachery and cowardice of that city! Citizens of Breslau, do you want to be talked of in the same manner? Do you desire to act so pusillanimously that your children one day will have to blush for their fathers? Do you want to behave so ignominiously, that your wives and sweet-hearts will deride you and call you cowards?"
"No, no!" shouted the people. "We will fight—fight for our honor and our king."
"Clear the way!" cried loud and imperious voices at that moment, and a procession of over a hundred citizens marched up Ohlau Street; it was headed by an old man with flowing silvery hair, who held a large folded paper in his hands.
The crowd, that hitherto only had had eyes and ears for Count Pückler, now bent inquiring glances on the newcomers, and looked searchingly and wonderingly at the old man, whom every one knew to be one of the most venerable and respectable citizens of Breslau.
"Where are you going, Mr. Ehrhardt?" asked many at the same time. "What is the object of your procession? What is the paper you hold in your hands?"
Mr. Ehrhardt held it up. "This paper," he said, "is a petition drawn up by the citizens who are following me. In it we depict the sufferings and privations we have undergone, and pray that a speedy end may be put to them. Matters cannot go on in this way any more; the distress is too great; we have borne all we can—we must think of ourselves for the sake of our wives and children. We have done enough to save our honor; self-preservation is also a duty. We have stated all this in our petition, and are about to take it to the city hall, in order to deposit it there by permission of the authorities, so that every one may sign it. This afternoon it will be presented to the governor. Hasten, then, to add your signatures, for the more the better. When the governor sees that the citizens are united, he will have to comply with our demands and enter into a capitulation. The enemy sent a flag of truce this morning; the bearer, I have been told, imposes very rigorous terms on the commander of the fortress. He threatens also that the city, if it do not surrender to-day, will be bombarded with red-hot shot long enough to set fire to all the buildings. Come, my friends, let us go. All good and sensible citizens will sign this petition."
The procession moved on. Profound silence ensued. Count Pückler was still standing on the curb-stone and looking in breathless suspense at the people that, a moment ago, had surrounded him. He saw now that many left him and joined those marching to the city hall.
"Citizens of Breslau!" he cried, in great anguish, pale with grief and horror—"citizens of Breslau, think of your honor; think of the many tears which the eyes of your noble queen have already shed for Magdeburg; remember that your king relies on you and on your love, and that his gratitude toward you will be boundless if you remain faithful now—faithful unto death! Think of the great king who fought seven long years for you, and whose glory still reflects a golden lustre on the whole of Silesia. Do not join the timid and cowardly. Stand by me. Let us go together to the city hall—let us demand the petition that we may tear it to atoms; then go to the governor and tell him that he must not capitulate, but resist till—"
"Till we die of hunger?" cried a harsh voice, and a tall, broad-shouldered man elbowed himself through the crowd and walked up to the count. "Count Pückler," he said, menacingly, "if you continue talking about resistance, and other nonsense of that kind, you are a miserable demagogue, and the assassin of those who believe your high-sounding words.—Listen to me, citizens of Breslau. I am secretary of the commission of provisions, and do you know whither I have been ordered to go? To the municipal authorities! I am taking to them a list of what is still on hand. There are in Breslau at the present time only twenty thousand pounds of meat, and the bakers and brewers have no fuel left. If we do not open our gates to the French, death by starvation will await us after to-morrow. Therefore, let all those who do not wish to die of hunger hasten to the city hall and sign the petition that will be deposited there."
At this moment a strange, hissing noise resounded through the air; a glowing ball rushed along and penetrated the roof of a house, from which flames immediately burst forth. A second and a third followed and set fire to several houses on the market-place.
"The bombardment is recommencing!" howled the multitude. "They are firing red-hot shot again. Come, come to the city hall! Let us sign the petition." They hastened off like game pursued by a hunter; fear lent wings to their feet, and anxiety rendered the weak strong, and enabled the lame to walk.
Count Pückler was left alone. For a moment he leaned pale and exhausted against the wall of the house; large drops of perspiration covered his brow; his cheeks were livid, his lips were quivering, and he gazed at the city hall, the steps of which the crowd were ascending at that moment. "They are going to sign my death-warrant," he muttered, in a low voice. He descended from the curb-stone, and, drawing himself to his full height, walked slowly down the street. The bullets were whistling around him and dropping at his side. He quietly walked on. He reached the house in which he was sojourning, and ascended the stairs slowly and with dilated eyes, like a somnambulist. He reached the first landing, and had turned already to the second staircase. All at once invisible influences seemed to stop his progress; his face commenced quivering, his eyes sparkled, and turned with an expression of unutterable grief to the door which he was about to pass. "I must see her once more," he muttered; "possibly she may follow me." He pulled the bell vehemently, and a footman opened the door. "Is my betrothed at home?"
"Yes, count; the young countess is in her room; her parents are in the parlor. Shall I announce you?"
"No, I will go to her without being announced." Passing the footman and hastening down the corridor, he rapped at the last door. Without waiting, he opened it and entered.
A joyful cry was heard—a young lady as lovely as a rose ran toward him with open arms. "Have you come at last, dearest? Have you really been restored to me? Oh, how I have been longing for you all the morning—how my heart trembled for you! With what an agony of fear every ball passing over our house filled me, for any one of them might have struck you! But now I have you back. I shall detain you here, and not let you go any more. You shall be like a caged bird. Would that my heart were the cage in which I could keep you!" She laid her head, smiling and blushing, on his breast while uttering these words; in the ardor of her own joy she had not noticed how pale, listless, and sad he was. When she raised her bright eyes to him, her smile vanished. "What ails you, my beloved?" she asked, anxiously. "What is the calamity that I see written on your face?"
He took her head between his hands and looked long and mournfully at her. "Camilla," he said, in a low, husky voice—"Camilla, will you die with me?"
"Die!" she asked aghast, disengaging her head from his hands. "Why should we die, Frederick?"
"Because I do not wish to live without honor," he exclaimed, with sudden vehemence. "Because our misfortunes are so terrible that we must escape from them into the grave. All is lost! Breslau will fall, and we shall be obliged to prostrate ourselves at the conqueror's feet! But I will not, cannot survive the disgrace of Prussia. 'Victory or death!' was the motto which I once exchanged with Schill. I swore to him to live and die with my country; I swore to the king, if Breslau fell, that I would die the death of a traitor. Breslau falls; therefore I die!"
"No, no," exclaimed Camilla, clinging firmly to him, "you shall not die—you must not die! You are mine; you belong to me, and I love you! Hitherto you have lived for your honor as a man—now live for your heart and its love! Listen to me, Frederick! How often have you implored me to accelerate the day of our wedding, and I always refused! Well, I beseech you to-day, give me your hand! Let us go together to my parents, and ask them to send for a priest, and let our marriage take place to-day. And then, dearest, when the gates of Breslau open to the enemy, we can find a refuge at your splendid estate. The horrible turmoil of war and the clashing of arms will not follow us thither. There, amidst the charms of peaceful nature, let us commence a new life; with hearts fondly united, we shall belong only to ourselves, and, forgetful of the outside world, devote ourselves to our friends—to art and literature. Oh, my beloved, is it not a blissful future that is inviting you and promising you undisturbed happiness?" She laid her arms, from which the white lace sleeves had fallen back, on his shoulders, and held her glowing face so close to his own that her breath fanned his cheek; her ruby lips almost touched his own, and her dark eyes were fixed on him with an expression of unutterable tenderness.
The count pushed her back almost rudely. "The happiness you are depicting to me is only given to the innocent, to the pure, and to those who have no desires," he said, gloomily; "it is the happiness of gentle doves, not of men. And I am a man! As a man of honor I have lived, and as such I will die. My life harmonizes no more with yours. Will you go with me, Camilla, into the land of eternal honor and liberty? Does not this world of treachery and cowardice fill you with disgust as it does myself? Does not your soul shrink with dismay at the infamy we behold everywhere at the present time? Oh, I know your heart is noble and pure, and despises the baseness which is now the master of the world. Let us, therefore, escape from it. Come, dearest, come! I have two pistols at my rooms. They are loaded, and will not fail us. A pressure of my finger—and we are free! Say one word, and I will bring them—say, my Camilla, that you will die with me!"
"I say that I will live with you!" she cried, in terror.
"Then you will not die with me?" he asked, harshly.
"No, Frederick, why should I die? I am so young, and love life; it has given me nothing but joy—it has given you to me—you, whom I love, for whom I will live, whom I will render happy! What do I care for the misfortunes of Prussia—what do I care whether Breslau surrenders to the enemy or not, while I am free to follow you—free to devote myself entirely to my love!"
"A woman's heart!—a woman's love!" said Pückler, with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders. "I wish I resembled you; we then might be like cooing doves in the myrtle-tree. But my heart is rather that of an eagle—longing for the sun; and as he has set on earth, I shall fly after him. Farewell, Camilla, farewell! Forget me not, and be happy!" He imprinted a hasty, glowing kiss on her lips, and then turned toward the door.
Camilla rushed after him, and, clinging to him with both her hands, exclaimed: "Frederick, what are you going to do?"
"I go to the land of liberty, and will do what honor commands," he said, disengaging himself from her grasp, and rushing from the room.
"Frederick! Frederick!" she cried, in the utmost terror, running to the door; she could not open it, for he had locked it outside. "I must follow and save him," she exclaimed, and gliding across the room, she opened a small secret door in the opposite wall; scarcely touching the floor, she passed through the parlor, without taking any notice of her parents, who were sitting on the divan, and asked her in surprise for the cause of her hurry and agitation. She did not see that they were following her; nor did she hear them call her. Onward, onward she went through the room to the corridor, into the hall, and up the staircase. She rushed to the upper floor, and rang the bell violently, when the footman of Count Pückler opened the door, and stared surprised at the young countess. She passed him impetuously, and ran down the corridor leading into the sitting-room of her betrothed. But it was locked. Uttering a cry of despair, she sank breathless on her knees, and laid her burning forehead against the door.
The old count, with his wife, followed by Count Pückler's footman, now approached. "My child, my child!" murmured the old countess, bending over her daughter, "what has happened? Why are you so pale? Why do you weep?"
Camilla looked up to her with streaming eyes. "Mother," she exclaimed, in a heart-rending voice, "mother, he will kill himself!"
"Who?" asked her father, aghast.
"My betrothed," she gasped faintly. "With a more generous and scrupulous regard for his honor than we are manifesting for ours, he will not survive the disgrace of his country. As Breslau is doomed, he will die! As I did not care to die with him, he angrily repulsed me, and went up to his room to die alone. Oh, mother, father, have mercy on my anguish! Help me to save him!"
"Is the count really here?" said Camilla's father to the footman. "Is he in this room?"
"Yes, gracious count, my master came home a few minutes ago. Without saying a word, he went to his room, and locked himself up."
The old count stepped to the door, and, grasping the knob, shook it violently. "Count Pückler, open the door," he cried aloud. "Your father-in-law and the mother of your betrothed are standing at your door, and ask to be admitted!"
"Frederick! Frederick!" begged Camilla, "I am on my knees in front of your door-sill, and implore you to have mercy—to have compassion on me! Oh, do not close your heart against me—oh, let me come in, my dear friend!" She paused and listened, hoping to hear a word or a movement inside. But every thing remained silent.
"If you refuse to listen to our supplications, we shall enter by force," exclaimed the count.
"My son," wailed the old countess, "if you will not listen to us, at least have mercy on my daughter, for she will die of grief if you desert her."
"My Frederick, I love you so tenderly—do not repel me!" wailed Camilla.
All was silent. "I must use force," said the count, concealing his anguish under the guise of anger. "Hasten to a locksmith," he added, turning to the footman; "he is to come here at once, and bring his tools with him. Notify also the officers at the neighboring police-station." The footman withdrew.
"My beloved," cried Camilla, wringing her hands, and her face bathed in a flood of tears, "my Frederick, I love you better than my life! Your wish shall be complied with. Open your door, and admit me. If I cannot live I will die with you! Oh, do not remain silent—give me a sign that you are still living—tell me at least that you forgive me—that—"
She paused, for a song suddenly resounded in the room; it was not a song of sorrow, but of wrath and manly courage. The words were as follows: