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                        NAPOLEON IN GERMANY

                  NAPOLEON AND THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA

                        An Historical Novel

                          BY L. MÜHLBACH

        AUTHOR OF MARIE ANTOINETTE, JOSEPH II. AND HIS COURT,
    BERLIN AND SANS-SOUCI, FREDERICK THE GREAT AND HIS FAMILY, ETC.

               TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY F. JORDAN

                              NEW YORK
                                1908
                        COPYRIGHT 1867, 1893,
                      BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

                              CONTENTS

 BOOK I.

 CHAPTER

        I. Ferdinand von Schill
       II. The German Song
      III. The Oath of Vengeance
       IV. In Berlin
        V. Quiet is the Citizen's First Duty
       VI. The Faithful People of Stettin
      VII. The Queen's Flight
     VIII. Napoleon in Potsdam
       IX. Sans-Souci
        X. Napoleon's Entry into Berlin
       XI. Napoleon and Talleyrand
      XII. The Princess von Hatzfeld
     XIII. The Suppliant Princes
      XIV. Triumph and Defeat
       XV. The Victoria of Brandenburg Gate

 BOOK II.

      XVI. The Treaty of Charlottenburg
     XVII. The Secret Council of State
    XVIII. Baron von Stein
      XIX. The Queen at the Peasant's Cottage
       XX. Count Pückler
      XXI. The Patriot's Death
     XXII. Peace Negotiations
    XXIII. The Slanderous Articles
     XXIV. The Justification
      XXV. Countess Mary Walewska
     XXVI. The Dantzic Chocolate

 BOOK III.

    XXVII. Tilsit.--Napoleon and Alexander
   XXVIII. Queen Louisa
     XXIX. Bad Tidings
      XXX. Queen Louisa and Napoleon

 BOOK IV.

     XXXI. Baron von Stein
    XXXII. The Patriot
   XXXIII. Johannes von Müller
   XXXIV. The Call
    XXXV. Financial Calamities
   XXXVI. Prince William
  XXXVII. The Genius of Prussia
 XXXVIII. A Family Dinner

 BOOK V.

   XXXIX. French Erfurt
      XL. The Conspirators
     XLI. The Festivities of Erfurt and Weimar
    XLII. Napoleon and Goethe
   XLIII. The Chase and the Assassins

 BOOK VI.

    XLIV. The War with Austria
     XLV. Josephine's Farewell
    XLVI. Ferdinand von Schill
   XLVII. Schill takes the Field
  XLVIII. Schill's Death
    XLIX. The Parade at Schönbrunn
       L. Napoleon at Schönbrunn
      LI. Frederick Staps
     LII. An Execution

 BOOK VII.

    LIII. Homeward Bound
     LIV. The Emperor Francis and Metternich
      LV. The Archduchess Maria Louisa
     LVI. The Queen's Birthday
    LVII. Louisa's Death

ILLUSTRATIONS

Portrait of Napoleon
The Oath of Revenge
The Queen in the Peasant's Cottage
Napoleon and the Queen of Prussia
The Emperor Francis and Metternich

NAPOLEON AND QUEEN LOUISA

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I.

FERDINAND VON SCHILL.

Profound silence reigned in the valleys and gorges of Jena and
Auerstadt. The battles were over. The victorious French had marched to
Jena to repose for a few days, while the defeated Prussians had fled to
Weimar, or were wandering across the fields and in the mountains,
anxiously seeking for inaccessible places where they might conceal their
presence from the pursuing enemy.

A panic had seized the whole army. All presence of mind and sense of
honor seemed to be lost. Every one thought only of saving his life, and
of escaping from the conquering arms of the invincible French. Here and
there, it is true, officers succeeded by supplications and remonstrances
in stopping the fugitives, and in forming them into small detachments,
with which the commanders attempted to join the defeated and retreating
main force.

But where was this main army? Whither had the Prince of Hohenlohe
directed his vanquished troops? Neither the officers nor the soldiers
knew. They marched along the high-roads, not knowing whither to direct
their steps. But as soon as their restless eyes seemed to discern French
soldiers at a distance, the Prussians took to their heels, throwing
their muskets away to relieve their flight, and surrendering at
discretion when there was no prospect of escape. In one instance a troop
of one hundred Prussians surrendered to four French dragoons, who
conducted their prisoners to headquarters; and once a large detachment
hailed in a loud voice a few mounted grenadiers, who intended perhaps to
escape from their superior force, and gave the latter to understand, by
signals and laying down their arms, that they only wished to surrender
and deliver themselves to the French.

The Prussians had reached Jena and Auerstadt confident of victory, and
now had left the battle-field to carry the terrible tidings of their
defeat, like a host of ominously croaking ravens, throughout Germany.

The battle-field, on which a few hours previously Death had walked in a
triumphant procession, and felled thousands and thousands of bleeding
victims to the ground, was now entirely deserted. Night had thrown its
pall over the horrors of this Calvary of Prussian glory: the howling
storm alone sang a requiem to the unfortunate soldiers, who, with open
wounds and features distorted with pain, lay in endless rows on the
blood-stained ground.

At length the night of horror is over--the storm dies away--the thick
veil of darkness is rent asunder, and the sun of a new day arises pale
and sad; pale and sad he illuminates the battle-field, reeking with the
blood of so many thousands.

What a spectacle! How many mutilated corpses lie prostrate on the ground
with their dilated eyes staring at the sky--and among them, the happy,
the enviable! how many living, groaning, bleeding men, writhing with
pain, unable to raise their mutilated bodies from the gory bed of
torture and death!

The sun discloses the terrible picture hidden by the pall of night; it
illuminates the faces of the stark dead, but awakens the living and
suffering, the wounded and bleeding, from their benumbed slumber, and
recalls them to consciousness and the dreadful knowledge of their
wretched existence.

With consciousness return groans and wails; and the dreadful conviction
of their wretched existence opens their lips, and wrings from them
shrieks of pain and despair.

How enviable and blissful sleep the dead whose wounds bleed and ache no
longer! How wretched and pitiable are the living as they lie on the
ground, tortured by the wounds which the howling night wind has dried so
that they bleed no more! Those poor deserted ones in the valley and on
the hills the sun has awakened, and the air resounds with their moans
and cries and despairing groans, and heart-rending entreaties for
relief. But no relief comes to them; no cheerful voice replies to their
wails. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, had been placed in the ambulances,
and, during the sudden panic, the surgeons had left the battle-field
with them. But hundreds, nay thousands, remained behind, and with no one
to succor them!

From among the crowds of wounded and dead lying on the battle-field of
Auerstadt, rose up now an officer, severely injured in the head and arm.
The sun, which had aroused him from the apathetic exhaustion into which
he had sunk from loss of blood and hunger, now warmed his stiffened
limbs, and allayed somewhat the racking pain in his wounded right arm,
and the bleeding gash in his forehead. He tried to extricate himself
from under the carcass of his horse, that pressed heavily on him, and
felt delighted as he succeeded in loosing his foot from the stirrup, and
drawing it from under the steed. Holding with his uninjured left arm to
the saddle, he raised himself slowly. The effort caused the blood to
trickle in large drops from the wound in his forehead, which he
disregarded under the joyful feeling that he had risen again from his
death-bed, and that he was still living and breathing. For a moment he
leaned faint and exhausted against the horse as a couch; and feeling a
burning thirst, a devouring hunger, his dark, flaming eyes wandered
around as if seeking for a refreshing drink for his parched palate, or a
piece of bread to appease his hunger.

But his eye everywhere met only stiffened corpses, and the misery and
horror of a deserted battle-field. He knew that no food could be found,
as the soldiers had not, for two days, either bread or liquor in their
knapsacks. Hunger had been the ally that had paved the way for the
French emperor--it had debilitated the Prussians and broken their
courage.

"I must leave the battle-field," murmured the wounded soldier; "I must
save myself while I have sufficient strength; otherwise I shall die of
hunger. Oh, my God, give me strength to escape from so horrible a death!
Strengthen my feet for this terrible walk!"

He cast a single fiery glance toward heaven, one in which his whole soul
was expressed, and then set out on his walk. He moved along slowly and
with tottering steps amid the rows of corpses, some of which were still
quivering and moaning, as death drew near, while others writhed and
wailed with their wounds. Unable to relieve their racking pains, and to
assist them in their boundless misery, it only remained for him to sink
down among them, or to avert his eyes, to close his ears to their
supplications, and escape with hurried steps from this atmosphere of
blood and putrefaction, in order to rescue his own life from the
clutches of death.

He hastened, therefore, but his tearful eyes greeted the poor sufferers
whom he passed on his way, and his quivering lips muttered a prayer for
them.

At length the first and most horrible part of this dreadful field was
passed, and he escaped from the chaos of the dead and wounded. That
part, across which he was walking now, was less saturated with gore, and
the number of corpses scattered over it was much smaller. Here and there
was the wreck of a cannon besmeared with blood and mire, and empty
knapsacks, fragments of broken wagons and muskets, in the utmost
disorder and confusion.

"Spoils for the marauders," whispered the wounded officer, pressing on.
"It seems they have not been here yet. God have mercy on me, if they
should come now and look on me, too, as their spoil!"

He glanced around anxiously, and in doing so his eye beheld an
unsheathed, blood-stained sabre lying near his feet. He made an effort
to take it up regardless of the blood which, in consequence of the
effort, trickled again in larger drops from his wounds.

"Well," he said, in a loud and menacing voice, "I shall defend my life
at least to the best of my ability; the hateful enemies shall not
capture me as long as I am alive. Forward, then; forward with God! He
will not desert a faithful soldier!"

And supporting himself on his sabre, as if it were a staff, the officer
walked on. Everywhere he met with the same signs of war and destruction;
everywhere he beheld corpses, blood-stained cannon-balls, or muskets,
which the fugitives had thrown away.

"Oh, for a drop of water!" groaned the officer, while slowly crossing
the field; "my lips are parched!"

Tottering and reeling, with the aid of his sabre, and by his firm,
energetic will, and the resolution of his spirit, he succeeded once more
in overcoming the weakness of his body.

He hastened on with quicker steps, and hope now lent wings to his feet,
for yonder, in the rear of the shrubbery, he beheld a house; men were
there, assistance also.

At length, after untold efforts, and a terrible struggle with his pain
and exhaustion, he reached the peasant's house. Looking up with longing
eyes to the windows, he shouted: "Oh, give me a drink of water! Have
mercy on a wounded soldier!"

But no voice responded; no human face appeared behind the small green
windows. Every thing remained silent and deserted.

With a deep sigh, and an air of bitter disappointment depicted on his
features, he murmured:

"My feet cannot carry me any farther. Perhaps my voice was too weak, and
they did not hear me. I will advance closer to the house."

Gathering his strength, with staggering steps he approached and found
the door only ajar; whereupon he opened it and entered.

Within the house every thing was as silent as without; not a human being
was to be seen; not a voice replied to his shouts. The inside of the
dwelling presented a sorry spectacle. All the doors were open; the clay
floor was saturated here and there with blood; the small, low rooms were
almost empty; only some half-destroyed furniture, a few broken jars and
other utensils, were lying about. The inmates either had fled from the
enemy, or he had expelled them from their house.

"There is no help for me," sighed the officer, casting a despairing
glance on this scene of desolation. "Oh, why was it not vouchsafed to me
to die on the battle-field? Why did not a compassionate cannon-ball have
mercy on me, and give me death on the field of honor? Then, at least, I
should have died as a brave soldier, and my name would have been
honorably mentioned; now I am doomed to be named only among the missing!
Oh, it is sad and bitter to die alone, unlamented by my friends, and
with no tear of compassion from the eyes of my queen! Oh, Louisa,
Louisa, you will weep much for your crown, for your country, and for
your people, but you will not have a tear for the poor lieutenant of
your dragoons who is dying here alone uttering a prayer for a blessing
on you! Farewell queen, may God grant you strength, and--"

His words died away; a deadly pallor overspread his features, his head
turned dizzy, and a ringing noise filled his ears.

"Death! death!" he murmured faintly, and, with a sigh, he fell senseless
to the ground.

Every thing had become silent again in the humble house; not a human
sound interrupted the stillness reigning in the desolate room. Only the
hum of a few flies, rushing with their heads against the window-panes,
was heard. Once a rustling noise was heard in a corner, and a mouse
glided across the floor, its piercing, glittering eyes looked
searchingly around, and the sight of the bloody, motionless form, lying
prostrate on the floor, seemed to affright it, for it turned and slipped
away even faster than it had approached, and disappeared in the corner.

The sun rose higher, and shone down on the dimmed windows of the house,
reflecting their yellow outlines on the floor, and illuminated the gold
lace adorning the uniform of the prostrate and motionless officer.

All at once the silence was broken by the approach of hurried steps, and
a loud voice was heard near at hand, shouting:

"Is there anybody in the house?"

Then every thing was still again. The new-comer was evidently waiting
for a reply. After a pause, the steps drew nearer--now they were already
in the hall; and now the tall, slender form of a Prussian officer, with
a bandaged head and arm, appeared on the threshold of the room. When he
beheld the immovable body on the floor, his pale face expressed surprise
and compassion.

"An officer of the queen's dragoons!" he ejaculated, and in the next
moment he was by his side. He knelt down, and placed his hand
inquiringly on the heart and forehead of the prostrate officer.

"He is warm still," he murmured, "and it seems to me his heart is yet
beating. Perhaps, perhaps he only fainted from loss of blood, just as I
did before my wounds had been dressed. Let us see."

He hastily drew a flask from his bosom, and pouring some of its contents
into his hand, he washed with it the forehead and temples of his poor
comrade.

A slight shudder now pervaded his whole frame, and he looked with a
half-unconscious, dreamy glance into the face of the stranger, who had
bent over him with an air of heart-felt sympathy.

"Where am I?" he asked, in a low, tremulous voice.

"With a comrade," said the other, kindly. "With a companion in
misfortune who is wounded, and a fugitive like you. I am an officer of
the Hohenlohe regiment, and fought at Jena. Since last night I have been
wandering about, constantly exposed to the danger of falling into the
hands of the enemy. My name is Pückler--it is a good Prussian name. You
see, therefore, it is a friend who is assisting his poor comrade, and
you need not fear any thing. Now, tell me what I can do for you?"

"Water, water!" groaned the wounded officer, "water!"

"You had better take some of my wine here," said the other; "it will
quench your thirst, and invigorate you at the same time."

He held the flask to the lips of his comrade, and made him sip a little
of his wine.

"Now it is enough," he said, withdrawing the flask from his lips. "Since
you have quenched your thirst, comrade, would you not like to eat a
piece of bread and some meat? Ah, you smile; you are surprised because I
guess your wishes and know your sufferings. You need not wonder at it,
however, comrade, for I have undergone just the same torture as you.
Above all, you must eat something."

While speaking, he had produced from his knapsack a loaf of bread and a
piece of roast chicken, and cutting a few slices from both, placed them
tenderly in the mouth of the sufferer, looking on with smiling joy while
the other moved his jaws, slowly at first, but soon more rapidly and
eagerly.

"Now another draught of wine, comrade," he said, "and then, I may dare
to give you some more food. Hush! do not say a word--it is a sacred work
you are doing now, a work by which you are just about to save a human
life. You must not, therefore, interrupt it by any superfluous
protestations of gratitude. Moreover, your words are written in your
eyes, and you cannot tell me any thing better and more beautiful than
what I am reading therein. Drink! So! And here is a piece of bread and a
wing of the chicken. While you are eating, I will look around in the
yard and garden to find there some water to wash your wounds."

Without waiting for a reply, he hastily left the officer alone with the
piece of bread, the wing of the chicken, and the flask. When he
returned, about fifteen minutes later, with a jar filled with water, the
bread and meat had disappeared; but instead of the pale, immovable, and
cadaverous being, he found seated on the floor a young man with flashing
eyes, a faint blush on his cheeks, and a gentle smile on his lips.

"You have saved me," he said, extending his hand toward his returning
comrade. "I should have died of hunger and exhaustion, if you had not
relieved me so mercifully."

"Comrade," said the officer, smiling, "you have just repeated the same
words which I addressed two hours ago to another comrade whom I met on
the retreat; or, to speak more correctly, who found me lying in the
ditch. The lucky fellow had got a horse; he offered me a seat behind
him. But I saw that the animal was too weak to carry both of us; hence I
did not accept his offer, but I took the refreshments which he gave to
me, and with which he not only saved my life, but yours too. You are,
therefore, under no obligations to me, but to him alone."

"You are as kind as you are generous," said the other, gently,
involuntarily raising his hand toward his forehead.

"And I see that you are in pain," exclaimed the officer, "and that the
wound in your head is burning. Mine has been dressed already, and my
shattered arm bandaged--for I received both wounds yesterday in the
early part of the battle, and the surgeon attended to them while the
bullets were hissing around us."

"I was wounded only when every thing was lost," sighed the other. "A
member of the accursed imperial guard struck me down."

"I hope you gave him a receipt in full for your wounds?" asked the
officer, while tenderly washing the wound with the water he had brought
along in the broken jar.

The other officer looked up to him with flashing eyes.

"I gave him a receipt which he has already shown to God Himself," he
said, "provided there is a God for these accursed French. My sword cleft
his skull, but I fell together with him."

"Your wound here in the forehead is of no consequence," said the
officer; "the stroke only cut the skin. Let us put this moistened
handkerchief on it."

"Oh, now I am better," said the other; "now that the wound burns less
painfully, I feel that life is circulating again through all my veins."

"And what about your arm?"

"A lancer pierced it. I hope he was kind enough not to touch the bone,
so that the arm need not be amputated. It is true, it pains severely;
but, you see, I can move it a little, which proves that it is not
shattered. Now, comrade, do me still another favor--assist me in
rising."

"Here, lean firmly on me. There! I will lift you up--now you are on your
legs again. Lean on me still, for you might become dizzy."

"No, I shall not. I feel again well and strong enough to take the burden
of life on my shoulders. Thank God! I am able to stand again. For,
however crushed and trampled under foot we may be, we will submit to our
fate manfully, and stand erect. The conqueror and tyrant shall not
succeed in bending our heads, although he has broken our hearts. Ah,
comrade, that was a terrible day when all Prussia sank in ruins!"

"You were in the thickest of the fray? The regiment of the queen's
dragoons fought at Auerstadt, I believe?"

"Yes, it fought at Auerstadt, or rather it did the same as all the other
regiments--it deserted. Only a few squadrons complied with the urgent
exhortations of the king, who led us against the squares of the enemy
near Hassenhausen. His own horse was shot; we officers stood our ground,
but the dragoons ran away.[Historical] Ah, I wept with rage, and if my
tears could have been transformed into bullets, they would not have been
directed against the enemy, but against our own cowardly dragoons. The
battle would have been won if our soldiers had not disgracefully taken
to their heels. All shouts, orders, supplications, were in vain; the
soldiers were running, although no enemy pursued them; the panic had
rendered them perfectly crazy."

"And do you really believe, comrade, that we owe the loss of the battle
exclusively to the cowardice of the soldiers?" asked the officer. "Did
our generals do their duty? Ah, you look gloomy, and do not reply. Then
you agree with me? Let us, however, speak of all these things afterward,
but first of ourselves."

"Yes, first of ourselves!" exclaimed the other, starting from his gloomy
reflections. "Count Pückler, you were kind enough to tell me your name,
when you relieved an unknown sufferer in so humane a manner, and thereby
saved his life. Now permit me to tell you my name, too, so that you may
know at least who will always revere your memory with affection and
gratitude. I am Second-Lieutenant Ferdinand von Schill. You see, it is a
very humble name; still I had solemnly vowed that it should not be
unknown in the battles that were to be fought."

"And I see it written on your brow, comrade, that you will at some
future time make up for what fate has now prevented you from
accomplishing," said Count Pückler, kindly offering his hand to
Lieutenant von Schill. "Yet now let us not think of the future, but of
the present. We are disabled, and will be helpless as soon as the
wound-fever sets in; and we may be sure that that will be to-night. We
must, therefore, find a place of refuge; for, if we remain here, without
assistance, and without food, we shall surely be lost."

"You are right; we must leave this house," said Schill; "we must try to
reach a city or village. Come, let us go. You are armed, and I have got
a sabre, too. Let us go, but previously let us swear that we will not
surrender to the French, but rather die, even should it be necessary to
commit suicide! You have a knife, and when you cut some bread for me, I
saw that it was very sharp. Will you give it to me?"

"What for?"

"I want to stab myself, as soon as I see that I cannot escape from the
enemy!"

"And I? What is to become of me?"

"Before killing myself, I will stab you with my sabre. Will that content
you?"

"It will. Be careful, however, to hit my heart; do not merely wound, but
kill me."

"Ah, I see that we understand each other, and that the same heart is
pulsating in our breast!" exclaimed Schill, joyfully. "Let us die,
rather than be captured by the enemy and depend on the mercy of the
Corsican tyrant! Now, comrade, let us go! For you are right; the
wound-fever will set in toward evening, and without assistance we shall
be lost."

"Come," said Pückler, "place your uninjured arm in mine. It seems fate
has destined us for each other, for it has ruined your right arm and my
left arm; thus we can walk at least side by side, mutually supporting
ourselves. I shall be your right hand, and you will lend me your left
arm when I have to embrace anybody. But, it is true, no one will now
care for our embrace; every one will mock and deride us, and try to read
in the bloody handwriting on our foreheads: 'He is also one of the
vanquished Prussians!'"

"Comrade, did you not tell me a little while ago, that it would be
better for us to attend to our own affairs, before talking about other
matters?"

"It is true; let us go!"

And, leaning on each other, the two officers left the house.

CHAPTER II.

THE GERMAN SONG.

It was a sunny morning in autumn; the two wounded officers were inhaling
the bracing air in long draughts, and their eyes were wandering over the
transparent sky and the picturesque landscape.

"And to think that my eyes would never more have seen all this, if you
had not had mercy on me!" said Schill, with a grateful glance at his
companion.

"Ah, my friend," sighed Pückler, mournfully, "we shall not always behold
the sky and this beautiful, silent scene, but it may easily happen that
we shall see much misery to-day, and that you will curse your eyes for
being compelled to perceive it! Still you are right--it is better to
live, even in anguish and distress, than to die in anguish and distress;
for he who lives has still a future before him, and is able to strive in
it for revenge and compensation for the past. Let us descry our
immediate future from the hill yonder, and there decide on the direction
we shall take."

They walked toward the neighboring hill. Frequently they had to stop on
the way; frequently they sank down exhausted; but their will and
youthful energy overcame their weakness, and finally they reached their
destination: they stood on the summit, and were able to survey the whole
country for miles around.

"Yonder, where that dreadful smoke is rising, is the battle-field of
Auerstadt!" said Schill, after a long pause, during which they had taken
breath.

"Yes, and beyond those hills is Jena," said Pückler, sadly. "Those are
two melancholy names for a Prussian ear, and, like Ulysses, I should
like to close mine so as not to hear that siren voice of death any more;
for, I tell you, whenever I hear those two names, I am driven to
despair, and would like to throw myself into that abyss!"

"My friend, it seems to me we are already in the abyss, and our first
and most earnest endeavors should be directed toward saving us from it,"
said Schill, shrugging his shoulders. "Our first step should be to get
safely through the enemy's lines, in order to escape from the dangers to
which a collision with the French would expose us. Whither shall we turn
now? Have you formed already a definite plan, count?"

"Being disabled from active service by my wounds, I shall repair to my
estates in Silesia, and remain there till I have recovered. And you,
comrade--will you permit me to make you an offer? If you have not yet
come to a different decision, you ought to accompany me, and stay at my
house till your wounds are healed. I have splendid woods, and facilities
for angling on my estates; and if you like hunting and fishing, I am
sure a sojourn at my house will afford you plenty of amusement."

"But you forget that my right arm is wounded, count," said Schill, with
a melancholy smile; "hence, I shall be but a poor companion for you, and
ought not to accept your kind offer. I confess, moreover, that my mind
is too restless, and my heart too deeply grieved, to enjoy the peace and
quiet of country life. I must remain in the noise and turmoil of the
world, and see what will become of poor Prussia. I intend going to
Kolberg; the fortress is strong and impregnable; it will be an
insurmountable bulwark against the enemy, and I have several intimate
friends at the fortress. I will stay with them till I am well again."

"Our paths, then, will soon be different. You will go to the north; I,
to the east. But, for a few days, we shall still remain together, for
the wound-fever will compel us to advance very slowly. Let us look out
now for a dinner, and for a place where we may safely sleep to-night."

"And, it seems to me, I see a prospect of obtaining both. Yonder," said
Schill, pointing with his left hand to a small point on the horizon. "Do
you perceive that steeple? There is a village, and consequently there
are men; and, as it is situated northeast, it is in the right direction
for both of us."

"You are right; we will direct our steps thither," exclaimed Count
Pückler. "May Fate be propitious to us, and keep the French out of our
path!"

They walked down the hill on the opposite side, and then commenced
crossing, arm in arm, the stubble-field that lay stretched out before
them. All around them nothing whatever was stirring--not a sound, not
even the chirping of a bird, or the humming of a beetle, interrupted the
profound silence; neither a house, nor any trace of human life, was to
be seen anywhere.

"It is as still here as the grave," whispered Count Pückler.

"Death probably has already stalked across this field on its way to Jena
and Auerstadt," said Schill, "and for this reason all Nature seems to
hold its breath lest it should return."

"But it will not return very soon, for I should think Death itself must
be exhausted by the terrible work it had to perform on the battle-field.
Comrade, now that we know our destination, and have arranged our
affairs, we may converse a little about the dreadful events which
occurred yesterday. You were at Auerstadt. Do you know that at Jena we
had no knowledge whatever of the battle that was going on at Auerstadt,
and were informed of it only in the evening, after we had been
completely routed? We did not hear the reports of your guns!"

"So it was with us, too. At Auerstadt we did not know that a battle was
being fought at Jena; the roar of our own artillery prevented us from
hearing yours. Only when the king had sent off several orderlies to
order the Prince of Hohenlohe and General Rüchel to cover our retreat,
we learned, from the chasseur who returned first, that a battle had been
fought also at Jena, and that Hohenlohe and Rüchel were unable to afford
us any assistance. I cannot describe to you the dismay produced by this
intelligence. Every one thought only of saving himself; there was no
longer any obedience, sense of honor, or bravery. The generals were too
confused to issue orders, and the soldiers too frightened to listen to
their officers."

"And the king?"

"The king was evidently determined to die. His face was livid, his lips
were quivering; wherever the bullets rained down most murderously,
thither he spurred his horse. He had two horses killed, but remained
uninjured. It seems Fate was too unmerciful toward him: it had decreed
that the King of Prussia should not die, but learn in the stern school
of suffering and experience what Prussia needs."

"And the Duke of Brunswick--the commander-in-chief?"

"Ah, you do not yet know the terrible fate that befell him? A bullet
passed through his head; it entered on the right side, and came out on
the left. This happened in the early part of the battle; the duke was
brought back to Auerstadt in a fainting condition; his wound was dressed
there, and then he was carried by some soldiers to Blankenburg."

"The duke is not yet dead, then, notwithstanding this terrible wound?"

"No," said Schill, solemnly, "God would not let him die without reaping
the fruit of what he had sown. For his mental blindness God punished him
with physical blindness. The ball destroyed both his eyes."

"Dreadful!" muttered Count Pückler.

"You pity him?" asked Schill, harshly. "You had better pity the
thousands who are lying on the bloody battle-fields of Jena and
Auerstadt, and accusing the duke of having murdered them! You had better
pity Prussia's misfortunes and disgrace, which have been brought about
by the duke! For, I tell you, the indecision, vacillation, and timidity
of the duke were the sole causes of our terrible disaster. All of us
felt and knew it. None of the younger officers and generals had any
doubt about it; every one knew that those old gentlemen, who had
outlived their own glory, and still believed that they lived in the days
of Frederick the Great, were unequal to the occasion, to the present
time, and to the present war. Because we were aware of this, we made the
utmost efforts to bring about a change of commanders. We elected a
deputation of officers, and sent them to General Kalkreuth, for the
purpose of laying our complaints and prayers before him, and of
imploring him to induce the king to deprive the duke of his command,
and to intrust it to younger and more resolute hands. The deputation
consisted of none but skilful, prominent, and highly-esteemed officers,
who boldly declared it to be their firm conviction that the king was in
danger of losing his crown and his states, if the Duke of Brunswick
should remain at the head of the army."[1]

[Footnote 1: Vide Frederick von Gentz's writings, edited by G.
Schlesier, vol. ii., p. 314.]

"And what did General Kalkreuth reply to them?"

"The general asked, in a harsh tone, for a further explanation of their
words, and the officers gave it to him. They censured the duke's idea of
establishing a camp at Weimar, and dwelt contemptuously on the reasons
that might have induced him to do so. They proved, by referring to the
whole proceedings of the duke, that he knew neither what he was doing
nor what he wanted to do; neither where he was, nor whither he was
going; and they added that, in consequence of this deplorable state of
affairs, the whole army was filled with the most startling and
discouraging rumors.[2]"

[Footnote 2: Ibid., vol. ii., p. 315.]

"But their prayers, their remonstrances, their angry denunciations, and
predictions, were unavailing. General Kalkreuth could not make up his
mind to represent the dangers of the situation to the king, although he
himself was just as well satisfied of its critical character as all the
younger officers of the army. And thus we were defeated, disastrously
defeated and routed, in spite of all warnings of our consciousness of
the danger, and of all predictions. This time it was not the
inexperience and impetuosity of youth, but the antiquated method and
slowness of age, that brought about our ruin."

"Yes, you are right," sighed Count Pückler; "our old generals are the
cause of our misfortunes."

"Do you know, for instance," asked Schill, indignantly, "why we lost the
important defile of Kösen? In consequence of the night-sweat of General
von Schmettau!"

"Ah, you can jest even now!" said Pückler, sadly.

"I do not jest, by any means; on the contrary, I am in dead earnest!
The Duke of Brunswick had ordered the general, on the day before the
battle, to start early next morning with his division, and occupy the
defile of Kösen. His adjutant, Lieutenant von Pfuel, went repeatedly to
his headquarters to remind him of the urgent necessity of setting out,
and to implore him to rise from his bed. 'But, sir,' replied the old
general, 'let me wait at least until my night-sweat is gone; I
understand it is a very chilly morning!'[3] The old general did not rise
until nine o'clock, and started at ten with his division toward Kösen.
When he reached the defile he found that Marshal Davoust had caused it
to be occupied by a regiment of infantry scarcely an hour before. That
night-sweat of the old general has become the death-sweat of many brave
Prussians, and the gray hairs of the old chieftain will now cause the
hair of our youth to turn gray with shame and grief."

[Footnote 3: Vide Förster's "Modern History of Prussia," vol. i., p.
757.]

"Oh, it is a terrible disgrace for us, and I hardly know how we are to
bear it in a manly and dignified manner," said Count Pückler, gloomily.
"In these hours of melancholy only we feel the full extent of our ardent
love for our country; now only we perceive the indissoluble ties that
attach our hearts to it! I should like to pour out my blood in tears for
this crushed, disgraced, and yet so dearly-beloved country, and I feel
that if we do not rise speedily from our degradation, I shall die of
despair!"

"You will not die," said Schill, gravely, "for all of us who love
Prussia, and are devoted to her honor, must not think of dying at the
present time; all of us must assist Prussia in rising again from the
dust, so that she may once more boldly meet the tyrant, and take revenge
for herself and for Germany! For Prussia is Germany now, because she is
the only power in Germany that has resisted and braved the Corsican
conqueror. But God wanted first to arouse her from her arrogance and
vanity, and make the weakness of her leading men known to her, that she
might rise after a noble regeneration and with redoubled strength. Life
springs from death, and Prussia had to fall so low as to break her old
decrepit limbs that were still kept together by her glory from the Seven
Years' War; and then the young, vigorous soldier of the new century will
arise and draw the sword to deliver his subjugated country, and avenge
its desecrated honor!"

"Then you hope still for a change for the better?" asked Count Pückler,
mournfully.

"I base my hopes on the propitious star of Prussia," exclaimed Schill,
enthusiastically, "on the future, on the wrath and grief which will
awake now in all Prussian hearts, arousing the sluggards, strengthening
the vacillating, and urging the timid. I base my hopes on the tears of
Queen Louisa, which will move Heaven to help us and awaken avengers on
earth. And, for ourselves, comrade, with our wounds, with our disgrace,
we must be like the spirits of vengeance that sweep across the heath in
the howling storm of diversity, and awaken the sleeper who would give
way to dreams of peace and inaction. Prussia must not make peace in her
present calamitous condition; she must fill the hearts and minds of all
with longings for war, till the whole nation arises in its rage and
expels the enemy from the country! My friend, we have now witnessed the
downfall of Prussia, but henceforth we must exert ourselves in order to
witness also her regeneration. We ourselves must be the--"

"Hush!" said Pückler, hastily. "Just look there, and then take your
sabre."

They were now near a field-path leading to a small wood which a slender
youth had just left, and was hastily approaching them. As yet, however,
he was so far from them that they were unable to distinguish his
features or his dress, and to discern whether he was an armed soldier or
a peaceable wanderer.

"It is, doubtless, a French soldier, and his comrades are lying in
ambush," murmured Pückler, placing his hand on his sword.

"If he wants to attack us, he had better say his death-prayers," said
Schill, calmly. "There are two of us, and each has one uninjured arm."

The youth had meanwhile drawn nearer, and they saw that he did not wear
any uniform.

"He is very young," said Pückler, "and a civilian. He has apparently not
yet seen us. That bush yonder is concealing us from his eyes. Let us
stoop a little, and, as the path lies beyond, he may pass by without
noticing us."

They knelt down behind the bush, but, while doing so, took their swords,
and prepared for an attack. Then they held their breath and listened.

Profound silence reigned around, and nothing was to be heard but the
quick steps of the wanderer, who drew nearer and nearer. Suddenly this
silence was interrupted by a fresh and youthful voice, singing the air
of a popular song.

"Ah, he sings," murmured Schill. "He who can sing to-day, must be very
harmless, and it is not worth while to kill him."

"Hush! hush! let us listen to his song. He is now singing words to the
melody. Just listen!"

The voice resounded nearer and nearer to the two listeners, and they
could understand the words he was singing:

    O Hermann! for thy country's fall
        No tears! Where vanquished valor bled
    The victor rules, and Slavery's pall,
        Upon these hills and vales is spread.
    Shame burns within me, for the brave
    Lie mouldering in the freeman's grave.

    No voice! where sturdy Luther spoke
        Fearless for men who dared be free!
    O would that Heaven's thunder woke
        My people for their liberty!
    Must heroes fight and die in vain?--
    Ye cowards! grasp your swords again!

    Revenge! revenge! a gory shroud
        To tyrants, and the slaves that yield'
    Eternal honor calls aloud
        For courage in the battle-field.
    Who loves or fears a conquered land
    That bows beneath the despot's hand?

    And whither flee? Where Winkelried
        And Tell and Ruyter bravely broke
    Oppression's power--their country freed--
        All--all beneath the usurper's yoke!
    From Alpine fountains to the sea
    The patriot dead alone are free.

    My people! in this sorrowing night,
        The clanking of your chains may be
    The sign of vengeance, and the fight
        Of former times the world may see,
    When Hermann in that storied day
    As a wild torrent cleft his way.

    No idle song, O youth! thy boast.
        In self-born virtue be as one
    Who is himself a mighty host
        By whose sole arm is victory won.
    No blazoned monument so grand
    As death for the dear Fatherland.

    To die! how welcome to the brave!
        The tomb awakes no coward fear
    Save to the wretched, trembling slave
        Who for his country sheds no tear.
    To crown me with a fadeless wreath
    Be thine, O happy, sacred death!

    Come, shining sword! avenge my dead!
        Alone canst thou remove this shame.
    Proud ornament! with slaughter red
        Restore my native land its fame.
    By night, by day, in sun or shade,
    Be girt around me, trusty blade.

    The trumpet on the morning gale!
        Arm! forward to the bloody strife!
    From loftiest mountain to the vale
        Asks dying Freedom for her life.
    Our standard raise, to glory given,
    And higher still our hearts to Heaven.[4]

[Footnote 4: This is one of Arndt's soul-stirring, patriotic hymns,
published in 1806. It is difficult to render into readable English this
species of German heroic verse so as to preserve its rhythm. All the
thought of the original is however expressed in the translation. The
only change of any importance is the transposition of the seventh
stanza.]

    Keine Thräne, Hermann, für dein Volk?
    Keine Thräne, und die Schande brennet,
    Und der Feind gebietet, we die Freien
    Siegten und fielen?

    Keine Stimme laut, wo Luther sprach?
    Alle Donner, die der Himmel sendet,
    Sollten rufen: Volk erwache! feiges;
    Greife zum Schwerte.

    Rache! Rache! heissen, blut'gen Tod
    Sklavenfürsten und dem Knecht der fliehet!
    Männerwort gefürchtet und gepriesen,
    Männliche Tugend!

    Ach wohin? wo Winkelried erlag,
    Wilhelm schlug, und Ruyter tapfer siegte;
    Auf den höchsten Alpen, in den tiefsten
    Sümpfen ist Knechtschaft.

    Auch du, Hermann's, auch du, kühnes Volk?
    Auf! Erwache! Schüttle deine Ketten,
    Dass die Schmach die Welt vernehme, bald auch
    Blutige Rache!

    Lieder helfen hier and Mäler nicht.
    Mäler? Tief im Herzen sei das Denkmal,
    An dem Thurm der selbstgebornen Tugend
    Hebe dich, Jüngling!

    Und voran geworfen kühn die Brust,
    Und empor das Auge zu dem Himmel,
    Hoch die Fahne! Hoch zum Himmel! Höher
    Flammende Herzen.

    Tod, du süsser, für das Vaterland,
    Süsser als der Brautgruss, als das Lallen
    Auf dem Mutterschooss des ersten Kindes,
    Sei mir willkommen!

    Was das Lied nicht löset, löst das Schwert,
    Blinkend Heil, umgürte meine Hüften!
    Vor der Schande kannst du Tapfre retten,
    Zierde der Tapfern!

Just when the youth had sung the last verse in a ringing voice, he had
reached the bush. And now there arose above it two pale heads, wrapped
in white, blood-stained handkerchiefs, and sang in enthusiastic tone the
last verse of the song they had heard:

    Was das Lied nicht löset, löst das Schwert!
    Blinkend Heil, umgürte meine Hüften!
    Vor der Schande kannst du Tapfre retten,
    Zierde der Tapfern!

CHAPTER III.

THE OATH OF VENGEANCE.

Speechless with surprise, the youth had listened to the song, and fixed
his large eyes steadfastly on the two officers, whose uniforms and
wounds revealed to him the melancholy fate that had befallen them during
the last few days.

When the two were silent, he approached them with an air of profound
respect.

"Bravo, officers of Auerstadt or Jena," he said, with a voice trembling
with emotion, "permit a poor young wanderer to present his respects to
you, and to thank you, in the name of the German fatherland, for the
wounds on your foreheads. Such wounds are also an 'ornament of the
brave.'" [An allusion to the last line of the original song.]

"And such words are an ornament of a noble heart," exclaimed Schill,
offering his hand to the youth.

He took it with a joyful gesture, and, quickly kneeling down, imprinted
a glowing kiss on the feverish hand of the wounded officer.

"My God!" exclaimed Schill, surprised, "what are you doing? How can a
man kiss another's hand and kneel before him? Rise!"

"I am no man," said the youth, deeply moved. "I am but a poor boy, who
has not yet done any thing for his country, and, perhaps, never will be
able to do any thing for it, but who feels the most profound respect for
those who were more fortunate than he. I, therefore, kiss your hand as
Catholics kiss the hands of their saints and martyrs. For are you not at
the present hour a martyr of German liberty? Hence, sir, give me your
hand, too. Let me press my poor lips on it, also. It is the only way for
me to manifest my profound respect for you."

"No," said Count Pückler, feelingly, "you shall not kiss my hand, but my
cheeks and my lips. Let me embrace you, young man, let me embrace you
for the boon you have conferred on us by your words. Come, sir!"

The young man uttered a joyous cry, and, rising quickly, threw himself
with youthful impetuosity into the count's arms.

"I will and must have my share in the embrace," exclaimed Schill,
smiling; "did not you before expressly request me, comrade, to lend you
my left arm for every embrace? Well, then, here it is."

He quickly wound his left arm around the necks of the others, and
pressed them firmly to his heart. When they withdrew their arms again,
tears were glistening in the eyes of the officers as well as in those of
the youth.

"Grief and adversity cause men easily to fraternize," said Schill, "and
therefore we shall be brethren henceforward."

"You will be my brethren?" exclaimed the young man, joyfully. "You will
permit the poor boy to call two heroes brethren?"

"Heroes!" said Pückler, sighing. "Then you do not know, my friends, that
we were disgracefully defeated and trampled under foot in yesterday's
battle?"

"I know that, but know also that the _luck_ of battles is not the true
standard for the bravery of warriors. _You_ at least did not run, and,
like true heroes, you bear your wounds on your foreheads; your mothers,
therefore, will proudly bid you welcome; your betrothed or your wives
will embrace you with rapturous tears, and your friends will be proud of
your valor."

"Does it not seem almost as though he had heard our mournful and
despondent words, and wished to comfort us?" asked Schill, turning to
the count. "His blue eyes apparently do not behold only our physical
wounds, but also those which cause our hearts to bleed, and he wishes to
apply a balm to them by his sweet, flattering words."

"He wishes to console the poor defeated, and reconcile them to their
fate," said Pückler, nodding kindly to the youth.

"You have a better and more generous opinion of me than I deserve," he
said, sadly bowing his head so as to shake its exuberant mass of long,
fair hair. "I simply told you what I thought, and what every one who
looks at both of you will and must think."

"Would to God you spoke the truth, young man!" said Count Pückler,
mournfully. "Believe me, however, but few will think like yourself; a
great many will rejoice at seeing us defeated and humiliated."

"Instead of bewailing us, they will deride us," exclaimed Schill;
"instead of weeping with us, they will revile us!"

"Who will dare to do so?" exclaimed the youth, in an outburst of
generous anger. "Do you forget, then, that you are in Germany, and that
you have shed your blood for your country? Your German brethren will not
deride you; they will not rejoice at your sufferings; they will hope
with you for a better and more fortunate day when you will get even with
that insolent and hateful enemy, for the battles of Jena and Auerstadt."

"Pray to God, my young friend, that that day may speedily dawn!" said
Count Pückler, heaving a sigh.

"Pray!" ejaculated the young man, impetuously. "In times like ours it is
not sufficient to pray and to hope for divine assistance; we ought
rather to act and toil, and, instead of folding our hands, arm them
either with the sword or with the dagger."

"With the dagger?" asked Schill. "The dagger is the weapon of
assassins."

"Was Moeros an assassin because he wanted to stab Dionysius the tyrant?"
asked the youth. "Was he not rather a generous and high-minded man, whom
our great Schiller deemed worthy of becoming the hero of one of his
finest poems? When the fatherland is in danger, every weapon is sacred,
and every way lawful which a bold heart desires to pursue, to deliver
the country."

"Well, I see already that your heart will choose the right, and not
shrink back from dangers," said Pückler, kindly. "But, in the first
place, tell us which way you are now going to take, that we may know
whether we shall be allowed to accompany you or not."

"I come from Erfurt, where my parents are living," said the young man;
"last night I was at Weimar, and now I am going to do what I have sworn
a solemn oath to my father to do. I am on my way to Leipsic."

"And may I inquire what you are going to do in Leipsic?"

The young man was silent, and a flaming blush mantled for a moment his
delicate, innocent face. "According to my father's wishes, I shall
become there a merchant's apprentice," he said, in a low and embarrassed
voice.

"What! Feeling so generous an enthusiasm for the fatherland and its
soldiers, you want to become a merchant?" asked Schill, in surprise.

The youth raised his blue eyes to him; they were filled with tears.

"I am ordered to become a merchant," he said in a low voice. "My father
is a pious preacher, and hates and detests warfare; he says it is sinful
for men to raise their weapons against their brethren, as though they
were wild beasts, against which you cannot defend yourself but by
killing them. My mother, in former days, became familiar with the
horrors of war; she fears, therefore, lest her only son should fall prey
to them, and wishes to protect him from such a fate. With bitter tears,
with folded hands, nay, almost on her knees, she implored me to desist
from my purpose of becoming a soldier, and not to break her heart with
grief and anguish. My mother begged and wept, my father scolded and
threatened, and thus I was obliged to yield and be a dutiful son. Three
days ago my father administered the sacrament to me, and I swore an oath
to him at the altar to remain faithful to the avocation he had selected
for me, and never to become a soldier!"

He paused, and the tears which had filled his eyes rolled like pearls
over his cheeks.

"Poor friend!" murmured Pückler.

"Poor brother!" said Schill, indignantly. "To be doomed to wield the
yardstick in place of the sword! How can a father be so cruel as to make
his son take such a pledge at the present time?"

"My father is not cruel," said the youth, gently; "his only aim is my
happiness, but he wishes to bring it about in his own way, and not in
mine. It behooves a son to yield and obey. Accordingly, I shall not
become a soldier, but God knows whether it will be conducive to my
happiness. Many a one has already been driven to commit a crime by his
despair at having chosen an unsuitable avocation. But let us speak no
more of myself," he added, shaking his head indignantly, as if he wanted
to drive the tears from his eyes; "let us speak no more of my petty,
miserable grief, but of your great sorrow, which all Germany shares with
you. You know now every thing concerning my affairs, and it only remains
for me to mention my name. It is Staps; 'Frederick Staps' will be my
firm one day, if I should live to see it."

"Your name is Frederick, like that of Prussia's great king," said
Schill, comfortingly, "and who knows whether you will not one day become
a great soldier like him?"

"But I have told you already that I have sworn at the altar never to
become a soldier," said Frederick Staps, sighing. "I shall never break
the oath I have sworn to my father, nor the one either which I have
sworn to myself!"

"The oath that you will become a good and honest man, I suppose?" asked
Pückler.

"It is unnecessary to take such an oath, because that is a matter of
course," said Frederick Staps, quickly. "I swore another oath, but
nobody but God must know it. When the time has come, you shall be
informed of it. Do not forget my name, and when you hear from me one
day, remember this hour and the tears you saw me shed for being
compelled to choose an avocation that is repugnant to me."

"And in order to remember us, you must know who we are," exclaimed Count
Pückler, stating his name.

"And my name is Schill," said the lieutenant. "We fought at Auerstadt
and Jena, and are now wandering about, and seeking for a place where we
may spend the coming night."

"You will find it in the village in the rear of the wood," said
Frederick Staps. "Come, I will guide you back to the village and to the
country parson, to whom I have on my way just presented my father's
respects. He is a good and generous man. You will be kindly received and
nursed by him and his wife; and if French soldiers should come to his
house, he would not betray, but conceal you."

"Oh, what delightful words you have just uttered!" exclaimed Schill,
joyously. "Blessed be your lips which have announced to us that we shall
be saved, for, let me tell you, we should prefer death to French
captivity!"

"I understand that," said Frederick Staps, quietly. "Come, I will guide
you thither."

"And we accept your offer, as friends ought to accept that of a friend,"
said Count Pückler. "We do not say: 'We cause you trouble and loss of
time; let us therefore try to find our way alone;' but we say: 'In these
days of affliction we are all brethren, and we must rely on each other's
assistance.' Come, therefore, brother, and be our guide."

They walked slowly toward the small wood from which Staps had issued.

"You stated you had been in Weimar, and spent a night there," asked
Count Pückler. "How does the place look--what do people say, and who is
there?"

"It looks like a pandemonium," replied Staps. "Nothing is to be heard
but curses, shouts, threats, and screams: nothing to be seen but faces
pale with terror, and fleeing from the pursuing soldiers. The streets
are crowded with men, wagons, and horses. The inhabitants want to leave
the city; they know not whither to escape, and are forced back at the
gates by French soldiers making their entry, or by vehicles filled with
wounded."

"And how is it at the palace? The duchess has fled from the wrath of the
conqueror, I suppose?"

"No, the duchess has remained to beg Napoleon to have mercy on her state
and her husband."

"But is Napoleon already in Weimar?"

"Yes; he came over from Jena this morning. The duchess received him at
the foot of the palace staircase, and did not avert her eyes from his
angry and haughty glances, but looked at him with the proud calmness of
a noble German lady. 'You have not fled, then?' asked Napoleon, harshly.
'Then you do not fear my anger at the senseless and hostile conduct of
your husband?' The duchess looked quietly at him. 'You see, sire, I have
remained because I have confided in your generosity, and wished to
intercede for my husband and my people.' Napoleon looked at her during a
long pause, and her quiet dignity seemed to impress him very favorably.
'That was well done,' he said at last, 'and for your sake, and because
you have reposed confidence in me, I will forgive your husband.'[5] I do
not know what occurred afterward, for I left the palace when Napoleon
had retired to the rooms reserved for his personal use. My cousin, who
is lady's maid of the duchess, told me what I have just related to you."

[Footnote 5: Napoleon's own words.--Vide "Mémoires de Constant," vol.
iv., and "History of Napoleon," by * * * r, vol. ii., p. 109.]

"And you did not hear any thing about our king and his consort?"

"Both are said to be on the way to Magdeburg, where they will remain, if
the pursuing enemy will permit them. Napoleon's hatred and wrath are not
yet satiated, and his latest bulletin is written in the same vulgar
guard-room style as all the recent manifestoes in which he dares to
revile the noble and beautiful queen."

"Then another bulletin has appeared?"

"It was just distributed among the troops when I left Weimar. A soldier,
whom I asked for his copy, gave it to me. Do you wish to read it?"

"Read it to us," said Count Pückler. "Let us rest a little in the shade
of these trees, for I confess I feel greatly exhausted, and my feet
refuse to carry me any farther. And how do you feel, comrade?"

"Do you believe," asked Schill, in a faint voice, "do you believe that I
should not have given vent to my anger at the impudence of that Corsican
who dares to revile our noble queen, if I had had sufficient strength to
speak? Let us sit down and rest. See, there is a splendid old oak. Let
us take breath under its shade."

They walked toward a large oak, which stood at the entrance of the wood,
and the foot of which was overgrown with fragrant green moss. Assisted
by Staps, the two officers seated themselves, and the roots, covered
with soft turf, served as pillows to their wounded heads.

"Oh, how delightful to rest on German soil under a German oak!" sighed
Schill. "I should like to lie here all my lifetime, looking up to the
rustling leaves, and dreaming! Amid the stillness surrounding us, it is
almost impossible to believe that we witnessed yesterday such wild
strife and bloodshed. Is all this reality, or have we had merely an
evil, feverish dream?"

"Touch your forehead; try to raise your right arm, and you will see that
it is reality," said Pückler, laughing bitterly, "and if you should have
any doubt, let our young friend read the latest bulletin issued by our
_triumphator_. But will you promise not to interrupt him, nor to be
angry at what we are going to hear?"

"I promise you to be perfectly calm, for my weakness compels me to be
so. Read, friend Staps. But, pray, let us have the German translation,
for it would be a violation of the peaceful silence of the forest, and
of the sacredness of the German oak, if we should use here the language
of our enemies."

Frederick Staps sat down opposite the officers, on the trunk of a fallen
tree. Drawing a paper from his bosom, he unfolded it, and read as
follows:

"The battle of Jena has effaced the disgrace of Rossbach, and decided a
campaign in seven days. Since the ninth of October we have proceeded
from victory to victory, and the battles of Jena and Auerstadt have
crowned all. The Prussian army is dispersed--almost annihilated. The
king is wandering about without shelter, and the queen will now regret
with bitter tears that she instigated her husband to this senseless and
unjust war. Admirable was the conduct of our whole army, soul-stirring
the enthusiasm of the brave soldiers for their chieftain and emperor.
When there was any momentary difficulty to overcome, the shout of 'Long
live the emperor!' resounded, animating all souls, and carrying away all
hearts. The emperor saw at the most critical moment of the battle that
the enemy's cavalry threatened the flanks of the infantry. He galloped
up to order new manoeuvres, and the front to be transformed into a
square. At every step he was hailed by shouts of 'Long live the
emperor!' The soldiers of the imperial guard were jealous of all the
other corps who participated in the battle, while they alone were
inactive. Several voices were already heard to shout, 'Forward!' The
emperor turned and asked, 'What is that? He must assuredly be a
beardless youth who wishes to anticipate me as to what I ought to do.
Let him wait until he has commanded in twenty battles; then he may claim
to be my adviser.' The whole guard replied to this rebuke by the
unanimous shout of 'Long live the emperor!' and rushed toward the enemy,
when, at length, the order was given to charge. The results of this
battle are from thirty to forty thousand prisoners, three hundred
field-pieces, and thirty standards. Among the prisoners there are more
than twenty generals. The losses of the Prussian army are very heavy,
amounting to more than twenty thousand killed and wounded. Our losses
are estimated at about twelve hundred killed and three thousand
wounded."[6]

[Footnote 6: Fifth bulletin of the Grand Army.]

"Profound silence ensued when Staps had read the bulletin. The two
officers were still lying on the ground, and their dilated eyes gazing
at the roof of foliage above them."

"And we must quietly listen to that," said Schill, after a long pause;
"and our hearts do not break with grief and rage! heaven does not grow
dark, and earth does not open to swallow up the degraded, in order to
save them compassionately from the sense of their humiliation! These
words will be read by the whole of Europe, and all will know that this
insolent conqueror may dare with impunity to speak in insulting terms of
our queen, the purest and best of women!"

"He is the master of the world, and will issue many more bulletins of
this description, and speak in such terms of many more princes and
princesses," said Count Pückler. "He has the power to do so. He needs
only stretch out his hand, and kingdoms fall to ruins--nations are at
his feet, and cry imploringly: 'Let us be your slaves, and lay your hand
on us as our lord and master!' It is useless to resist him. Let us,
therefore, submit."

"No," exclaimed Schill, rising, "no, let us not submit. When a whole
nation arouses itself, and shakes its lion's mane, there is no hand,
even though it were an iron one, that could hold and subdue it."

"But our nation will not rise again--it has been crushed," said Pückler,
mournfully. "It is sleeping the sleep of death."

"No, it has not been crushed. No, it will not die!" exclaimed Schill, in
an outburst of generous rage. "It is only necessary to instill genuine
vitality into its veins, and to awaken it from its lethargy by
soul-stirring exhortations, as our young friend here encouraged and
strengthened us an hour ago by his noble song. Oh, sing again, friend
Staps! Purify the air--which is still infected by the words of the
imperial bulletin--purify it by another German song, and let the native
oak, which has listened to our disgrace, now hear also manly words.
Sing! and may your voice reach our poor soldiers who are closing their
eyes on the battle-field; and may it breathe the consolation into their
ears, 'You die for Germany, but Germany does not die--she lives, and
will rise again!'"

"Yes, I will sing," said Frederick Staps, enthusiastically, "but I wish
that every note issuing from my breast would transform itself into a
sword, and strike around with the storm's resistless fury!"

"In that case all of us, and yourself, too, would be the first victims,"
said Pückler, with a melancholy smile.

"Of what consequence are our lives, if they are given up for the
fatherland?" exclaimed Staps, fervently. "Oh, believe me, I could, like
Mucius Scaevola, lay my hand on the red-hot iron, and not wince, but
sing jubilant hymns, if I thought that my torture would be useful to my
country. Now, I can only sing, only pray, only weep. But who knows
whether I shall not become one day a modern Mucius Scaevola, a modern
Moeros, and deliver the world from its tyrant?"

And suddenly raising his voice, with a radiant face, he began to sing:

    Frisch auf! Es ruft das Vaterland
    Die Männer in die Schlacht.
    Frisch auf! Zu dämpfen Trug und Schand!
    Heran mit Macht, mit Macht!
         Heran und braucht den Männerleib,
         Wozu ihn Gott gebaut:
         Zum Schirm der Jungfrau und dem Weib,
         Dem Säugling und der Braut!

    Denn ein Tyrann mit Lügenwort
    Und Strick und Henkerschwert,
    Uebt in dem Vaterlande Mord,
    Und schändet Thron und Heerd,
        Und will, so weit die Sonne scheint
        Der einz'ge König sein;
        Ein Menschenfeind, ein Freiheitsfeind,
        Spricht er: die Welt ist mein!

    Verhüt' es Gott und Hermann's Blut!
    Nie werde solches wahr!
    Erwache, alter deutscher Muth,
    Der Recht und Licht gebar!
        Erwache! sonder Rast und Ruh,
        Schlag' Jeden der dir droht,
        Und ruf' ihm deutsche Losung zu:
        "Sieg gelt' es, oder Tod!"[7]

[Footnote 7: "Victory or death!" A very popular hymn of that period.]

"Victory or death!" shouted the two officers, raising their hands and
eyes toward heaven.

"When will the Germans sing and act in this manner?" asked Count
Pückler, sadly.

"When we have awakened them!" exclaimed Schill, joyfully. "For that is
now our only task: to arouse the Germans, and to remind them of their
duty and honor. Every one ought to raise his voice for this purpose, and
toil for it. The time is past when the nation was separated from the
army, and when the civilian hated the soldier. All these separate
interests we buried yesterday on the battle-fields of Jena and
Auerstadt. Heaven permitted our army to be defeated for the purpose of
teaching us that its heart was demoralized and its vitality entirely
gone. But Bonaparte, who believes his successes to be due solely to his
own energy and sagacity, is, after all, nothing but the scourge that God
uses to chastise us. And, after chastising us sufficiently, the scourge
will be cast aside, and lie on the ground, trampled under foot and
despised, while we shall rise and become again a glorious nation. But,
in order to bring about this change, it is necessary to arouse the
Prussians, and fan the flames of their patriotism. Every Prussian must
feel and know that he is a soldier of the grand army which we shall one
day place in the field against the so-called grand army of Napoleon,
and, when the call of 'Rally round the flag!' resounds, he must take up
the sword, and proudly feel that the holy vengeance of the fatherland is
placed in his hands."

"But suppose there is no one to utter the cry of 'Rally round the flag!'
how are the people to appear and take up arms?"

"_We_ are there, and _we_ shall exhort the people to arms!" said Schill,
energetically. "Henceforth, we must not wait until the generals call us;
we ourselves must be generals, and organize armies--every one after his
own fashion--according to his influence. We must travel over the
country, and enlist recruits. As we have no standing army, we must form
independent corps, and, by means of raids, harass and molest the enemy.
The strongest lion succumbs when stung by many bees. Every Prussian must
turn conspirator, and prevail on his neighbor to join the great
conspiracy; secret leagues and clubs must be instituted everywhere, and
work and agitate until we are united like _one_ man, and, with the
resistless power of our holy wrath, expel the tyrant who enslaves us!"

"Yes, you are right; we must not give way to timid despondency, but hope
and dare every thing. Every one must become a general, and enlist
troops, to attack the enemy whenever and wherever he can!"

"I shall also enlist my troops, and lead them against the enemy,"
exclaimed Staps, with sparkling eyes. "But my troops will not be made of
flesh and blood. They will be the songs I sing, and one day I shall
march out with them, and challenge the tyrant to mortal combat! Yes, you
are right in saying, 'Every one must fight after his own fashion, and
according to his power and influence;' let me fight, too, after my
fashion!"

"Go and fight, and may the blessings of all the brave follow you!" said
Schill, placing his hand on the head of the youth. "Let us take here,
under the German oak, a solemn oath that we will devote our fortunes,
our lives, and our sacred honor, to the fatherland!"

"Yes," exclaimed Pückler and Staps, "we will take that oath!"

"Let us," said Schill, "then swear to strive for nothing but to deliver
Germany from the grasp of the tyrant."

"We swear," continued Schill, "to regard ourselves from this hour as
soldiers of the grand army one day to battle for our liberties--to leave
nothing undone in enlisting fresh troops--that our life shall be nothing
but an inexorable and never-flagging struggle against the usurper--that
we will rather die than submit. We vow vengeance against him, and
deliverance to the fatherland!"

When all had repeated this oath, Schill said, solemnly, "The German oak
has heard our words, and they are registered on high; now, my friends,
let us go and enter into a new life--a new future. Let us take care of
the body, in order to impart strength to the mind to carry out its
schemes. Come, let us go!"

They passed on, and soon reached the village, guided by Staps to the
parsonage.

The clergyman joyfully received the officers; his wife prepared her best
rooms for them, and pledged herself, like her husband, to protect them
at the risk of her life, if French soldiers should arrive, and search
the house for wounded Prussians.

"Now you are safe, and I can go," said Frederick Staps, when he was
again alone with his friends, their host having withdrawn to prepare
every thing that was necessary for the comfort of his guests. "I cannot
stay here any longer, for I have promised my father to proceed without
delay to Leipsic, and I must keep my pledge to him, as I shall keep it
to you. Farewell, friends; may God protect you, and may your deeds fill
the world with your glory, so that the poor merchant's apprentice in
Leipsic may also hear of it!"

"The poor merchant's apprentice is also a soldier of our grand army of
the future," said Schill; "we have enlisted him, and he will go and
fulfil his duty to his fatherland."

"Yes, you may depend on it he will do his duty," exclaimed Staps, "and
you will hear of him one day. Farewell, and, please God! we shall meet
again!"

"Yes, we shall meet again," said the two officers, cordially shaking
hands with the youth, and taking leave of him.

Staps left the room hastily. When he turned round once more at the door,
and greeted the friends with a nod, they saw that his eyes were filled
with tears.

The clergyman's wife now entered to serve up the dinner she herself had
prepared, and there was added a bottle of old Hock from the wine-cellar.

"In the first place, however," said the clergyman to Schill, "I must see
and dress your arm, sir; I am quite experienced in dressing wounds,
having taken lessons in surgery in order to assist our poor peasants in
case of injuries, and render it unnecessary for them to pay large
doctors' bills. Let me, therefore, be your surgeon, too."

Schill gratefully accepted his kind offer, and after his wife had
brought every thing necessary for dressing a wound, the clergyman
examined Schill's arm, and removed the coagulated blood from it.

"It is a very deep flesh-wound," he said, "fortunately the bone is
uninjured."

"Then I shall soon be able to use my arm again?" asked Schill, joyfully.

"Not for a few weeks yet, unless you wish to run the risk of losing it
entirely. Mortification might set in after the wound has commenced
ulcerating. Hence, you must be very cautious, and live as quietly as
possible. Your hands are now already burning, and your fever will be
very severe. Unfortunately, I have brought up my wine in vain. Both of
you, gentlemen, will not be able to drink it to-day, nor to-morrow, nor
the day after to-morrow either. For the first three days your fever, as
I stated already, will be very serious."

This prediction was fulfilled. For three days the officers were unable
to rise from their couch. They were delirious, and unaware of the danger
menacing them. A French regiment had come to the village to spend the
night, and four of its officers established their headquarters at the
parsonage.

But as soon as the French troops had been descried in the neighborhood
of the village, the clergyman, assisted by his wife and servants, had
removed the wounded, and prepared a safe refuge for them in the hay-loft
of his barn, far from the dwelling-house. He himself remained with them,
and, while his wife received the French officers, and informed them that
her husband was not at home, the good old man was sitting in the
hay-loft beside his guests, nursing them with the kindness of a father
and the skill of an experienced physician. He had locked the door of his
asylum, and a loaded gun and unsheathed sword were within his reach, in
order forcibly to drive back the French, in case they should try to
penetrate into this hiding-place.

But the danger passed, and the fever abated. Four days afterward the two
Prussians were strong enough to continue their journey. The clergyman
himself drove them in his carriage to the neighboring town, where they
bought two horses and departed--not together, however, but by different
routes. Count Pückler took the road to Breslau; Ferdinand von Schill
turned toward Kolberg.

Before parting, they cordially shook hands once more.

"Let us remember the oath under the German oak," said Schill.

"Yes," replied Pückler. "We shall not desert the fatherland, but serve
it with our whole strength, and after that is exhausted, we know how to
die."

CHAPTER IV.

IN BERLIN.

The utmost uneasiness and suspense prevailed in Berlin. Several rumors
had already reached the capital. It was reported that, on the 14th of
October, a battle had taken place between the Prussians and French
forces. To-day was the 18th, and no news had been received; nothing
definite was known about the result of the battle. But the people said,
if it had been favorable to the Prussians, the couriers, to whom joy
would have lent wings, would have reached the capital long since; and
this continued silence and incertitude seemed to the inhabitants of
Berlin more discouraging than any positive intelligence, however
disastrous it might be.

No one had the heart to work longer--no one could be prevailed upon to
follow his usual avocation; all felt paralyzed by a secret terror; and
hastened into the street, as though they hoped some decisive news would
fly through the air and put an end to this dreadful suspense.

All Berlin seemed to have met in the streets on the morning of this 18th
October, and the people hastened in vast crowds toward the house of the
governor of the capital; they consisted to-day not only of the lower
classes of society but the noblest and best had united with them. Men of
mind and education, the representatives of art and science, were to be
seen among them. There was no distinction of rank or position--every one
felt that he was united with his fellow-citizens by the same care,
anxiety, and affection; every one knew that all the thousands
surrounding him entertained the same wishes and apprehensions, and thus
social distinctions were unnoticed. The high-born and the rich, the poor
and the lowly, all felt only that they were Prussians--that they were
Germans; all were animated by one desire; to learn what had been the
result of the battle, and whether the Prussians, faithful to their
ancient military glory, had defeated the enemy, or, like the other
nations, succumbed to Napoleon.

Thousands hastened, therefore, to the residence of the governor of
Berlin, Count von Schulenburg, and called vociferously for him. When the
count appeared on the balcony and asked what the crowd wanted, hundreds
of voices shouted in thundering chorus: "We want to know whether the
army has fought a battle, and whether it was defeated!"

Count Schulenburg shrugged his shoulders, and amid the silence that
ensued his ringing voice was heard to say: "I have not yet received any
definite intelligence; but so soon as I have it, I shall deem it
incumbent upon me to communicate it to the citizens of Berlin."

The governor returned with tottering steps into his house. For a moment
the people remained silent, and seemed still to listen to the words they
had just heard; but suddenly a loud, powerful voice shouted: "If the
governor does not know any thing, perhaps Professor Lange does. He has
established a newspaper for the special purpose of communicating to us
the latest news from the seat of war; let us go to his house and ask him
what the _Telegraph_ says."[8]

[Footnote 8: The _Telegraph_ was a journal founded by a certain
Professor Lange, on the day when the Prussian army left Berlin. In his
prospectus he spoke in the most fulsome terms of the "invincible army of
Frederick the Great," and promised to publish always the latest news
from the seat of war.]

"Yes, yes, let us go to his house and ask him what the _Telegraph_
says!" yelled the crowd. "Where does Professor Lange live? Who can guide
us to him?"

"I can do so," said the same voice that had spoken before. "Professor
Lange lives at 22 Leipsic Street."

"Come, come, let us go to Professor Lange! Let us hear what the
_Telegraph_ says!" shouted the crowd, and hastened across the Opera
Place and Gensdarmes Market down Charlotte Street to the residence of
the journalist.

"The _Telegraph_! the _Telegraph_!" yelled the people. "We want to know
what the _Telegraph_ says! Professor Lange, give us the news from the
seat of war!"

A window on the first floor was hastily opened, and the pale, frightened
face of a gentleman looked out. "What do you want to see me for?" asked
a tremulous and hollow voice. "Why do you mention the _Telegraph_?"

"We want news from the army! We want to know whether it is true that we
have lost a battle!"

"God forbid!" said the gentleman at the window. "I have not received any
news whatever for the last three days; I know only one thing, and that
is, that Cabinet Counsellor Lombard, who was at the headquarters of the
army in Weimar, returned last night to Berlin, and is now at his
residence. Counsellor Lombard, therefore, would be the man to whom you
ought to apply."

"Lombard! Lombard!" shouted the crowd, accompanying the name with bitter
imprecations. When this name was heard, all faces turned gloomy, and
every voice assumed an angry and threatening tone.

"Lombard is to blame for every thing!" grumbled a few here and there,
and "Lombard is to blame for every thing!" was repeated louder and
louder. The excitement was as when a storm, sweeping over the sea,
lashes its waves, until, rising higher and higher, they foam with fury.

"Lombard sides with the French!" reiterated the surging mass. "He has
secretly informed the enemy of all the operations of our army, and if
the Prussians are defeated, he will be glad of it. We will go to
Lombard, and he must tell us all he knows. But woe to him if the news
should be bad!"

And the multitude with savage yells hastened down the street, back to
the Linden, and toward the residence of Cabinet Counsellor Lombard.

All the window-blinds of his house were closed, as they had been for the
last two weeks, since this well-known favorite of Minister von Haugwitz
had repaired to the headquarters of the army at Weimar. But Professor
Lange had stated, perhaps for the sole purpose of diverting the general
attention from himself, and of directing it toward the unpopular cabinet
counsellor, that Lombard had returned, and the people believed him.

"Lombard! Lombard!" shouted hundreds of voices. Eyes which had hitherto
looked only sad and anxious became threatening; many a fist was lifted
up to the closed windows, and many an imprecation uttered.

"If a disaster has taken place, it is Lombard's fault," cried one of the
crowd.

"If it is his fault, he shall and must atone for it," exclaimed another.

"He has no heart for Prussia's honor," said a third. "He is a
German-Frenchman, and would not object if the whole of Prussia should
become a French province. If he knew how to do it, he certainly would
not shrink from it, even should he bring captivity and distress upon the
king and the queen!"

"He has already done much mischief," shouted another. "The Russian army
which was to support ours ought to have been here long ago, but he
detained the dispatches in which the king informed the czar that our
army had advanced against the French. It is his fault that the Russians
have not yet arrived."

"It is his fault that the Russians have not yet arrived!" roared the
wild chorus, and the furious men began to rush toward the house. Many
armed themselves with stones, hurled them at the walls and broke the
windows; others commenced striking with vigorous fists at the closed
door.

"Open the door! open the door! We want to see Lombard! He shall account
for what he has done!" exclaimed the enraged men. "Woe to him if it be
true that we have lost a battle! Woe to him if--"

"Silence! silence!" suddenly thundered a loud, imperious voice. "See,
there is a courier!"

"A courier! A courier!" and all rushed back from the house into the
street; every eye turned toward the horseman, who approached at full
gallop.

As if obeying a military command, the multitude made way for him, but at
every step they closed behind him, and, pressing him on all sides, his
progress was exceedingly slow.

But the courier, with his gloomy mien and pale cheeks, looked like a
bearer of bad news, and when the people had scanned his features, they
murmured, "He brings bad news! A disaster is written on his forehead!"

"Let me pass," he said in an imploring voice; "in the name of the king,
let me pass!" And as he spurred his horse, the bystanders fell back in
alarm.

"'In the name of the king!' the king, then, is still alive?"

"Yes, the king is alive!" replied the courier, sadly. "I have dispatches
from him for the Governor of Berlin and Cabinet Counsellor Lombard."

"And what do these dispatches contain?" asked a thousand voices.

"I do not know, and even though I did, I am not at liberty to tell you.
The governor will communicate the news to the inhabitants of Berlin."

"Tell us the news!" demanded the people.

"I cannot do so; and, moreover, I do not know any thing about it,"
replied the courier, who had now reached Lombard's house, and whose
horse was again so closely surrounded that it was scarcely able to move
its feet.

"Do not detain me, my friends, I beseech you--let me dismount here,"
said the courier. "I must deliver my dispatches to Cabinet Counsellor
Lombard."

"Oh, let him deliver his dispatches. We can afterward compel M. Lombard
to communicate their contents."

"Yes; let him deliver his dispatches," said all; "Lombard shall
presently tell us what they contain."

The crowd stood back on both sides of the door, and busy hands were
ready to assist the rider in dismounting. But before he had been able to
do so, a voice from the rear was heard: "Ask him where the queen is at
present!"

"Yes, yes, where is the queen? where is the queen?"

"The queen?" said he. "I passed her fifteen minutes ago near the city
and delivered dispatches to her, too. The queen? Look there!" And he
pointed to the Brandenburg gate.

A carriage, drawn by six horses, was seen rapidly approaching.

"The queen! It is the queen!" joyfully shouted every one, and the
thousands who had been a moment before so anxious to learn the news, and
to call Lombard to account, rushed toward the carriage. Meantime the
courier, whose presence seemed to be entirely forgotten, dismounted, and
rapped softly at the door. It was at once opened in a cautious manner,
and a voice whispered: "Take your horse into the house. You can
afterward ride through the garden, and out of the back gate to the
governor's residence."

The door was hastily thrown open, and closed as soon as the courier had
entered with his horse. No notice was taken of this movement, for every
one thought only of the queen, and looked anxiously through the closed
coach windows.

"The queen! It is the queen!" exclaimed the people, greeting the beloved
lady in the most rapturous manner. All arms were raised in sign of
respect, and every voice uttered a welcome of "Long live the queen!"

The carriage window was lowered, and Louisa's beautiful face appeared;
but she looked pale and afflicted; her eyes, generally so radiant,
seemed dimmed and tearful; yet she tried to smile, and bowed repeatedly
to her enthusiastic friends, who rushed impetuously toward her, and, in
their exultation, forgetful of the rules of etiquette, seized the reins
and stopped the horses.

"We want to see our queen! Long live our Queen Louisa!" cried thousands
of voices. Those who stood nearest the carriage, and beheld her
countenance, fell on their knees in the fervor of their love, and eyes
that never before had wept were filled with tears; for she seemed as an
angel of sorrow and suffering. She rose, and, leaning out of the coach
door, returned the affectionate greetings of her faithful subjects, and,
weeping, stretched out her arms as if to bless them.

"Long live the queen! Long live Louisa!" they cried, and those who held
the horses, in order to stop the carriage, dropped the reins, rushed
toward the coach door, threw up their hats, and joined in the welcome
cry. The coachman, profiting by this movement, drove onward. The people,
whose desire had been satisfied in having seen their queen, no longer
resisted, and permitted the carriage to roll away.

Louisa closed her coach window, and, sinking back upon the cushions,
exclaimed in a heart-rending tone, "Alas! it is perhaps the last time
that they thus salute me! Soon, perhaps, I shall be no longer Queen of
Prussia!" She buried her face in her hands, and sobbed aloud.

"Do not weep," whispered Madame von Berg, the queen's intimate friend,
who was sitting by her side, "do not weep. It may be a dispensation of
Providence that the crown shall fall from your head for a moment, but He
will replace it more firmly, and one day you will again be happy."

"Oh, it is not for the sake of my own majesty, and for my little worldly
splendor, that I am lamenting at this moment," said the queen, removing
her hands from her face. "I should gladly plunge into obscurity and
death if my husband and my children were exempted from humiliation, and
if these good people, who love me, and are attached to their king,
should not be compelled to recognize a foreigner as their master, and
bow to him!"

"Even though the people should be subjugated at present," said Madame
von Berg, solemnly, "they will rise one day and avenge their disgrace!"

"Would you were a true prophetess!" exclaimed Louisa. "I hope the people
will remain faithful to us in adversity, and never forget their love for
their king! Yes, I will hope for that day, and pray that it may come
speedily. I will weep no more; but remember that I am a mother, and
shall see my children again--not to leave them, but to hasten with them
to my husband, who is waiting for me at Küstrin. In half an hour we must
continue our journey."

Just then the carriage drove past the main guard-house. The soldiers
presented arms, and the drums beat.

A melancholy smile overspread the queen's features. "Do you remember
what Prince Louis Ferdinand said to his mother, on the eve of his
departure to the army?" she asked in a low voice.

"No, your majesty, I do not remember, and it is possible that I never
heard of it."

"The princess believed a defeat of our army to be utterly impossible,"
said the queen. "She thought Prussia was so strong a bulwark that the
proud assault of the French empire would be in vain. 'You are mistaken,'
exclaimed Prince Louis Ferdinand; 'you think nothing will change, and
the drums will always be beaten when you ride out at the gate? On the
contrary, I tell you, mamma, one day you will ride out of the gate, and
no drums will be beaten!' The same will happen to us, my dear--we will
often ride out of the gate, and no drums will be beaten. But here is our
house, and I must hide my tears. I will show a smiling face to my
children."

The queen's carriage stopped for the first time at the doorsteps of the
palace without meeting there the ladies and gentlemen of the court, the
high dignitaries and functionaries who had formerly never failed to wait
on her. She had come without being expected, but on this day of anxiety
and terror the announcement of her arrival would have made no
difference; for every one thought only of himself, and was occupied with
his own safety. Only a few faithful servants, therefore, received her,
and bade her welcome with tearful eyes.

"Where are my children?" exclaimed the queen, anxiously. "Why are they
not here to receive their mother?"

"Your majesty," said the palace-steward, in a low voice, "a courier,
sent hither by the king, arrived last night, unfortunately having failed
to meet with your majesty on the road. The royal princes and princesses
set out two hours ago to Stettin, and thence to Grandenz. Such were his
majesty's orders."

The queen suppressed the cry of pain which rose to her lips, but a
deadly pallor overspread her cheeks. "In half an hour I shall set out,"
she said faintly. "Pack up only the most indispensable articles for me;
in half an hour I must be ready to enter my carriage. I shall, perhaps,
overtake my children in Stettin." And she retired to her room,
struggling to conceal the emotions that so violently agitated her.

CHAPTER V.

QUIET IS THE CITIZEN'S FIRST DUTY.

The people in the meantime, gathering in still greater numbers in the
broad street under the Linden, returned to the house of Lombard, and
saw, to their great disappointment, that the courier was no longer
there.

"Now, we want to know the news contained in the dispatches, and
Counsellor Lombard must tell us," shouted one of the men standing in
front of the house; he then commenced hammering the door with his
powerful fists. Others joined him, and to the measure of this
threatening music the crowd yelled, "The dispatches! the dispatches!
Lombard must come out! He must tell us what the dispatches contain! We
want to know whether our army has been defeated, or has won the battle!"

When no voice replied, nor door nor window opened, the mob, whose anger
grew more menacing, seized once more their former weapons, the stones,
and hurled them at the house. "He shall not escape from us! We will stay
here until he makes his appearance, and replies to our questions!" they
cried. "If he do not come to us, we will go to him and compel him to
hear us!"

"Fortunately, you will not find him at home," whispered Lombard, who was
listening at the door. "Every thing is in good order," he added in a low
voice. "The dear enraged people will have to hammer a good while before
breaking these bolts. By that time I shall be far from here, on the road
to Stettin."

The cabinet counsellor glided away with a sarcastic smile to the back
gate. There stood his wife, weeping piteously and wringing her hands.

M. Lombard, who had hitherto only smiled, now laughed outright. "Truly,"
he said, "it is really worth while to make a scene in consequence of
this demonstration of the people! My dear, I should think our family
ought to know how to manage them! Your father has shaved those stupid
fiends enough, and my father pulled the wool over their eyes,[9] and, as
good children of our parents, we ought to do so too."

[Footnote 9: Lombard's father was a hair-dresser, and his wife's father
a barber. Lombard liked to jest about his descent, particularly at the
dinner-table of some prince or minister. He always alluded to his father
in the following terms: "_Feu mon père de poudreuse mémoire!_"]

"Oh, Lombard, just listen," wailed his wife, "they are knocking at the
door with heavy clubs; we must perish if they succeed in forcing it open
and entering the house. They will assassinate you, for you have heard
their imprecations against you."

"_Ma chère_," said Lombard, composedly, "this is not the first time that
I discover that the people despise and persecute me. I knew it long ago.
These blockheads will never forgive me for being a Frenchman, and for
having, consequently, a predilection for France and her heroic emperor.
And not only they, but the so-called educated and high-born classes
also, hate me intensely. Throughout all Europe I have been branded as a
traitor in the pay of Napoleon. Conspiracies were got up everywhere to
bring about my removal. All the princes of the royal house--nay, the
queen herself, united against me.[10] But you see, my dear, that they
did not succeed after all in undermining my position; and the howling
rabble outside will have no better success. Indeed, the fellows seem to
be in earnest. Their blows shake the whole house!"

[Footnote 10: Lombard's own words.--Vide Gentz's Diary in his
"Miscellanies," edited by G. Schlesier, vol. iv.]

"They will succeed in breaking in," said his wife, anxiously; "and then
they will assassinate all of us."

"They will do no such thing, for they do not come for spoils, but only
for news," said Lombard. "And then, my love, they know just as well as I
the German maxim: 'The people of Nuremberg do not hang anybody unless
they have got him!' but they will not get me, for there comes my
faithful Jean across the yard.--Well, Jean, is every thing ready?" he
said to the approaching footman.

"Yes," he replied. "The carriage with four excellent horses is waiting
for you, sir. I ordered it, however, not to stop at the garden gate, but
a little farther down, in front of another house."

"That was well done, my sagacious Jean. But I hope you did not forget
either to place several bottles of Tokay wine and some roast fowl in the
carriage for me? The ill-mannered rabble outside will not permit me
to-day to lunch at home. Hence I must make up my mind to do so on the
road."

"I have not forgotten the wine nor the roast pheasant, your excellency."

"You have packed up a pheasant!" exclaimed Lombard. "If the noisy
gentlemen outside there knew that, they would be sure to assert that the
Emperor Napoleon had sent it to me as a bribe. Now, Jean, come, we will
set out. The street is quiet, I suppose?"

"Perfectly so. All those who have legs have gathered in front of the
house."

"And all those who have fists are hammering at the door," wailed Mde.
Lombard. "Make haste, Lombard--make haste lest it be too late!"

"You are right. I must go," said Lombard, quietly. "Now listen to what I
am going to tell you. So soon as you hear my carriage roll away, be kind
enough to repair to the balcony, of the first floor and address the
people. Their surprise at seeing you will cause them to be silent for a
moment."

"But, good Heaven! what am I to say to them?" asked Mde. Lombard, in
dismay.

"You are to say to them, 'My husband, Cabinet-Counsellor Lombard, is not
at home. He has gone to the governor of Berlin, Count von
Schulenburg-Kehnert, and the bearer of dispatches has accompanied him.'
Your words will have the same effect as though a pistol were discharged
among a number of sparrows--all of them will fly away. You see, my dear,
there is a very impressive and dramatic scene in store for you, and my
father, _de poudreuse mémoire_, and your father, the barber, would
rejoice in their graves if they could see you haranguing the people from
the balcony. Farewell, my dear, and manage the affair as skilfully as
possible."

He embraced her hurriedly, and was about to leave the garden, leaning on
his servant's arm, and as fast as his gouty feet would permit it; but
his wife suddenly held him back.

"I cannot go to the parlor," she said in terror, convulsively clinging
to Lombard. "Remember, that they are continually hurling stones at our
house. Suppose a stone should be thrown into the window and strike my
head?"

"My dear," said Lombard, laughing, "I do not believe any stone passing
through the window would be immediately dangerous, for you have a hard
head, as I have found out often enough. Farewell, and do as I have told
you, unless you want the rabble to penetrate into your room. Farewell!"

He disengaged himself rather roughly, and hastened, as fast as his
aching and stiffened feet would permit, to the street contiguous to the
garden.

His wife waited until the departure of the carriage announced to her
that her husband had gone. At the same time the voices outside shouted
with redoubled fury, "Lombard! We want to see Lombard!" And their blows
thundered louder than ever at the door.

Mde. Lombard sighed; and, commending her body and soul to God, she
proceeded to comply with her husband's instructions, and went to the
balcony.

Lombard had prophesied correctly; profound silence ensued when the wife
of the cabinet counsellor appeared; hence, every one was able to
understand her words, and no sooner had she uttered them, than the crowd
dispersed, as her husband had told her.

"To the governor! Let us go to the governor!" they cried, as they moved
up the Linden; but they were attracted by a carriage, drawn by six fiery
horses at full gallop. It was the queen, who was about to leave the
capital. She looked even paler and sadder than before, and greeted her
friends on both sides with a heart-rending, melancholy smile. But they
had not time to greet even the queen, or to be surprised at her speedy
departure, as they rushed toward the house of the governor, Count
Schulenburg.

At his residence, also, the windows were covered up, and the gate of the
court-yard closed. But a large white handbill, containing a few lines in
gigantic letters, was posted on the side wall. Thousands of piercing
eyes were fixed on the paper, and an imperious demand was made to the
fortunate man who stood close to the handbill: "Read! Read aloud!"

"I will read it!" answered a loud, powerful voice. "Be quiet, so as to
be able to hear me!"

Profound silence reigned immediately, and every one heard distinctly
the words, which ran as follows:

"_The king has lost a battle. Quiet is the citizen's first duty. I
request all the inhabitants of Berlin to maintain good order. The king
and his brothers are alive_."

The vast multitude burst into a wail of despair; and when silence
ensued, every one seemed paralyzed and stared mournfully at his
neighbor. Suddenly the side-gate of the count's court-yard opened, and a
carriage, followed by a large baggage-wagon, made its appearance.

At first, the people timidly stepped back, and looked on wonderingly.
But no sooner had they recognized in it the governor of Berlin, Count
von Schulenburg-Kehnert--no sooner had they discovered that his carriage
contained a large number of trunks and boxes, and that the wagon was
also filled with baggage, and had satisfied themselves that the governor
intended to leave the capital at this hour of terror, than attempts were
made to prevent him from setting out. The people stopped the horses, and
cried, in tones of exasperation, that it did not behoove the governor to
leave the city while it was in danger, and the inhabitants without
advice and protection.

Count Schulenburg rose in his carriage. Stretching out his arms in an
imperious manner, he demanded silence. When the clamor had ceased, he
said, in a conciliatory tone: "My friends! duty calls me hence, for the
orders of the king must be obeyed. But you shall not say that I have
left the city of Berlin without adequate protection, and that I did not
devote my particular attention to its welfare. I have appointed my
son-in-law, the Prince von Hatzfeld, civil governor, and he will
zealously provide for the security and interests of the people of the
capital. Forward, coachman!"

The coachman was about to comply with his master's orders, but some of
the crowd still dared to resist, and refused to let the horses proceed.

"The governor must stay here!" they shouted; "it is incumbent on him not
to desert the inhabitants of Berlin, but to assist them in the hour of
danger!"

"In the hour of danger?" asked the count, with a wondering air. "Why, I
leave my whole family here--my children and grandchildren! Would I do so
if the enemy threatened the city?"

No one could combat this argument, and reply to the governor's
question. The men, therefore, dropped the reins and fell back, when the
coachman whipped the horses into a gallop.

They gazed after the escaping count, and looked sadly at each other,
asking anxiously: "What shall we do now? What shall we do when the
French come?"

"We will meet them sword in hand and drive them back!" exclaimed a young
man, with a noble face.

"Yes, we will do so," said another. "There are no soldiers here; hence
we ourselves must look out for our own defence. We will form volunteer
companies, occupy the gates, and patrol the streets."

"Our army being defeated, a new one has, of course, to be organized,"
said another. "We must do this; we must hand in our names, and enlist.
Let every one who thinks and feels like myself, follow me to the new
governor. We will apply to him for permission to organize ourselves for
the defence of the city. Come!" Many hastened with ardent impetuosity
from all parts of the crowd to join him. Others, seized with admiration
and respect, opened a passage, through which the quickly-gathered
company of more than three hundred young men marched to the residence of
the Prince von Hatzfeld.

But he did not admit the deputation of these brave men. He sent word to
them, by his adjutant, that they would receive his definite reply at a
later hour. At present he wished them to go home, and avoid, above all,
any riotous proceedings in the streets.

The reply which the Prince von Hatzfeld had promised to the deputation
soon appeared on handbills posted at all the street corners. It was as
follows: "It would be improper to conceal from the inhabitants of Berlin
that French troops may shortly occupy the capital. This unexpected event
cannot fail to produce a most painful impression among all classes. Only
the most implicit confidence in those who take upon themselves the
arduous task of alleviating the inevitable consequences of such an
event, as well as of maintaining order, which has become more desirable
than ever, will be able to avert the terrible fate which the slightest
resistance, or any disorderly conduct, would bring upon the city. The
course recently pursued by the inhabitants of Vienna, under similar
distressing circumstances, must have taught those of Berlin that the
conqueror only respects quiet and manly resignation after such a
defeat. Hence I forbid all gatherings and clamor in the streets, as well
as any public manifestation of sympathy in relation to the rumors from
the seat of war. For quiet submission is our first duty; we should only
think of what is going on within our own walls; it is the highest
interest to which we ought to devote our whole attention."

CHAPTER VI.

THE FAITHFUL PEOPLE OF STETTIN.

The hope of the queen had not been fulfilled. Her children had left
Stettin an hour before she reached the city.

"I shall immediately continue my journey," said she, resolutely.

"Your majesty, I beseech you to remain here," said Madame von Berg. "You
have scarcely had any sleep for the last three nights; last night you
did not leave the carriage at all, and hardly took any food. Oh, think
of the king, of your children, and economize your strength! Take some
rest."

"Rest!" repeated the queen, with a melancholy smile. "There will be,
perhaps, no more rest for me on earth! My heart is filled with
grief--how, then, can I sleep? But you have reminded me of my husband,
of my children, and you are right; I must live for them. Therefore, I
will stop here for an hour and take some refreshment, in order not to
give way under the heavy burden weighing down my mind. Come, we will
alight and go into the house."

Madame von Berg made a sign to the footman to open the coach door, and
followed Louisa into the royal villa, to the rooms usually occupied by
their majesties during their visits to Stettin. "When I was last in this
room," whispered the queen, "the king and the crown prince were with me.
There was nothing but joy in my heart. I was a happy wife, a happy
mother, and a happy queen! And, to-day, what am I?" She heaved a
profound sigh, and, sinking down on the sofa, pressed her face upon the
cushions. "Into what an abyss I have been hurled from my heaven!" she
murmured in a low voice. "Once a happy sovereign--now a poor, fleeing
woman, who can excite only pity. Oh, mother, mother, God be praised that
you do not behold my distress!" She clasped her hands, and her trembling
lips whispered prayers to heaven. Her large blue eyes were raised with
an expression of fervent supplication, and tears rolled like pearls over
her cheeks. She sat a long while pondering over her misfortunes, and
shuddering at the prospects of the future.

Finally, Madame von Berg ventured to approach and arouse her from her
meditation.

"Your majesty," she said, in an imploring voice, "you promised to take
rest, for the sake of the king and of your children. Remember the burden
of care weighing down the heart of his majesty. Remember that his grief
would be more intense if he should see your eyes reddened with weeping,
and find you prostrated in your distress."

"He shall not see it," said Louisa. "In his presence I will conceal my
tears, and seem hopeful and courageous. Let me, therefore, now at least,
pour out my overwhelming sorrow, for tears are the only consolation of
the afflicted. When I am with my husband once more, I shall try to
smile, and only weep in secret. Are you now satisfied, my faithful
friend?"

"Your majesty had graciously promised me to take some refreshment, but
the footman has long since announced that dinner is ready."

"Come, Caroline, we will eat," said the queen, rising hastily, and
laying her hand on her friend's shoulder.

She kept her word, and did eat a little, trying to become more cheerful
by conversing with Madame von Berg about her children and her
approaching reunion with her husband.

"Believe me, Caroline," she then said gravely, "it is not vanity and
longing for worldly splendor that causes me to bewail our present
trouble. For my part, I would gladly lead a private life, and be
contented in retirement and obscurity, if I could only see my husband
and my children happy at my side. But the king is not allowed to be as
other men are--merely a husband and father; he must think of his people,
of his state, and of his royal duties. He is not at liberty to lay down
his crown any more than we to destroy voluntarily the life we have
received from God. 'With it or on it,' said the heroic mothers of Sparta
to their sons, when delivering to them the shield with which they went
into battle. And thus the king's ancestors, who have bequeathed the
crown to him, call from their graves: 'With it, or buried under it!' It
is the inheritance of his fathers, which he must leave to his children;
he must fight for it, and either triumph or perish with it. That is the
reason why I weep, and see nothing but years of disaster and bloodshed
in store for me. Prussia must not make peace with Napoleon; she must
not, in hypocritical friendship, give her hand to him who is her mortal
enemy. She must remain faithful to the alliance which her king has sworn
on the coffin of Frederick the Great to maintain; and France will resent
this constancy as though it were a crime. But, in spite of her anger, we
must not recede; we must advance on our path if we do not wish to lose
also our honor, and if history is not to mention the name of Frederick
William III. in terms of reproach. Germany hopes that Prussia will save
her--the whole of Europe expects us to do our duty to the fatherland,
and this duty is to wage war against the tyrant who wants to subjugate
Germany, and transform her into a French province--to resist him as long
as we have an inch of territory or a drop of blood in our veins! See, my
friends, such are the thoughts that move my heart so profoundly, and
cause me to weep. I clearly foresee the great misfortunes that will
crush us in case we should proceed on the path which we have entered,
but I am not allowed to wish that Prussia should turn back, for we may
be permitted to be unfortunate, but never to act dishonorably. And I
know these to be the king's views, too--he--but hark, what is that?" she
interrupted herself. "Did it not sound as if a noisy crowd were
approaching? The tumult draws nearer and nearer! If they are French
soldiers, I am lost!" She rushed to the window, and looked anxiously
down on the street. A vast multitude approached, yelling with rage, and
threatening with their hands a pale, trembling man walking between two
others who had seized him, and whose eyes closely watched every motion
he made. That man was Cabinet-Counsellor Lombard, who, on his escape
from Berlin, had safely reached Stettin.

Just as he was about entering his carriage, in order to leave the latter
city, a few of the bystanders recognized and detained him. Those who
were in the streets soon gathered around and curiously looked on during
his altercation with the men who had stopped him.

Suddenly one of them turned to the crowd and exclaimed in a loud voice:
"Do not permit this fellow to depart. It is Lombard, the Frenchman, the
traitor; he has assuredly come to Stettin in order to prevent the queen
from continuing her journey, or to inform the enemy whither she is
going. Let us arrest him, that he may not betray her!"

"Yes, yes, arrest him; do not release him until long after the queen's
departure," cried the people. Threatening men surrounded the traitor on
all sides, and anxiously scanned his pale, cowardly face.

"Let me go, kind friends, let me go!" begged Lombard, and now all his
arrogance and haughtiness had disappeared. "You do me the greatest
injustice; I am a faithful servant of the king, and have come to Stettin
in order to wait on her majesty, and to offer my services to her."

"He lies! he lies!" said those who had recognized him. "Let us go with
him to the royal villa; the queen is there. If she wants to see him, she
will order him to be admitted; if not, he shall witness her departure."

"Yes, he shall witness her departure," exclaimed the rest approvingly;
"let us go to the royal villa!"

Dragged, pushed, and carried along, Lombard arrived, followed by
thousands, at the royal residence, which was situated at the lower end
of Broad Street, near the parade-grounds.

The carriage and horses stood in front of the house, and every thing was
ready for the queen's departure. But Louisa was still at the window, and
looked from behind the curtains down on the vast mass which filled the
whole street. Suddenly she uttered a low cry; and hastily placing her
hand on her friend's shoulder, she pointed to the street. "Look," she
whispered, trembling, "look! there is the evil demon who has done so
much to bring about the present calamities of our country; it is
Lombard, my most dangerous, nay, I must say, my only enemy! He hates me,
because he knows that I distrusted him, and asked the king for his
dismission. He has dealt treacherously with Prussia--I know and feel it,
and felt convinced of it long before this time. The presence of this man
proves that some new calamity is menacing me, for he is plotting my
ruin. I wonder what brought him here?"

"Let me go!" cried Lombard just then, in a loud and ringing voice. "Let
me go! I will and must see the queen!"

"See me?" said Louisa, in terror. "No, I will not see him; I have
nothing to do with him."

In her excitement, and anxious to see what would occur, she came forth
from behind the curtain, and appeared in full view at the window. The
people greeted her with loud cheers, and then turned their eyes again
toward Lombard. He had also seen her, and now raised his hands in a
suppliant manner, saying: "Oh, I beseech your majesty, call me up to
your room! I have come to offer my services and to communicate important
news. Grant me an audience!"

But she did not stir; she had apparently not heard his words, and her
eyes, usually so gentle, now looked gloomy and angry.

"The queen does not call him!" exclaimed hundreds of voices on the
street. "She does not want to have any thing to do with him! He is a
traitor."

"What have I done, then, kind friends, that you should call me a
traitor?" asked Lombard. "State the crimes you charge me with, so that I
may justify myself!"

"We will state them to you!" said the men who had detained him and who
were wealthy and highly-esteemed merchants of Stettin.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Grunert, and Mr. Pufahl, state his crimes to him, and
prove to him that he is a traitor!"

"We will; be quiet and listen!" replied Mr. Grunert.

"The people are going to sit in solemn judgment over him," whispered the
queen; "they will ferret out his crimes and punish him for them!"

Breathless silence reigned now. A chair was brought from one of the
adjoining houses, and Lombard compelled to mount on it, so that every
one might be able to see him. It was a strange sight, that of his
tottering, feeble form, with a pale and terror-stricken face, rising
above the crowd, whose eyes were all turned toward him, and who cast
glances like daggers at him.

"He is a traitor, and I will prove it to him," repeated Mr. Grunert,
closely approaching Lombard. "In 1803, when the king sent him to
Brussels to negotiate with Bonaparte, about an honorable peace between
Prussia and France, he allowed himself to be bribed. He exercised an
influence humiliating and disadvantageous to us; but Bonaparte bribed
him by paying him the sum of six thousand _Napoleons d'or_. Deny it if
you can!"

"I deny it," replied Lombard. "It is true, I suffered myself to be duped
by that monster for a moment. When I saw Bonaparte in 1803 in Brussels,
he managed to inspire me with confidence in his magnanimity and
greatness of character. But the deception did not last long, and soon I
perceived that this incarnate fiend would not stop in his career until
he had destroyed all existing thrones and states.[11] But I deny ever
having received money from him--I deny ever having accepted any
presents from him. And the best proof of it is that I have not any
property whatever, but I am as poor as a church mouse. My wife has
scarcely a decent parlor for the reception of her friends; and as for
myself, a plain arm-chair and a tobacco-pipe were always the goal of my
wishes."

[Footnote 11: Lombard's own words.--Vide Gentz's "Miscellanies," vol.
ii., p. 194.]

"You are poor, because you squander at the gaming-table and in secret
orgies what you obtain by your intrigues," said Grunert, sternly. "Your
poverty does not absolve you, for it is the direct consequence of your
dissipated life. You are a traitor. It was owing to your machinations in
the interest of Napoleon that our army, last year, when it ought to have
taken the field with the Austrian and Russian forces against France, was
placed so late on the war-footing, and finally returned to its garrisons
without having drawn the sword. You are to blame for the disgraceful
treaty of Vienna, for Count Haugwitz is merely a tool in your hands. You
rule over him. You laughed and rejoiced when the treaty of Vienna had
been concluded, for you are a descendant of the French colony of Berlin,
and you have no heart for the honor of Germany and Prussia."

"He is a traitor!" cried the people; "do not let him go! Detain him! He
shall not betray the queen!"

The crowd approached Lombard in the most menacing manner, and were about
to drag him from his chair, but Grunert and Pufahl warded them off, and
protected him with their broad and vigorous bodies.

"You do not yet know all he has done," exclaimed Mr. Pufahl, in a
powerful voice. "I will tell you about the last and most infamous
instance of his treachery. It is his fault that we lost the battle of
Jena--his fault alone."

"What am I to hear?" whispered Louisa.

Perfectly beside herself, she approached closer to the window, and
listened in breathless suspense to every word that was uttered.

"Well, let me tell you what Lombard has done," added Mr. Pufahl. "In the
middle of last month our king sent Lieutenant-Colonel von Krusemark with
an autograph letter to St. Petersburg, in which he informed the czar
that he intended to declare war against France, and requested the latter
to send him the assistance that had been agreed upon between them.
Lieutenant-Colonel von Krusemark was accompanied by a single footman
only, whom he had taken into his service for this special purpose, and
who had been warmly recommended to him. During the whole journey the
colonel kept the dispatches on his bare breast. It was only when he had
arrived at St. Petersburg that he laid them for a little while upon the
table, in order to change his dress, and deliver them immediately to the
czar. The servant was engaged in arranging his clothes. M. von Krusemark
went for a minute into an adjoining room, and when he returned, the
footman had disappeared with the dispatches. All the efforts made by
Krusemark and the police to recover the important papers were fruitless.
They found neither them nor the servant. Krusemark, therefore, had to
send a courier to Berlin, and ask for new instructions. This caused a
delay of several weeks, in consequence of which the Russian army was
unable to be here in time to join our troops and assist them in
attacking the French. We would not have lost the battle of Jena, if the
king's dispatches had been delivered to the Emperor of Russia at an
earlier moment, and if his army had set out in time for the seat of war.
We would not have lost the battle, if the dispatches had not been
stolen. Now listen to what I am going to tell you: _That footman had
been recommended by Lombard to Lieutenant-Colonel von Krusemark, and was
a near relative of the former_!"

"He is a traitor!" cried the people, "it is his fault that we lost the
battle of Jena! But he shall atone for it! Woe to the traitor!"

"Oh, your majesty!" exclaimed Madame von Berg, in terror, "just see! the
furious men are dragging him from his chair. They will assassinate him.
Have mercy on him and save his life!"

"Yes," said the queen, stepping back from the window, "yes, I will
protect him, but I will also protect myself."

And hurrying across the apartment, she opened the door of the anteroom,
where the major of the garrison of Stettin and a few staff-officers were
assembled.

"Major," said she, in a commanding voice, "hasten down-stairs, and
arrest Cabinet-Counsellor Lombard. Take him to the guard-house, where
you will detain him until the king sends you further orders. I will
report in person to his majesty what I commanded you to do."

It was high time to interfere, in order to save Lombard's life. The
enraged people had already thrown him down, and, regardless of the
supplications of the two merchants, commenced belaboring him
unmercifully, when the major appeared with a few soldiers and police
officers.

"Order! order!" he called in a loud voice. "Order, in the name of the
queen!"

The noise immediately died away; and those who had already seized
Lombard turned around and stepped respectfully aside to let the major
pass.

"In the name of the queen," he repeated, placing his hand on Lombard's
shoulder, and assisting him to rise, "I arrest you, Cabinet-Counsellor
Lombard! You will accompany me to the guard-house."

But Lombard, unable to stand, had sunk down on the chair, half dead with
terror.

"You see, sir, I am unable to accompany you," he groaned, faintly, "I
cannot walk."

"My soldiers will carry you, then," said the major; making a sign to
them, he added, "Take the prisoner in your arms, and carry him to the
guard-house."

Amid the loud applause of the crowd the order was immediately obeyed.
The soldiers seized Lombard, and started off with him. A large number
followed, laughing and deriding him, and congratulating each other that
their queen would now be able to continue her journey uninterruptedly,
as the traitor had been arrested.

After reaching the guard-house, M. Lombard was locked up in one of the
common cells, but the major dared not condemn the influential and
powerful friend of Minister von Haugwitz to lie on the hard bench of the
criminals, and to eat the ordinary prisoner's fare. He, therefore, sent
to the first hotel in Stettin, and requested the landlord to furnish
Lombard with bedding and food, and to send both immediately. But the
soldiers returned without having obtained either one or the other.

"Well, will the landlord send the articles?" asked the major.

"No, sir," was the reply; "the landlord declined doing so. He said, he
would not furnish a traitor with any thing, no matter what price he
offered him."

The major tried in vain to look angry. The reply pleased him just as
much as the chastisement inflicted on Lombard by the people had pleased
him previously.

"Then go to another landlord," he said, "and make the same request of
him. If he should also decline complying with it, go to a third. In
short, go and find a landlord who is willing to send bedding and food to
Cabinet-Counsellor Lombard."

The people, who had gathered in front of the guard-house, heard the
words of the soldiers as well as the renewed order of the major, and
accompanied them to find a landlord willing to furnish bedding and food
for the traitor.

An hour elapsed before they returned, still accompanied by the crowd,
whose numbers had vastly increased. The major was in Lombard's cell, and
had left orders for the soldiers to report to him there. He anticipated,
perhaps, the answer they would bring back to him, and wished the
prisoner to hear it.

He who had hitherto sat at tables laden with delicacies and slept only
on silken beds--the epicurean and sensual spendthrift--lay on the hard
wooden bench, groaning with pain and terror, when the soldiers entered
his cell. The major stood at the window, and drummed on the panes.

"Well," he said, "do you at length come, and bring bedding and food for
M. Lombard? But why did you tarry so long, you lazy fellows? Did you not
know that until your return he would have to lie on the bench here like
a common felon?"

"We could not return at an earlier time, sir," replied they. "We have
gone from hotel to hotel; we have informed all the landlords in Stettin
of your orders, and requested them to furnish Cabinet-Counsellor Lombard
with bedding and food. But all of them made the same reply--all of them
answered: 'Tell the major that I shall not comply with his orders. I
will not furnish a traitor with any thing!'"

"Oh!" groaned Lombard; "then they want me to die with my sick, bruised
body on the hard boards here!"

"No!" exclaimed the major, "I will obtain another couch for you. I will
immediately go to the governor and procure an order from him that will
compel the hotel-keepers to furnish you with the necessary articles."

Half an hour afterward he returned to Lombard, who had meanwhile vainly
tried to sleep.

"Now, sir," said the major, "your wishes will soon be fulfilled. The
governor has ordered the proprietor of the hotel _Zum Kronprinzen_,
under pain of severe punishment, to furnish you with all necessaries,
and I have sent some of my men to him with this written order. They will
doubtless speedily return."

A few minutes later, in fact, the door opened, and the soldiers carried
a bed into the cell; two others followed with smoking dishes.

"Well," said the major, "then the landlord of the hotel that I sent you
to has no longer refused to give you the required articles? The
governor's order had a good effect."

"Yes, sir, it had a good effect. But the proprietor of the hotel _Zum
Kronprinzen_ sends word to you, that inasmuch as the governor had issued
so stringent an order, nothing remained for him but to obey; but as soon
as he should be compelled no longer to furnish M. Lombard with any
thing, he would smash the dishes and plates from which the cabinet
counsellor had eaten, and burn the bedding on which he had slept."

M. Lombard had apparently not heard these mortifying words. Assisted by
his footman, who had been sent for, he hastily rose, and sat down at the
table to dinner.

In the evening the major repaired with a few officers to the hotel, and
inquired for the landord.

He came in, somewhat confused, and convinced that the major would
censure him for his conduct. The latter, however, went to meet him, and,
with a kindly smile, offered him his hand. "Sir," he said, "these
gentlemen and I have taken it upon ourselves to express to you, in the
name of all our comrades, our delight at the brave and manly reply you
made to-day, when compelled to furnish Lombard, the traitor, with food
and bedding. The officers of the garrison have resolved to board with
you, for we deem it an honor to be the guests of so patriotic a man."

CHAPTER VII.

THE QUEEN'S FLIGHT.

Louisa waited till Lombard had been carried away amid the jeers of the
people; then, accompanied by her friend, she hastened down-stairs in
order to continue her journey. Many persons were still assembled in the
street, who, instead of following Lombard, had preferred to see the
queen once more. They received her with enthusiastic cheers, and
heartily wished her a safe journey.

"Give our best wishes to our king, and tell him that we will be faithful
to him as long as we live!" exclaimed a voice from the crowd.

"We thank the queen for ordering the traitor to be arrested!" exclaimed
another. "Now we need not have any fears for her, and know that she is
able to continue her journey without incurring any danger whatever."

Louisa greeted her subjects smilingly, and lowered the windows of the
carriage for the purpose of returning their salutations, and of being
seen by them.

"Yes," she said, when the carriage rolled through the gate into the
high-road, "yes, I hope the prophecy of these good men will be
fulfilled, and that I shall safely reach my destination. Now that
Lombard has been arrested, I am satisfied of it, for he had followed me
in order to inform the enemy of my whereabouts; I feel convinced of it.
But the judgment of Heaven has overtaken him, and he has received his
punishment. Oh, how dreadful it must be to stand before the people with
so bad a conscience, so pale and cowardly a face, and to be accused by
them! We are able to bear up under the greatest afflictions when our
soul is free from guilt! And therefore I will meet the future
courageously and patiently, hoping that God will have mercy on us.
Henceforth there will be but one duty for me, and that is, to be a
faithful mother, and a comforter to my husband in his misfortunes. Oh,
Caroline, my heart, which was lately, as it were, frozen and dead, is
reawakening now--it is living and throbbing with joy, for I shall see my
husband and my children! If all should forsake us, love will remain with
us, and he whose heart is full of love will not be forsaken by the
Lord."