"The emperor would not give satisfaction to a rebel," said Francis, dropping his arm slowly; "he would crush the rebel by a word, and deliver the traitor into the hands of his judges."

"Well, then, do so," exclaimed John; "punish me, let me expiate with my blood the boldness with which I reminded you of the sacred promise which you gave to the Tyrolese. But do not forget your word; do not abandon the faithful Tyrol; do not destroy the only hope of these honest, innocent children of nature, who confide so touchingly in their emperor! Oh, your majesty, let us both forget the vehement words which anger and grief caused us to utter just now! I implore your majesty's forgiveness—I confess that I sinned grievously against my emperor. But now have mercy in your turn! See, I bow to you, I kneel down before you, and implore you, by your imperial honor and in the name of the Tyrol, do not abandon the Tyrol and its commander-in-chief, Andreas Hofer, and do not forget your solemn promise that you would never consent to a treaty of peace that would not forever incorporate the Tyrol with your states. You want to make peace with Napoleon; but the treaty has not been proclaimed yet, the world does not know of it yet, and it is still possible for your majesty to break off the negotiations. Oh, do so, your majesty; redeem the word you pledged to the Tyrol, and do not conclude a peace which will not indissolubly unite the Tyrol with your monarchy. Permit the Tyrolese at least to conquer their liberty once more, and, after they have done so, protect it. Send me to the Tyrol, permit me to place myself at the head of the brave mountaineers, and you shall see that the Tyrolese will rise as one man and fight with the courage of lions. Oh, your majesty, send me to the Tyrol, that the Tyrolese and the whole world may learn that the emperor of Austria keeps his word and does not abandon them, and that he sends his own brother to them in order to tell them that he will not consent to any peace which will not incorporate their country with Austria!"

The emperor burst into loud and scornful laughter. "Ah, you are very shrewd, brother," he said; "you think I myself should give you permission to go to the Tyrol and play there, with redoubled splendor, your part as savior and liberator of the province. You think I am ignorant of your nice little plan, and do not know why you wish to go to the Tyrol, and what intentions you entertain in regard to it. Yes, sir, I know all! I am aware of your plans. I know that you are a revolutionist and rebel. You wanted to make yourself sovereign of the Tyrol. That is the reason why you incited the people to rebellion, and intrigued and plotted until the poor peaceable peasants became insurgents and rebels against their Bavarian king, and unfurled the banner of blood with frantic fanaticism. You say thousands have fallen in the Tyrol in the struggle for liberty; you say thousands lie wounded on the gory soil of their native country; that prosperity has disappeared, and poverty and starvation reign in the Tyrol? Well, then, all this is your work; it is your fault. You stirred up the insurrection, and committed the heavy crime of inciting a people to revolution. The Tyrol belonged to Bavaria; the Tyrolese were subjects of the King of Bavaria; nothing gave them the right to shake off the rule of their king and choose another sovereign. And you think I should be so weak as to approve of the bad example set by the Tyrolese, and encourage the crimes committed by the revolutionists? You think I should sanction your work and consecrate your traitorous schemes by permitting you to go to the Tyrol in order to preach insurrection once more, make yourself sovereign of the Tyrol, come to an understanding with M. Bonaparte, and be recognized and confirmed by him as Duke of Tyrol?"

"Brother," cried John, in dismay, "I—"

"Hush," interrupted the emperor, imperiously; "no one has a right to say a word when I am speaking. I am not speaking to you as your brother, but as your emperor. And as your emperor, I tell you now, you will not go to the Tyrol, you will not dare to cross again the frontiers of the Tyrol without my permission; and I promise you that you will have to wait a long while for this permission. And as your emperor I order you further to inform the Tyrolese that I have concluded peace with France, and to call upon them to lay down their arms and submit to their fate."

"Your majesty, never, never will I do that!" cried John.

"Oh, you think the good Tyrolese would then begin to doubt the honesty of their adored archduke and withdraw from him their love, which was to erect a throne for him?"

"No, your majesty," said John, looking him full in the face; "I mean that I have pledged my word to protect the Tyrolese, and help and succor them in their struggle for liberty and for their emperor, and that I will not incur the disgrace of having cheated a whole people and abused their confidence and love in the most revolting manner."

"Oh, you want to intimate to me once more that I have done so—that I have abused the confidence and love of the Tyrolese in a revolting manner?" asked the emperor, with a freezing smile. "No matter, keep your opinion; but you shall surely obey me, and do it at once in my presence. Seat yourself at my writing-table yonder. You are a scholar, and know how to wield the pen quickly and skilfully. Write, therefore. Inform the faithful Tyrolese that peace has been concluded; order them to lay down their arms and submit obediently to their new master."

"I cannot, brother," cried John, mournfully. "Have mercy upon me! I cannot deliver a whole people to the executioner's axe. For, if you withdraw your hand from the Tyrol, if you surrender it to the tender mercies of the Bavarians and French, they will wreak a fearful revenge on the Tyrolese for all the defeats and humiliations which the heroic mountaineers have made them undergo."

"That will deter the mountaineers from entering into any more conspiracies and revolutions, and teach them to be patient and submissive; and they will thereby become an awful example to my own subjects. Do not disobey me any longer. Seat yourself and write, archduke!"

"No," cried John, vehemently, "your majesty may punish me as a rebel, take my life, or sentence me to everlasting imprisonment, but I cannot obey! I cannot write such a proclamation!"

"I shall not punish you as a rebel," said the emperor, shrugging his shoulders; "I shall not take your life, I shall not sentence you to everlasting imprisonment; but I will withdraw my hand entirely from the Tyrol. I will not, as I had resolved and stipulated expressly, give the fugitive Tyrolese, if they should succeed in crossing the frontier, an asylum here in Austria, and protect them to the best of my power; but I will deliver them as escaped criminals to their legitimate sovereigns, that they may punish them according to their deserts. Nor shall I, as I intended to do, stipulate in the treaty of peace that the ancient constitution shall be confirmed and guaranteed to the Tyrolese; nor shall I, finally, as I had resolved to do, appoint a commission which will afford relief to the fugitives who escape with their families to Austria. It will be your fault if the poor Tyrolese are deprived of these boons, and you will expose the deserted people to the most fearful persecutions."

"No, your majesty; no one shall ever be able to say that," cried John, profoundly moved. "I will obey your order and draw up the proclamation."

He hastened to the writing-table, and, throwing himself on a chair in front of it, uttered a deep groan and dropped his head on his breast as though he were dying.

"Well, do not reflect so long, brother," said Francis, "but write!"

John took up the pen, and, restraining the tears which filled his eyes, wrote quickly a few lines. He then rose as pale as a corpse, and, approaching the emperor slowly, handed the paper to him.

"Your majesty," he said, solemnly, "I have complied with your order. I inform the Tyrolese that peace has been concluded, and exhort them to submit. Will you now fulfil the conditions, on account of which I have written this to the Tyrolese? Will you grant an asylum here in Austria to those who shall succeed in escaping their tormentors and executioners? Will you appoint an imperial commission which will afford relief to the fugitives and their families?, And last, will you see to it that the ancient constitution is guaranteed to the Tyrolese in the treaty of peace you?"

"I pledged you my word that I would do so, dear brother" said the emperor, smiling; "and you yourself said a while ago, 'Never will an Emperor of Austria break his word and incur the disgrace of perjuring himself.' Well, read to me now what you have written. I should like to hear it from your own lips."

The archduke bowed and read in a tremulous voice:

"Dear, brave Tyrolese: The news that peace has been concluded will soon reach you. The emperor has ordered me to confirm this intelligence to you. The emperor would have done every thing to fulfil the wishes of the Tyrol, but, however great an interest the emperor takes in the fate of the honest and excellent inhabitants of that province, he has had to submit to the stern necessity of making peace. I inform you of this by order of his majesty, with the addition that it is his majesty's wish that the Tyrolese should keep quiet and not sacrifice themselves needlessly."

"The Archduke John."

"H'm!" said the emperor, taking the paper from John's hand and contemplating it attentively, "it is written quite laconically indeed. But, no matter, you have complied with my order and done your duty."

"I thank your majesty for this acknowledgment. And now that I have done my duty, I request your majesty to be so gracious as to dismiss me from your service, and permit me to retire from the court into private life. I feel weak and exhausted, and need repose. Moreover, since we have peace now, my services are superfluous and may be easily dispensed with."

"And you wish me to dismiss you very speedily, do you not?" asked the emperor, sarcastically. "You would like to retire as quickly as possible into private life, that the whole world, and, above all, the dear Tyrolese, may perceive that the noble and beloved Archduke John is dissatisfied with the treaty, and has therefore withdrawn in anger from the court and service of his emperor? I am sorry that I cannot afford you this satisfaction. You will remain in the service; I do not accept your resignation. I do not permit you to retire into private life. You should devote your abilities to the state; you are not allowed to withhold your services from it at this juncture."

"Your majesty, I can no longer be useful to the state. I am exhausted to death. I repeat my request in the most urgent manner: dismiss me from the service, and permit me to retire into private life."

"What!" cried Francis, vehemently. "Your emperor has informed you of his will, and you dare to oppose it? That is a violation of subordination, for which the emperor, as supreme commander of his army, would punish his rebellious general rigorously, but for the fact that this general unfortunately is his brother. I repeat it, I do not accept your resignation. You remain in the service; I demand it as your general-in-chief; I remind you of the oath of allegiance which you have sworn to me, your emperor and master."

"Your majesty does right in reminding me of the oath I took," said the archduke, with freezing coldness. "It is true, I swore that oath; and as I am in the habit of keeping my word, and as it is disgraceful for any one to break his word and perjure himself, I shall fulfil my oath. Hence, I shall obey my emperor and general-in- chief, and not leave the service. But now I ask leave of your majesty to withdraw for to-day, if your majesty has nothing further to say to me."

"Yes, I have something else to say to you, my dear brother," said the emperor, smilingly. "I will give you a proof of the great confidence which I repose in you, and with which I count upon your discretion. I will communicate to you a family secret which is known at present only to the Emperor Napoleon, Baron von Thugut, who acted as my agent on this occasion, and myself."

"What!" asked John, in surprise; "the Emperor Napoleon is aware of a family secret of your majesty?"

"As it concerns himself, he must be aware of it," said the emperor. "Napoleon intends to marry a second time."

"A second time? Has his first wife, the Empress Josephine, then, died suddenly?"

"No, she still lives, and is acting yet at this moment in Paris as the emperor's legitimate consort. But Napoleon, immediately after his return from Germany, will annul this marriage, which was never consecrated by a priest; he will divorce himself solemnly from his wife, and have then the right of marrying a second time. He requested my secret agent, Baron von Thugut, to ask me if I would consent to a marriage between him and an archduchess of Austria. I replied in the affirmative, and this agreement forms one of the secret articles of the treaty of peace."

"An archduchess of Austria is to become the consort of the French despot!" cried John, in dismay. "And who, your majesty, is to be sacrificed to the Minotaur? Which of your sisters or cousins will you let him have?"

"None of my cousins or sisters," said Francis, calmly, "but my eldest daughter, Maria Louisa, is to become the consort of the Emperor Napoleon."

"Maria Louisa!," cried John, with an expression of dismay. "Maria Louisa!"

And John staggered back several steps, as pale as a corpse, and grasped the back of the chair in order not to sink to the floor.

Francis did not seem to perceive this. "Yes, Maria Louisa will be Napoleon's second consort," he said. "Every thing is settled already, and the marriage will take place next March. I think, brother, you may stand proxy for Napoleon on that occasion."

The archduke gave a start, and pressed his hands to his temples as if he were afraid lest this dreadful "family secret" would burst his head.

"Your majesty," he said, in a tremulous and almost inaudible voice, "I beg leave to withdraw."

Without waiting for a reply, the archduke turned and left the room with a tottering step, and leaning now and then against the wall in order not to sink to the floor.

The emperor looked after him, smilingly. "It seems Hudelist was not mistaken," he said. "My dear brother really loved Maria Louisa, and intended to become my son-in-law. What a nice idea! But he must give it up now. He—Holy Virgin! What noise is that in the anteroom? What fell to the floor there?"

The emperor stepped quickly to the door and opened it. "What is the matter here" he asked.

"Your majesty," exclaimed the footman, who hastened to him, "the archduke fainted and fell to the floor, striking with his head against the corner of a chair, and wounding his forehead, which is bleeding copiously."

"Well, I hope it is only a slight scratch," said the emperor, composedly. "Carry the archduke to his bedchamber and send for my surgeon. I will afterward call on him myself."

Without taking any further notice of the archduke, the emperor returned into his cabinet and closed the door after him.

"He fainted," said Francis, triumphantly. "Henceforth he shall be entirely powerless. No one shall have any power here but myself. Ah, I have broken his pride, bent his will, and prostrated him at my feet. All my brothers shall bow to me, acknowledge me as their master, and obey me. Ah, I believe I have played a bad trick on my brothers. The Archduke John will not become Duke of Tyrol; the Grand-duke Ferdinand of Wuertzburg will not be Emperor of Austria, for Napoleon will become my son-in-law, and he will take good care not to deprive his father-in-law of his throne. I alone am, and shall remain, Emperor of Austria."



CHAPTER XL.

DREADFUL TIDINGS.

All the Tyrolese were in the highest excitement and terror. Pale faces were to be seen everywhere, and nothing was heard but the anxious query: "Is it true? Has our emperor really made peace with Bonaparte? Is it true that he has abandoned us entirely, and that we are to become again subjects of France and Bavaria?"

And some, of the timid and disheartened sighed: "It is true! We read so yesterday in the Innspruck Gazette, and the Viceroy of Italy has sent two messengers through the Puster valley to proclaim that the Emperors of Austria and France concluded a treaty of peace on the 14th of October, and that the Tyrolese are to lay down their arms and become again subjects of France and Bavaria."

"It is not true!" cried the bold and courageous. "The Emperor Francis has not made peace with Bonaparte; and if he has, he has certainly not abandoned the Tyrol, but stipulated that we remain with Austria; for he pledged us his word that we, should, and the emperor will redeem his promise."

"It is not true; there is no peace, and we are still at war with the Bavarians and French," cried Joseph Speckbacher, "and we will continue the war."

"Yes, we will," shouted his brave men.

And as Speckbacher said, so did Andreas Hofer, so did Joachim Haspinger, so did Anthony Wallner, Jacob Sieberer, and all the intrepid commanders of the sharpshooters.

Led by these heroic men, the Tyrolese formed again a large army, which took position on Mount Isel, and awaited there the Bavarians who were marching upon Innspruck under the command of the crown prince Louis.

This time, however, the Tyrolese were not victorious; the Bavarians expelled them from Innspruck, and, on the 29th of October, the crown prince Louis of Bavaria made his triumphal entry into the city, after a bloody battle of four days' duration on Mount Isel and near the Judenstein. A part of the Tyrolese forces remained on Mount Isel, and another part hastened with unbroken courage to other regions, to meet the armies of the enemy and drive them beyond the frontiers of the country.

Anthony Wallner returned with his sharpshooters to the Puster valley, and advanced thence against General Rusca, who was coming up from Carinthia with his corps; he intended to defend the frontiers of his country, against him and General Baraguay d'Hilliers, who was also approaching with a strong force.

Joseph Speckbacher marched his intrepid men to the Ziller valley and the Muhlbach Pass, where he united with Joachim Haspinger, and advanced with him upon the enemy.

All were in good spirits, and no one believed in the dreadful tidings which at first had frightened them all so much: no one believed that peace had been made.

Andreas Hofer himself thought the news was false. He had remained courageous and undaunted in spite of the disastrous battle on Mount Isel, and he sent messengers throughout the country, calling upon all able-bodied men to take up arms and attack the enemy, who had invaded the Tyrol once more. He was still encamped with his army near Mount Isel, and had established his headquarters at Steinach. The crown prince of Bavaria had sent to him hither two plenipotentiaries, who informed him that peace had really been concluded, and that the Tyrolese had no course left but submission. But Andreas Hofer replied to these plenipotentiaries, shaking his head indignantly, "That is a mean lie; the Emperor Francis, our beloved master, will never abandon his loyal Tyrolese. He pledged us his word, and he will keep it. Your intention is to deceive us, but you cannot catch us by such stratagems. We believe in the emperor and the good God, and neither of them will ever abandon us!"

And Andreas Hofer returned to his room with a calm smile and went to bed.

In the dead of night, however, he was suddenly aroused from his sleep. Cajetan Doeninger stood at his bedside and informed him that the intendant of the Puster valley, Baron von Worndle, had arrived with an envoy of the Emperor Francis, Baron von Lichtenthurn, and both wished urgently to see the commander-in-chief.

"I will admit them," said Hofer, rising hastily; "God grant that they are the bearers of good news!"

He dressed himself quickly and followed Doeninger into the room, where he found the two envoys and several members of his suite.

"Now tell me, gentlemen, what news do you bring to us?" asked Hofer, shaking hands with the two envoys.

"No good news, commander-in-chief," sighed Baron von Worndle, "but there is no use in complaining; we must submit patiently to what cannot be helped. The Emperor Francis has mane peace with France."

"Do you sing in that strain too, Mr. Intendant?" asked Andreas, with a mournful smile. "I shall never believe it until I see it in black and white, and until the emperor or the dear Archduke John informs me of it."

"I bring it to you in black and white," exclaimed Baron von Lichtenthurn, drawing a paper from his bosom and handing it to Andreas. "Here is a letter from the Archduke John, which I am to deliver to you."

Hofer hastily seized the paper, which contained that proclamation which the Archduke John had written at Totis, and read it again and again slowly and attentively. While he was doing so, his cheeks turned pale, his breath issued heavily and painfully from his breast, and the paper rustled in his trembling hands.

"It is impossible! I cannot believe it!" he exclaimed, mournfully, gazing upon the paper. "The Archduke John did not write this. Just look at it, his seal is not affixed to the paper. Sir, how can you say that this letter is from the Archduke John? Where is the seal? Where is the address?"

"Well, it is no private letter," said Baron von Lichtenthurn; "it is an open letter, a proclamation, which I am instructed to show to everybody in the Tyrol. A proclamation cannot contain a seal and an address. But the Archduke John sent it; he himself wrote every word of it."

"I do not believe it!" cried Andreas, in a triumphant voice; "no, I do not believe it. You are a liar, and want to betray us. Look at him, my friends; see how pale he turns, and how he trembles! For I tell you he has a bad conscience. Bring me the Archduke John's seal, and then I will believe that the paper is from him. But, as it is, I look upon it as a cunning device got up by the enemy to entrap me. Arrest him; he must confess all. I will not allow myself to be caught by cunning and treachery!" [Footnote: Andreas Hofer's own words.—See Hormayr's "Andreas Hofer," vol. ii, p. 490.]

He laid his heavy hand upon the shoulder of the baron, who sank to the floor, uttering a loud cry of distress, and fell into fearful convulsions.

"See!" cried Andreas, "that is the punishment of Heaven! The hand of God has struck him. He is a traitor, who intended to sell us to the French."

"No, he is an honorable man, and has told you the truth," said Baron von Worndle, gravely. "Your violent accusation frightened him; and he fell into an epileptic fit. He is affected with that disease." [Footnote: Ibid.]

He and some of the bystanders raised the unfortunate baron from the ground, and carried him into the adjoining room. He then returned to Andreas, who was walking up and down with a hasty step, and murmuring to himself, "I cannot believe it! The Archduke John did not write it. His hand would have withered while writing it. He did not do it."

"Yes, Andreas, he did," said Worndle, gravely; "he was obliged to submit, as we all shall have to do. The Archduke John was obliged to yield to the will of his emperor as we shall have to do. The treaty of peace has been concluded. There is no doubt of it."

"Lord God! the treaty of peace has been concluded, and the emperor abandons us?" cried Andreas.

"The emperor, it seems, was unable to do any thing for the Tyrol," said Worndle in a low voice. "He had to consent that the Tyrol should be restored to the French and Bavarians."

"But that is impossible!" cried Andreas, despairingly. "He pledged us his word, his sacred word, that he would never consent to a peace that would detach the Tyrol from Austria. How can you now insult the dear emperor by saying that he has broken his word?"

"He has not broken his word, but he was unable to keep it. Look, commander-in-chief, I bring you another letter, to which, as you see, is affixed a large imperial seal, the seal of the Viceroy of Italy, who wrote the letter to you and all the Tyrolese."

"Read it," exclaimed Andreas, mournfully; "I cannot, my eyes are filled with tears. Read it to me, sir."

Worndle read as follows:

"To the people of the Tyrol: His majesty the Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, my august father and sovereign, and his majesty, the Emperor of Austria, have made peace. Peace, therefore, reigns everywhere around you. You are the only people which does not enjoy its blessings. Seduced by foreign instigations, you took up arms against your government and overthrew it. The melancholy consequences of your seditious course have overtaken you. Terror reigns now in your towns, idleness and misery in your fields, and discord and disorder are to be found in all parts of the country. His majesty the emperor and king, profoundly moved by your wretched condition, and the proofs of repentance which some of you have manifested to him, has consented in the treaty to forgive your errors. I bring you peace and forgiveness, but I warn you of the fact, that you will be forgiven only if you return of your own accord to law and order, lay down your arms, and offer no longer any resistance whatever. As commander-in-chief of the armies surrounding you, I shall accept your submission or compel you to surrender. Commissioners will precede the armies; they have been instructed to listen to whatever complaints and grievances you may wish to prefer. But, do not forget that these commissioners are authorized to listen to you only after you have laid down your arms. Tyrolese! I promise that you shall obtain justice if your complaints and grievances are well-grounded. Headquarters at Villach, October 25, 1809."

"EUGENE NAPOLEON." [Footnote: Hormayr's "Andreas Hofer," vol. 1., p. 490.]

Baron von Worndle had long since ceased to read, and still Andreas Hofer stood motionless, his hands folded on his breast, his head thrown back, and his eyes turned toward heaven. All gazed in respectful silence upon that tall, imposing form which seemed frozen by grief, and at that pale, mournful face, and those pious eyes, which seemed to implore consolation and salvation from heaven.

At last Doeninger ventured to put his hand softly on Hofer's arm. "Awake, dear commander-in-chief," he said in a low voice, "awake from your grief. These gentlemen here are waiting for an answer. Tell them what you think—" "What I think?" cried Hofer, giving a start and dropping his eyes slowly. "What I think? I think that we are poor, unhappy men, who have vainly risked our property and our blood, our liberty and our lives. Tell me, then, my friends, is it possible that the Emperor Francis, whom we all loved so dearly, and who pledged us his word so solemnly and often, has abandoned us after all? Cajetan, do you believe it?"

"It is in black and white here," said Doeninger, in his habitual laconic style, pointing to the proclamation of the Archduke John. "It is the archduke's handwriting; I am familiar with it. You need no longer question its authenticity. Peace has been concluded."

"Peace has been concluded, the emperor has abandoned his Tyrol, the Tyrol is lost!" cried Andreas, in a loud outburst of grief; and his long-restrained tears streamed from his eyes. Andreas was not ashamed of them. He threw himself on a chair, buried his face in his hands, and wept aloud.

"The Tyrol is lost," he sobbed; "all my dear countrymen are in profound distress, and, moreover, in the utmost danger; our beloved, beautiful country will have to shed rivers of blood, and nothing will be heard but wails and lamentations. For the emperor has abandoned us, the enemy will re-enter the country, kill and burn, and wreak a terrible revenge upon our people! Lord God," he exclaimed all at once, "can I not do any thing, then, for my dear country? Tell me, my friends, can I not do any thing to avert this great calamity and save the lives of my dear countrymen?"

"Yes, Andreas," said Baron von Worndle, "you can do a great deal for the Tyrol and your countrymen. You can prevent bloodshed, soften the vindictiveness of the enemy, and induce him to spare the vanquished and wreak no revenge on the disarmed. Write a proclamation to the Tyrolese, admonish them to keep quiet, and order them to lay down their arms. Return yourself to your home, your inn, and you will have done on this mournful day more for the Tyrol than you have been able to do for it up to this time; for you will thereby save the Tyrol from untold disasters, which will surely befall the country if you resume hostilities against enemies who are a hundred times superior to us. It is impossible for us to withstand them successfully. Their columns, well provided with artillery, are moving upon all sides, and the whole Tyrol, as the Viceroy of Italy writes, is surrounded. We have no course left but submission. Order the Tyrolese, therefore, to submit, set a good example to them yourself, and the Tyrol is saved, and no more blood will be shed."

"No more blood will be shed!" repeated Andreas Hofer, joyously. "Well, then, I see that you are right, and that we have no course left but submission. It is true, the emperor has abandoned us, but the good God will still stand by us; and on seeing that we are humble and submissive, He will have mercy upon us. Sit down, Cajetan; I will dictate a letter to you. To whom must I write on behalf of my beloved country?"

"Write to General Drouet," said Doeninger. "It was he who wrote to you yesterday from Innspruck, informing you of the conclusion of peace, and promising that, if you and all the Tyrolese would submit, no harm should befall any one. You refused to answer his letter because you did not believe him."

"I did not believe him," said Andreas, gently, "for I still believed in my emperor. But I see now that General Drouet was right; I will, therefore, write to him, and recommend my country and the good and brave Tyrolese to his mercy. Take up the pen, Cajetan, and write."

And Andreas Hofer dictated in a low, tremulous voice, often interrupted by sighs which issued from his breast like the groans of a dying man, a letter to General Drouet, in which he promised in touching words that the Tyrolese would lay down their arms, and said they would trust, for pardon and oblivion of the past, to the magnanimity of Napoleon, whose footsteps were guided by a superior power, which it was no longer permitted them to resist.

"There," he said, after convincing himself that Doeninger had written exactly what be had dictated, "now give me the pen, Cajetan. I will sign it myself."

He bent over the table, and wrote quickly what he had so often written under his decrees, "Andreas Hofer, commander-in-chief of the Tyrol."

But then he gave a start, and contemplated his signature long and musingly. Heaving a profound sigh, and casting a mournful glance toward heaven, he took up the pen a second time, and added the word "late," slowly and with a trembling hand, to his title "commander- in-chief of the Tyrol." [Footnote: "Gallery of Heroes: Andreas Hofer," p. 173.]

"Now come, Cajetan," he exclaimed, throwing down the pen, as if it was a viper which had wounded him, "come, Cajetan. I will go to my sharpshooters and exhort them to disband, and afterward I will return with you to my inn in the Passeyr valley, in order to set a good example to all, and show them how to submit quietly and patiently."

And Andreas Hofer acted accordingly. He ordered his men to disband, and after they had obeyed his order in sullen silence, he himself, accompanied only by his faithful Cajetan Doeninger, went back to his home.

But neither the joyous welcome, with which his wife, faithful Anna Gertrude, received him, nor the jubilant shouts of his children, could arouse Andreas Hofer from his mournful brooding, or bring a smile to his lips. He did not rejoice at his return to his dear ones; he paid no attention to his business, he did not go to the stables and barns as he used to do; but he sat hanging his head, his hands folded on his knees, staring at the floor, and sighing from time to time, "My poor country! How could the emperor abandon us?"

Only when Cajetan Doeninger was not with him, Andreas Hofer became uneasy; he glanced around anxiously and called for his secretary; when the latter hastened to him, he held out his hand and said in a low, tremulous voice, "Cajetan, do not leave me. I always think I may have something to write yet, and it seems to me as though what I dictated to you at Steinach, declaring my readiness to submit, were not the last of my official papers. Something else must come yet,— yes, something else. I know it, for this state of affairs cannot last. Therefore, Cajetan, stay with me that you may be ready and able to write when the hour has come."

Cajetan stayed with him; both sat together in silence, and absorbed in their gloomy reflections, and the days passed slowly and mournfully.

It was on the afternoon of the fifth day, and Andreas Hofer sat in silence, as usual, in the gloomy room. Every thing was still without. All at once this profound silence was broken by a hum of many voices and loud noise.

Hofer looked up and listened. "That sounds as if we were still at war, and as if my sharpshooters were marching up," he said.

"Andreas Hofer, commander-in-chief of the Tyrol!" shouted loud voices under the windows.

Hofer jumped up. "Who calls me?" he shouted, in a powerful voice.

At this moment the door was thrown open violently, and four mountaineers, armed with their rifles, came in. Hofer saw through the open door that the yard in front of the house was thronged with peasants, and all looked with flashing eyes through the door at Hofer; and they shouted now, "Andreas Hofer, commander-in-chief of the Tyrol, come with us, come!"

Andreas Hofer seemed all at once animated by new life; his eyes shot fire, his form was drawn up to its full height, and his head rose again proudly between his powerful shoulders.

"What do you want of me, my dear countrymen?" he asked, going to meet them.

One of the four sharpshooters who had entered the room now came forward, and placed himself with a defiant face in front of Hofer.

"We want you," he said. "Three thousand French soldiers are marching across the Janfen. There is great excitement in the Puster valley, and some fighting has taken place. Anthony Wallner has driven the Bavarians long since across the frontier, and Speckbacher and the Capuchin have marched to the Muhlbach Pass in order to attack Rusca. And why are we to keep quiet, then? Why are we to allow the French to enter the Passeyr valley?"

"We will not allow them to do it!" shouted the peasants outside. "No, we will not allow the French to enter the Passeyr valley."

"You hear it, commander-in-chief," said the first speaker. "We are all ready and determined. Now say what we are to do with the French. Will you do any thing or not?"

"Yes, will you do any thing or not?" repeated the peasants, penetrating with furious gestures into the room.

"If you do not want to do any thing," cried the peasant, raising his rifle menacingly, "my rifle is loaded for you as well as for any Frenchman. You commenced the insurrection, now put it through." [Footnote: Loritza, "Bilder and Erinnerungen aus Tyrol's Freiheitskampfen von 1809," p. 14.]

"But you know, countrymen, that I cannot!" cried Hofer. "The emperor has made peace with Bonaparte and abandoned us. What course have we left but that of submission? We must yield, or the Tyrol will be ruined entirely."

"But we do not want to submit," shouted the peasants, furiously. "And the whole country is of our opinion; no one is willing to submit. We will die rather than submit."

"Issue another proclamation calling out the able-bodied men!" said the first speaker.

"Yes, issue another proclamation, commander-in-chief," shouted the crowd. "We will fight, we must fight!"

"And you shall and must be our leader!" exclaimed the peasant, laying his heavy hand on Hofer's shoulder. "We will compel you to go with us or kill you as a traitor. Issue another proclamation. We men are still the same as before, and so is our cause; now you must likewise be the same Andreas Hofer, commander-in-chief of the Tyrol!"

"Yes," exclaimed Andreas, with a radiant face, drawing a deep breath, as if relieved from an oppressive burden, "yes, I will be the same as before. This state of affairs cannot continue. We must fight; we had better die than lead such a life. Go, Doeninger, go; write a proclamation!"

"Hurrah! Long live our commander-in-chief," shouted the peasants, triumphantly; "long live our dear faithful Andreas Hofer!"

"I thank you, my dear countrymen," said Andreas; "I am your leader now, and we will fight again. But do not hold me responsible for the events of the future. You must never forget that you compelled me to resume war. I intended to submit humbly and patiently, but you would not allow me to do so, and dragged me forcibly from my retirement. The bloody struggle will commence again—God grant us protection, and further victories! We are not going to fight from motives of pride and arrogance, but only for the sake of our country—because we want to remain Germans, and do not want to become French subjects, and because we want to keep our God, our liberty, and our constitution. Amen!"



CHAPTER XLI.

BETRAYAL AND SEIZURE OF HOFER.

War was now resumed at all points; but the forces brought from all sides against the Tyrol were so immense that no hope remained to the inhabitants but by deeds of glory to throw a last radiance around their fall. The Tyrolese fought with desperate valor, but their heroism was unavailing. The superior forces of the enemy were everywhere victorious. The artillery of the Bavarians and French thinned the ranks of the mountaineers from day to day; whole ranks of the Tyrolese being mowed down by the balls of the enemy. They fled panic-struck into the mountains. The victorious invaders penetrated farther and farther into the interior of the country; burning towns and villages marked the route which they followed, and wails and lamentations rent the air wherever they made their appearance.

Before the middle of December all resistance had been overpowered. The enemy stalked in a merciless manner over the gory, reeking, groaning Tyrol, and pursued relentlessly all who had dared to rise against him. He had promised oblivion and forgiveness in return for peaceful submission; but as the Tyrolese had not submitted, but continued the struggle, the enemy now threatened to revenge himself and punish the vanquished.

A furious chase now commenced. Every one who had been seized with arms in hand was shot; every one who concealed one of the pursued patriots in his house was executed, and his house was burned down.

The leaders of the Tyrolese had fled into the mountains, but the French generals promised large rewards for the heads of the most influential patriots; and the soldiers traversed the country, impelled by thirst for revenge and gain, spying everywhere for the outlawed mountaineers, and ascending even to the snow-clad summits of the mountains in order to obtain the large rewards. As yet, however, they had not succeeded in seizing one of the pursued chiefs. The French generals had vainly promised a reward of ten thousand florins for the apprehension of Andreas Hofer, and rewards of five thousand florins for the seizure of Joseph Spechbacher, Anthony Wallner, and Joachim Haspinger. They had disappeared, and the patrols and soldiers, who were hunting for them, had not yet been able to discover the hiding-place of any of the four great chiefs of the insurrection. The mountains, those natural fortresses of the Tyrol, protected the outlawed commanders; and in the Alpine huts, amidst the chamois and vultures, which alone saw and knew their hiding-places, there were no traitors.

Retiring to his native valley, Andreas Hofer long eluded the search of the victors. His place of concealment was a solitary Alpine hut, four leagues distant from his home, in general inaccessible from the snow which surrounded it. Love had accompanied Andreas to this inhospitable spot. His wife and his son John were with him, and so was Cajetan Doeninger, his faithful secretary. Love had accompanied him to the Alpine hut of his friend Pfandler; love watched over him in the valley below. Many peasants there were well aware of Hofer's place of concealment, but no one betrayed him, no one was tempted by the reward of ten thousand florins which Baraguay d'Hilliers, the French general, offered for Hofer's apprehension. They often saw Pfandler's servants, loaded with all sorts of provisions, wending their way slowly and painfully up the snow-clad Alp; but they averted their heads, as though they did not want to see anything, and prayed God in a low tone to protect the messengers who conveyed food to Hofer and his dear ones. The peasants in the valley forbore carefully to speak among each other of what they knew; only they treated Pfandler with reverential tenderness, shook hands with him quietly, and whispered, "God bless you and him!" At times, on a clear winter day, when thin smoke curled up suddenly from the Alp, the peasants in the valley looked up sighingly and whispered compassionately, "They have built a fire in their hut. The cold is so severe. God bless them!" But whenever one whom they did not trust stepped up to them, wondering at the smoke, and saying that somebody was concealed up there, and had built a fire in order not to freeze to death, the others laughed at him, and said there was no smoke at all, but only snow blown up by the storm.

One day, however, a stranger arrived in the valley, and asked whisperingly for Andreas Hofer, to whom, he said, he would bring assistance and safety. At first no one replied to him; but he showed them a paper, bearing the name and seal of the Archduke John, and containing the following words, written by the prince himself: "Help my messenger to find Andreas Hofer, and bring him assistance and safety."

On reading this, the peasants distrusted him no longer. They glanced furtively up to the Schneeberg, pointed to the two wanderers, loaded with baskets, who were toiling up the mountain through the snow, and whispered almost inaudibly, "Follow them!"

The messenger did so. He climbed after the two servants, and ascended with them the inhospitable, dreary, and deserted heights. At length he arrived in front of the Alpine hut; he knocked at the door, and asked admittance in the name of God and the Archduke John.

The door opened immediately, and on the threshold appeared Hofer's tall, bearded form, as erect and vigorous as it had been in the days of his splendor, and his mild, honest eye greeted the new-comer.

"He who comes in the name of God and the Archduke John will not deceive me," said Andreas, kindly. "Come in, therefore; for you must have good intentions toward me, inasmuch as the severe cold did not deter you from coming up to me."

"Indeed I have good intentions toward you," said the messenger. "Do you not know me, then, Andy? I am Anthony Steeger, the Archduke John's gunsmith."

"Oh, yes, now I know you!" exclaimed Andreas, joyfully. "I saw you in Vienna at the time we were there to devise plans for the deliverance of the Tyrol. Well, come in, Anthony Steeger; come in to my wife, my son, and my secretary."

He conducted Anthony Steeger into the room, where the three greeted him, and made room for him in front of the hearth, on which large billets of wood were burning. Anthony Steeger looked around in this wretched room, which contained nothing but a few rickety wooden chairs, and a rough-hewn pine table, and the walls and windows of which were protected from the cold by thick linings of hay and straw.

"Yes, you may well look around in my palace," said Andreas, smilingly; "it is not very gorgeous here, but the good God is with us, and He will help us to get along."

"And the Archduke John will help you also," said Anthony Steeger. "Listen to me, Andreas. The archduke sends me to you. He sends you his greetings, and entreats you to come with your family to him and stay with him all your life long, or, if you should not like to do that, at least until you can live again safely in the Tyrol. The archduke has already fitted up a house for you in a village which belongs to him; you shall live there with your whole family as the beloved and honored guests of the archduke. He implores you to accept his invitation. I have with me every thing that is necessary for your flight, Andy. The archduke has given me money, a passport for you and your family, and safeguards issued by the French generals. I am familiar with the roads and by-paths in this vicinity, and will convey you safely through the mountains. The archduke has thought of every thing and provided for every thing."

"It is very kind in the dear Archduke John not to have forgotten me," said Andreas, deeply moved; "it is honest and faithful that he should like to take care of me and reward my love. And it is very kind in you, too, Anthony Steeger, to have acted in this spirit of self-denial. You have come from a great distance to save us, and are not afraid of venturing with us upon this most dangerous flight."

"And you accept my offer, Andy, and consent to accompany me, do you not?"

"And what of them?" asked Andreas, casting a tender glance on his wife and his son. "The route across the glaciers is impassable for a woman and a child."

"First save yourself, my Andy," exclaimed Anna Gertrude; "save yourself for us and the country. After you are gone and have arrived at a place of safety, the enemy will hardly trouble us any more, and I will follow you then with the children."

"You need not be anxious, so far as your wife and children are concerned," said Doeninger. "I will not leave them, but bring them to you."

"Pray do not hesitate, Andy," said Anthony Steeger, urgently. "The archduke implores you not to grieve him by rejecting his offer, but to relieve his conscience from the heavy debt which he has hitherto been unable to discharge to the Tyrol. You shall escape for his sake and for the good of the fatherland, and save your life for better times, which will surely dawn upon the Tyrol. Do it, Andreas. Let us go to work immediately. See, I have with me all that you need, and wear two suits of clothes; one is destined for you, and you will put it on. And here is the razor, with which we shall shave off your beard; and when it is gone, and you have put on the new clothes, no one will scent the Barbone in the man with a foreign dress and a smooth chin. Come, now, Andy, and do not hesitate."

"I am to make quite another man of myself," said Andreas, shaking his head, "merely to save my miserable life? I am to deny my dear Passeyr? I am to shave off my beard, which I have worn so long in an honorable manner, and by which everyone knows me throughout the Tyrol? No, Anthony Steeger, I will never do that!"

"If you do not, Andreas, you are lost," said Anthony Steeger. "I am afraid the French are already on your track. A peasant said he had seen you up here the other day."

"Yes, it was Raffel. He came up here to look for his cow, and met me here. But I gave him money not to betray my secret, and he promised me solemnly that be would not."

"He must have violated his pledge already, Andy; for he told Donay, the priest, about it, and the latter boasted publicly yesterday that he was aware of Andreas Hofer's place of concealment."

"It is true, Donay is a bad and mean man," said Andreas Hofer, musingly; "but I do not believe he will be so mean as to betray me, whom he always called his best commander-in-chief and dearest friend."

"He is mean enough to do it," murmured Doeninger. "The magnitude of the price set on your head will induce him to betray his benefactor."

"Andy," cried Anna Gertrude, bursting into tears, and clinging to her husband, "save yourself! If you love me and the children, save yourself; cut off your beard, put on the new suit of clothes, and escape from your bloodthirsty enemies. Save yourself, for the sake of your wife and your poor children!"

"I cannot," said Andreas, mournfully, embracing his wife tenderly; "no, so help me God, I cannot leave my dear, unhappy country. I know full well that I shall not avert any calamities from the Tyrol by staying here, but I will at least share its misfortunes. I was unable to save my native country; I will therefore suffer with it. A good captain does not desert his shipwrecked vessel, but dies with it; and thus I will not desert my country either, but die with it. I will do all I can to save myself, but I will not leave the Tyrol; I will not cut off my beard nor put on other clothes. I will not mask and disguise myself, but will remain in adversity what I was in the days of prosperity, Andreas Hofer, the Barbone. State that to the dear archduke, Anthony Steeger, and tell him also that I am very grateful to him for wishing to save me in his way, and that I hope he will not be angry with me for being unable to accept his kind offer, or for wishing to live and die with my country. If he wishes to do any thing for me, let him go to the Emperor Francis, and tell him I am well aware that he himself would never have forgotten us, but that his bad ministers did it all, and betrayed the poor Tyrol so perfidiously. Let him beseech the emperor to intercede vigorously in behalf of the Tyrol and of myself, but not to separate me from the Tyrol." [Footnote: "Gallery of Heroes: Andreas Hofer," p. 188.]

"Andreas," cried his wife, despairingly, "you are lost—I feel it here in my heart—you are lost, if you do not flee with Steeger this very night."

"And I feel it here in my heart that I must stay here, even though I should be lost," said Andreas, firmly. "Well, you must weep no more, Anna Gertrude; and you, Anthony Steeger, accept my cordial thanks for your kind and generous intentions."

"Then you have made up your mind, Andy, not to go with me?"

"I have, Anthony. But if you will do me a great favor, take my wife and my boy with you, for the enemy threatens them as well as me. Take them with you, Anthony, convey them across the mountains, and conduct them to the Archduke John."

"It is impossible," said Anthony Steeger, mournfully, "the roads are so full of snow that they are utterly impassable for women and children."

"And you would advise me to leave them here?" asked Andreas, Hofer, reproachfully. "I am to leave here my most precious treasures merely to save my miserable life? No, my friend, I shall stay here with my wife and child and Doeninger there. But you must go now and save yourself; for, if the enemy should really come, it would be bad for you to be found here."

"I will go, Andy, not to save myself, however, but to convey your message speedily to the archduke, that he may save you in another way by the emperor's intercession. In the valley I shall tell every one that you are no longer in this Alpine hut, but have already succeeded in escaping to Vienna, so that it will be unnecessary for the enemy to pursue you any longer."

"Do so, Anthony Steeger; and if they believe you, I shall be glad of it. But go now; I am anxious on your account, and think something might happen to you here. Go, my dear friend."

He drew Steeger to the door, and, not permitting him to take a long leave of the others, conducted him out of the hut, and then embraced him tenderly. "Now listen to what I wish to tell you," he whispered, in a low voice. "I must stay here to save my wife and my boy. The two cannot flee now, as you yourself admitted to me. If I should escape now, and leave them here, the enemy would spy out their place of concealment and revenge himself upon them; he would torture and kill them in his rage at not having captured me. But if I stay, and the French should find me, I believe they would release my wife and my son and do no harm to them; for then they would have got me, and they are entirely innocent. Go, then, my dear friend; tell the archduke all I have said to you, and greet him a thousand times from his faithful Andy. Now farewell, and go with God's blessing!"

He nodded once more kindly to Anthony Steeger. and returned quickly into the Alpine hut. He found his wife in tears; little John, her son, was kneeling before her, with his head against his mother's knees, and weeping also. Doeninger stood at the hearth and stared into the fire.

Andreas Hofer went to him and laid his hand gently on his shoulder. "Cajetan," he asked, mildly, "did I do right?"

"Yes, commander-in-chief, you did," said Doeninger, solemnly.

"I want to tell you something more, Cajetan," added Andreas. "What Steeger said about Rafel and Donay may be true; the French may have discovered my place of concealment, and may come up here. Hence, dear Cajetan, you must leave me and escape, lest they should seize you, too."

"A good servant leaves his master no more than a captain deserts his shipwrecked vessel," said Doeninger, firmly. "You refuse to leave your native country in its adversity because you love it. I refuse, likewise, to leave you in the days of your adversity, because I love you. I shall stay here."

Andreas Hofer encircled Doeninger with his arms and folded him tenderly to his heart. "Stay with me, then, my Cajetan," he said, affectionately. "God knows my heart would have grieved had you consented to leave me. And now, Anna Gertrude, do not weep any longer. Make haste, dear wife, pack up all your things, and let us go early to bed. For early in the morning we will leave this hut. I know another Alpine hut at no great distance from here; I believe we will be able to get thither, and we will take with us as many things as we can carry. Make haste, therefore, dear Anna Gertrude!"

Anna Gertrude dried her tears, and, flushed with new hope, packed up their things in four small bundles, so that each might carry one according to his strength.

Night came at last—the last night which they were to pass at this hut. At the break of day they were to set out for their new place of concealment.

They went to bed at an early hour. Andreas Hofer had sent the two servants down to Brandach, where they were to get some articles necessary for the trip on the morrow. Hofer and his wife slept in the room below. Cajetan Doeninger and little John Hofer lay in the small hay-loft, to which a ladder led up from the room.

But Doeninger did not sleep. He thought all the while of Raffel, who had come up there three days ago and seen Andreas; he thought of Donay, the priest, to whom Raffel had betrayed Hofer's place of concealment. He knew that Donay, who, up to the days of adversity, had always professed to be Hofer's friend and an extreme partisan of the insurrection, had suddenly, since the enemy had reoccupied the Tyrol, changed his colors, become a preacher of peace and submission, and an ardent adherent of the French, with whose officers he held a great deal of intercourse. He knew Donay's avaricious and treacherous character, and, therefore, he trembled for Andreas Hofer's safety. He lay uneasy and full of anxiety on his couch, listening all the while for suspicious sounds. But nothing was heard but the storm howling and whistling about the hut, and the regular respirations of the two sleepers in the room below.

Hour passed after hour; all remained silent, and Doeninger felt somewhat relieved, for day would soon dawn, when the hour of flight would be at hand. Doeninger dropped his head slowly on the hay to sleep an hour and invigorate himself for to-morrow's trip. However, no sooner had he done so than he gave a start, lifted up his head again, and listened. He had heard a sound outside. The sound, as it were, of many approaching footsteps which creaked on the frozen snow.

Doeninger crept cautiously to the small hole in the roof and looked out. The moon shed her pale light on the white snowfield around the hut, and Doeninger could see and recognize everything. He saw a detachment of soldiers coming up yonder. He saw them halt at a short distance from the hut. He then saw two forms approaching the hut. Now they stood still in front of it. The moon shone brightly into the face of one of them; Doeninger recognized him at once; it was Raffel, the betrayer. The other was a French officer. The latter stood still at a distance of some steps from the hut, but Raffel went close up to the door, applied his ear to it and listened.

"They are here," he then said to the officer in a low voice. The officer immediately lifted up his arm and shouted "Forward!" The soldiers advanced and surrounded the hut. All was lost!

Doeninger awakened the sleeping boy. "John," he said in a low voice, "let us go down to father. The French have come."

The boy uttered a loud cry. "The French have come!" he exclaimed, despairingly; "they want to arrest my father!"

"Come," said Doeninger, imperatively; and he took the boy in his arms, and hastened with him down the ladder into the room below.

"Awake," he said, bending over Andreas Hofer; "the enemy has come."

Andreas started up and stared incredulously at Doeninger; but his wife rose, uttering low lamentations, and dressed herself hurriedly.

"Let us flee," she murmured; "quick, quick, let us escape by the back door."

"The hut is surrounded," said Doeninger, assisting Hofer in dressing. "We can no longer flee."

"Is that true?" asked Andreas, calmly.

"It is, commander-in-chief."

"Well, then, as it pleases God," said Hofer, crossing himself; and, traversing the room quickly, he opened the front door.

The soldiers stood four files deep, shouldering their muskets. Andreas advanced fearlessly close up to the enemy.

"Is there one of you, gentlemen, who speaks German?" he asked, with entire calmness.

"I do," said the officer, stepping rapidly forward.

Andreas greeted him with a proud nod of the head. "Well, then," he said, "I am Andreas Hofer, late commander-in-chief of the Tyrolese. I ask for quarter and good treatment."

"I cannot promise any thing to a rebel," replied the officer, contemptuously.

"But you have come to seize me, and none but me," continued Andreas, in a gentle voice. "Well, then, here I am; do with me as you please. But I ask you to have mercy upon my wife and my son, and this young man, for they are entirely innocent." [Footnote: Andreas Hofer's own words. See "Gallery of Heroes."]

The officer made no reply. He signed to his soldiers, and ordered them to bind Andreas Hofer and the others in such a manner as to render it utterly impossible for them to escape.

The soldiers rushed furiously upon the defenseless captives, tied their hands on their backs, and wound the ropes round their necks, so that they could drag them forward like oxen. And after binding Andreas Hofer, so that they were no longer afraid of his strong arms, they surrounded him with scornful laughter, tore handfuls of hair from his beard, and said they would keep them "as souvenirs of General Barbone." Blood streamed from his lacerated face, but the cold froze it and transformed the gory beard into a blood red icicle, which pricked the numerous wounds in his chin every moment, and inflicted intense pain.

Andreas did not complain; he looked only at his wife, his son, and his friend, who, bound like himself, scantily dressed and barefooted like himself, were dragged down the mountain, which was covered with snow and ice, into the plain below. His hands, into which the rope was cutting all the while, were very sore; his bare feet swelled from walking on the snow and were torn by the icicles. Still Andreas did not complain; but on hearing the low wails of his son, on seeing that every footstep of his wife, who was dragged along before him, left a bloody spot in the snow, he burst into loud sobs, and two tears rolled slowly down his cheeks into his beard, where they froze in the blood.

The dreadful march was continued to Meran. French generals, staff- officers, and soldiers awaited the tottering prisoners at the gate. The soldiers greeted the captured "bandit chief Barbone" with loud cheers and scornful laughter; and Andreas Hofer and the others entered the city, preceded by a band which played a ringing march. The French were overjoyed, but the citizens stood in front of their houses, and, regardless of the presence of their cruel enemies, greeted Andreas Hofer with tears and loud lamentations.

The journey was continued on the following day to Botzen; only the prisoners, whose bleeding and lacerated feet refused to carry them any longer, had been laid on a common farm-wagon, and some clothing had been thrown over them.

At Botzen Andreas Hofer received cheering news. A noble German lady, the wife of Baron de Giovanelli, had dared to implore the French General Baraguay d'Hilliers to have mercy on Hofer's unfortunate and innocent family; to save them, she had knelt down before the general and besought him with heart-rending lamentations. Baraguay d'Hilliers had been unable to withstand her supplications, and consented to release those for whom she pleaded.

"The viceroy's orders," he said, "are only to the effect that the Sandwirth Hofer be conveyed to Mantua. I yield to your prayers, therefore, madame; his companions shall be released, and shall not be molested again. His wife may return with her son to her home, and carry on the inn as heretofore; but she must be cautious and not expose herself to new dangers by imprudent words. The young man may go wherever he pleases."

This was the cheering intelligence which Andreas Hofer received on the third day of his captivity in the jail where he and his dear ones lay on wet straw.

"See, Cajetan," he exclaimed, joyfully, "it turns out just as I said. My seizure releases my wife and my child, and relieves them from all dangers."

"But I will not leave you," cried Anna Gertrude, embracing him tenderly; "I will stay and die with you."

"And is our son yonder to die too?" asked Andreas, pointing to his boy. "And our three little girls, are they to become entirely helpless, and have neither father nor mother to protect them? Anna Gertrude, you must be father and mother to them; you must not leave them and our boy. You must preserve their small inheritance to them, bring them up in the fear of the Lord, and teach them, also, to love their poor father and honor his memory."

"Husband, dear husband, I cannot leave you, I cannot!" sobbed the poor woman. "Do not thrust me from your heart, do not leave me behind, all alone and without consolation."

Andreas lifted his arm and pointed up to heaven. "There is our Consoler," he said; "He will help you. Confide in Him, Anna Gertrude. Go to your children, be father and mother to them, and love them in my and your name."

At this moment the door of the prison opened, and the jailer, followed by soldiers, came in.

"Andreas Hofer," said the jailer, imperatively, "come! The wagon which is to convey you to Mantua is in readiness. As for you others, begone; you have no longer any business here. Come, Andreas Hofer, come!"

"Let me first bless my wife and my son, my friend," said Hofer, and, laying his hands on the heads of his wife and child, he blessed them in a loud voice, and commended them to the protection of the Lord. Doeninger knelt behind him, and Andreas Hofer laid his hand on his head also, blessed him, and thanked him for his love and fidelity.

"Come now, come!" cried the soldiers; and they seized him with rude violence and dragged him forward.

Anna Gertrude burst into loud lamentations in her grief and despair, and clung to Hofer in the anguish of her love.

"Do not lament any longer," said Andreas, mildly; "bring your grief as an offering to the crucified Redeemer, and show now that you are Hofer's wife. Farewell, love! Kiss our children! Forward now!"

And he led the way with a rapid step. Anna Gertrude, pale as a corpse, trembling and tottering, seized her son's hand and rushed after her husband. Cajetan Doeninger followed them resolutely and with a defiant expression of countenance.

At the street-door stood the farm-wagon, covered with straw, which was to convey Andreas Hofer to Mantua. Ten soldiers with loaded muskets stood upon it, and a crowd of soldiers surrounded it.

Andreas Hofer walked calmly and with head erect through their ranks to the wagon. His wife had knelt down; she wept and sobbed bitterly, and embraced convulsively her son, who gazed in dismay at his father.

Andreas Hofer had now ascended the wagon. The soldiers stepped back, and the driver whipped up the horses.

Suddenly, Cajetan Doeninger elbowed his way to the wagon, and signed to the driver to stop.

"I shall accompany Hofer," he said, grasping the side-railing of the wagon in order to mount it.

"No, no," cried the jailer, hastening to him. "You are mistaken, you are free."

Doeninger, still clinging to the railing of the wagon, turned to him. "What said the general's order?" he asked.

"It said, 'the young man is free, and can go wherever he pleases.'"

"Well, then," said Doeninger, mounting the wagon, quickly, "the young man will accompany Andreas Hofer to Mantua. Forward, driver, forward!"

The driver whipped up the horses, and the wagon started for Mantua. [Footnote: Donay, the priest who betrayed Andreas Hofer, according to the general belief of the Tyrolese, was soon afterwards appointed imperial chaplain at the chapel of Loretto, by a special decree of the Emperor Napoleon, and received, besides, large donations in lands and money.—See Hormayr's "Andreas Hofer," vol. ii., p. 507.— The peasant Francis Joseph Raffel, who had betrayed Hofer's place of concealment to Donay, was afterward called Judas Iscariot throughout the Tyrol. Every one turned his back upon him with the utmost horror, and the men of the Passeyr valley told him they would shoot him if he did not hang himself within a week. Raffel fled in great dismay to Bavaria, where the government gave him a small office in the revenue department—See "Gallery of Heroes; Andreas Hofer," p. 191.]



CHAPTER XLII.

THE WARNING.

The French hunted throughout the Tyrol for the unfortunate men who had hitherto been the heroes of the fatherland, but who, since their cause had succumbed, were called rebels and traitors. The soldiers who were in search of this noble game, for which large rewards were offered to them, had already succeeded in arresting one of the heroes of the Tyrol: Peter Mayer had fallen into their hands, and, having been tried by a military commission at Botzen, was shot. But they had been unable as yet to discover the hiding-places of the other insurgent leaders, despite the large prices which the government had set upon their heads. Joseph Speckbacher, for whom the soldiers were hunting most eagerly, had disappeared. The French and Bavarians ransacked every house where they suspected he might be concealed; they inflicted the heaviest fines and most cruel tortures on the friends of the fugitive chief, because they would not betray the place where their beloved commander was concealed; but all was in vain. Joseph Speckbacher had disappeared, and so had Father Haspinger and Anthony Wallner. [Footnote: Speckbacher had fled to the higher mountains, where, on one of the summits of the Eisgletscher, in a cavern discovered by him in former times when pursuing the chamois, he lay for several weeks in the depth of winter, supported by salt provisions, eaten raw, lest the smoke of a fire should betray his place of concealment to his pursuers. Happening one day, in the beginning of March, to walk to the entrance for a few minutes to enjoy the ascending sun, an avalanche, descending from the summit of the mountain above, swept him along with it, down to the distance of half a mile on the slope beneath, and dislocated his hip-bone in the fall. Unable now to stand, surrounded only by ice and snow, tracked on every side by ruthless pursuers, his situation was, to all appearance, desperate; but even then the unconquerable energy of his mind and the incorruptible fidelity of his friends saved him from destruction. Summoning up all his courage, he contrived to drag himself along the snow for several leagues, during the night, to the village of Volderberg, where, to avoid discovery, he crept into the stable. His faithful friend gave him a kind reception, and carried him on his back to Rinn, where his wife and children were, and where Zoppel, his devoted domestic, concealed him in a hole in the cowhouse, beneath where the cattle stood, though beyond the reach of their feet, where he was covered up with cow-dung and fodder, and remained for two months, till his leg was set and he was able to walk. The town was full of Bavarian troops; but this extraordinary place of concealment was never discovered, even when the Bavarian dragoons, as was frequently the case, were in the stable looking after their horses. Zoppel did not even inform Speckbacher's wife of her Husband's return, lest her emotions or visits to the place might betray his place of concealment. At length, in the beginning of May, the Bavarian soldiers having left the house, Speckbacher was lifted from his living grave and restored to his wife and children. As soon as he was able to walk, he set out, and, journeying chiefly in the night, through the wildest and most secluded Alps, by Dux and the sources of the Salza, he passed the Styrian Alps, where he crossed the frontier and reached Vienna in safety. There he was soon after joined by his family and liberally provided for.

Haspinger succeeded in escaping into Switzerland, whence he travelled by cross-paths through Friuli and Carinthia to Vienna, where he received protection from the emperor.]

General Broussier was especially exasperated at the last named, the valiant commander of Windisch-Matrey, and he had promised a reward of one thousand ducats to him who would arrest "that dangerous demagogue and bandit-chief, Anthony Aichberger-Wallner," and deliver him to the French authorities. But Wallner and his two sons, who, although hardly above the age of boyhood, had seemed to the French authorities so dangerous that they had set prices upon their heads, were not to be found anywhere. Schroepfel, Wallner's faithful servant, had taken the boys into the mountains, where he stayed with them; after nightfall he went down to Matrey to fetch provisions for the lonely fugitives.

Anthony Wallner's fine house was silent and deserted now. Only his wife and his daughter Eliza lived in it, and they passed their days in dreary loneliness and incessant fear and anguish. Eliza Wallner was alone, all alone and joyless. She had not seen her beloved Elza since the day when she was married. She herself had started the same night with Haspinger for her father's headquarters. Elza had remained with her young husband in Innspruck, where her father died on the following day; and after the old Baron had been buried, Elza had accompanied her husband to Munich. From thence she wrote from time to time letters overflowing with fervent tenderness to her beloved friend, and these letters were the only sunbeams which illuminated Eliza's cheerless life; these letters told her of her friend's happiness, of her attachment to her young husband, who treated her with the utmost kindness and tenderness.

Eliza had received this afternoon another letter from her friend; with a melancholy smile she read Elza's description of her domestic happiness, and her eyes had unconsciously filled with tears which rolled slowly down her pale cheeks. She dried them quickly, but her mother, who sat opposite her near the lamp and seemed to be busily sewing, had already seen them.

"Why do you weep, Lizzie?" she asked. "Have you got bad news from Elza?"

Eliza shook her head with a mournful smile. "No, dear mother," she said; "thank God, my Elza is happy and well, and that is my only joy."

"And yet you weep, Eliza?"

"Did I weep, then?" she asked. "It was probably a tear of joy at my Elza's happiness."

"No, Lizzie, it was no tear of joy," cried her mother, mournfully. "I see you often in tears, when you think that I do not notice it. You are grieving, Lizzie, do not deny it; you are grieving. You sacrificed your love and happiness to Elza, and she does not even know it; she does not thank you, and you will pine away. I see very well how sad you are; and you become paler and more emaciated from day to day. Yes, yes, you will die of grief, for you still love Ulrich von Hohenberg."

"No," cried Eliza, vehemently, blushing deeply, "I do not love him. I have buried my love in my heart, and it reposes there as in a shrine. It is true I think of it very often, I pray to it, but I have no unholy thoughts and feel no sinful desires. I am glad that my Elza is so happy; yes, I am glad of it and thank God for it. But how can I be merry and laugh, mother, so long as my dear, dear father has not returned to us? He must hide like a criminal; they are chasing him like a wild beast; he is always in danger, and we must constantly tremble for his safety. And I cannot do any thing for him, I cannot share his dangers, I cannot be with him in the dreadful solitude on the Alp above. I must look on in idleness, and cannot be useful to any one, neither to my father, nor to my brothers, nor to you, dear mother. I cannot help my father and brothers, and cannot comfort you, mother; for I myself am in despair, and would—what was that, mother? Did not some one knock at the window-shutter?"

"Hush, hush!" whispered her mother; "let us listen."

They listened with bated breath. Eliza had not been mistaken; some one knocked a second time at the window-shutter, and the voice of a man whispered, "Mrs. Wallner, are you in the room? Open the door to me!"

"It must be a good friend of ours, for the dogs do not bark," said Eliza; "we will let him come in."

She took the lamp and went out courageously to draw the bolt from the street-door and open it.

Yes, she had not been mistaken, it was really a good friend of theirs; the man who entered the house was one of the few friends who had not denied Anthony Wallner, and who had not turned their backs upon his family since it was outlawed and in distress.

"You bring us bad news, Peter Siebermeier?" asked Eliza, anxiously, gazing into the mountaineer's pale and dismayed face.

"Unfortunately I do," sighed Siebermeier, stepping hastily into the sitting-room and shaking hands with Eliza's mother. "Mrs. Wallner," he said, in breathless hurry, "your husband is in the greatest danger, and only speedy flight can save him."

Mrs. Wallner uttered a piercing cry, sank back into her chair, wrung her hands, and wept aloud. Eliza did not weep; she was calm and courageous. "Tell me, Siebermeier, what can we do for father? What danger threatens him?"

"A bad man. I believe, the clerk of the court, has informed the French that Anthony Wallner is still on one of the heights in this neighborhood. General Broussier intends to have him arrested. A whole battalion of soldiers will march to-morrow morning to the mountain of Ober-Peischlag and occupy it."

"Great God! my husband is lost, then!" cried Eliza's mother, despairing; "nothing can save him now."

"Hush, mother, hush!" said Eliza, almost imperatively; "we must not weep now, we must think only of saving him. Tell me, friend Siebermeier, is there no way of saving him?"

"There is one," said Siebermeier, "but how shall we get up to him? A friend of mine, who is acquainted with the members of the court, informed me quite stealthily that, if Aichberger could be saved yet, it should be done this very night. Now listen to the plan I have devised. I intended to set out to-morrow morning to peddle carpets and blankets, for money is very scarce in these hard times. I procured, therefore, a passport for myself and my boy, who is to carry my bundle. Here is the passport—and look! the description corresponds nearly to Wallner's appearance. He is of my stature and age, has hair and whiskers like mine, and might be passed off for myself. I am quite willing to let him have my passport, and conceal myself meanwhile at home and feign sickness. The passport would enable him to escape safely; of course he would have to journey through the Alps, for every one knows him in the plain. However, the passport cannot do him any good, for there is no one to take it up to him. I would do so, but the wound which I received in our last skirmish with the Bavarians, in my side here, prevents me from ascending the mountain-paths; and, even though I could go up to him, it would be useless, for we two could not travel together, the passport being issued to two persons, Siebermeier, the carpet- dealer, and the boy carrying his bundle. The boy is not described in the passport; therefore, I thought, if one of your sons were in the neighborhood, he might go up to his father, warn him of his danger, and accompany him on his trip through the mountains."

"But neither of the boys is here," said Mrs. Wallner, despairingly; "Schroepfel took them to the Alpine but near Upper Lindeau, and is with them. We two are all alone, and there is, therefore, no way of saving my dear husband."

"Yes, mother, there is," cried Eliza, flushed with excitement. "I will go up to father. I will warn him of his danger, carry him the passport, and flee with him."

"You!" cried her mother, in dismay. "It is impossible! You cannot ascend the road, which is almost impassable even for men. How should a girl, then, be able to get over it, particularly in the night, and in so heavy a snow-storm?"

"You will be unable to reach your father, Lizzie," said Siebermeier; "the road is precipitous and very long; you will sink into the snow; your shoes will stick in it, and the storm will catch your dress."

"No road is too precipitous for me if I can save my father," exclaimed Eliza, enthusiastically. "I must reach him, and God will enable me to do so. Wait here a moment, I will be back immediately. I will prepare myself for the trip, and then give me the passport."

"She will lose her life in the attempt," said Mrs. Wallner, mournfully, after she had hastened out of the room. "Alas! alas! I shall lose my husband, my sons, and my daughter too! And all has been in vain, for the Tyrol is ruined, and we have to suffer these dreadful misfortunes without having accomplished anything!"

"And the enemy acts with merciless cruelty in the country," said Siebermeier, furiously; "he sets whole villages on fire if he thinks that one of the fugitives is concealed here; he imposes on the people heavy war-taxes, which we are unable to pay; and if we say we have no money, he takes our cattle and other property from us. Wails and lamentations are to be heard throughout the valley; that is all we have gained by our bloody struggle!"

At this moment the door opened, and Eliza came in, not however in her own dress, but in the costume of a Tyrolese peasant-lad.

"Heavens! she has put on her brother William's Sunday clothes," cried her mother, with a mournful smile; "and they sit as well on her as if they had been made for her."

"Now, Siebermeier," said Eliza, holding out her hand to him, "give me the passport. The moon is rising now, and I must go,"

"But listen, my daughter, how the wind howls!" cried her mother, in deep anguish. "It beats against the windows as if to warn us not to go out. Oh, Lizzie, my last joy, do not leave me! I have no one left but you; stay with me, my Lizzie, do not leave your poor mother! You will die in the attempt, Lizzie! Stay here; have mercy upon me, and stay here!"

"I must go to father," replied Eliza. disengaging herself gently from her mother's arms. "Give me the passport, friend Siebermeier."

"You are a brave girl," said Siebermeier, profoundly moved; "the good God and the Holy Virgin will protect you. There, take the passport; you are worthy to carry it to your father."

"And I shall carry it to him or die on the road," cried Eliza, enthusiastically, waving the paper. "Now, dear mother, do not weep, but give me your blessing!"

She knelt down before her mother, who had laid her hand on her head.

"Lord, my God," she exclaimed, solemnly, "protect her graciously in her pious effort to save her father. Take your mother's blessing, my Lizzie, and think that her heart and love accompany you."

She bent over her, and imprinted a long kiss on her daughter's forehead.

"I must go now, it is high time," said Eliza, making a violent effort to restrain her tears. "Farewell, friend Siebermeier; God and the saints will reward you for the service you have rendered us."

"My best reward will be to learn that Wallner is safe," said Siebermeier, shaking hands with her.

"Now, a last kiss, dearest mother," said Eliza. She encircled her mothers neck with both her arms, and kissed her tenderly. "Pray for me and love me." She whispered; "and if I should not come back, if I should lose my life, mother, write it to Elza and to HIM, and write that I died with love and fidelity in my heart. Farewell!"

She disengaged herself quickly and hastened out of the room, regardless of the despairing cries of her mother, and not even looking back to her. It was high time for her to set out.

She was in the street now. The snow rushed furiously into her face; the bowling storm dashed madly against her cheeks until they became very sore, but the moon was in the heavens and lighted her path. It was the same path which she had ascended with Ulrich when saving him. She was alone now, but her courage and her trust in God were with her; strengthened and refreshed by her love for her father, she ascended the steep mountain path. At times the piercing wind rendered her breathless and seized her with such violence that she had to cling to a projecting rock in order not to fall from the barrow path into the abyss yawning at her feet. At times avalanches rolled close to her with thundering noise into the depth and enveloped her in a cloud of snow; but the moon shed her silver light on her path, and Eliza looked up courageously.

Forgetful of her own danger, she prayed in her heart only, "God grant that I may save my father! Let me not die before reaching him!"



CHAPTER XLIII.

THE FLIGHT.

Anthony Wallner sat in his lonely Alpine hut on the height near the village of Ober-Peischlag, and listened to the storm, which howled so loudly to-night that the but shook and he was unable to sleep on his couch of straw. He had lighted his lamp, and sat musingly at the pine table, leaning his head on his hand, and brooding mournfully over his dreary future. How long would he have to remain herein his open grave? How lone would he be chased yet, like a wild beast, from mountain to mountain? How long would he be obliged yet to lead an idle and unprofitable life in this frozen solitude, exposed to the fury of the elements, and in constant dread of losing this miserable life? These were the questions that he asked himself; intense rage seized his heart, tears of bitter grief filled his eyes—not however, at his own misfortunes, but at the miseries of his fatherland.

"What am I suffering for? What did I fight and risk my life for? What did we all shed our blood for? What did our brethren die for on the field of battle? The fatherland was not saved, the French defeated us, and our emperor abandoned us. We were brave defenders of our country, and now they call us criminals; we intended to save the fatherland, and now they call us rebels and traitors! The emperor gives us away like a piece of merchandise, regardless of his sacred pledges, and the French are chasing us as though we were thieves and murderers! And Thou sufferest it, God in heaven? Thou— Hark! did not that sound like a shot? Is it the wind that is knocking so loudly at my door?"