"You forget that we are as little able to feed twenty idle mouths as is the owl on the tower."

"Let them work!" cried Fink; "you have here land enough to employ a hundred hands. Have you no swamps to drain, or ditches to dig? There is a row of wretched puddles yonder."

"That is work for another season," replied Anton, "the ground is too wet now."

"Have a hundred acres of forest sown or planted. Does the brook hold out in the summer?"

"I hear that it does," replied Anton.

"Then turn it to some account."

"Do not forget," said Anton, smiling, "how difficult it would be to get good workmen with military abilities to come just now into our ill-renowned district."

"To the devil with your objections!" cried Fink; "send Karl into a German district, and he will hire you plenty of people."

"You have already heard that we have no money. The baron is not in a position to carry on greater improvements, with increased expenditure."

"Let me do it, then," replied Fink; "you can repay me when you are able."

"It is doubtful whether we should ever be able."

"Well, then, he need never know what the men cost."

"He is blind," replied Anton, with a slight tone of reproach; "and I am in his service, and bound to lay all my accounts before him. Certainly, he might accept a loan from you after a few scruples, for his views of his circumstances vary with his moods. But the ladies have no such illusions. Your presence would be an hourly humiliation to them, if they were conscious of owing additional comforts to your means."

"And yet they have accepted the greater sacrifice that you have made for them," said Fink, gravely.

"Perhaps they consider that my humble services entail on me no sacrifice," replied Anton, blushing. "They are accustomed to me as the baron's agent. But you are their guest, and their self-respect will endeavor to conceal from you, as much as possible, the difficulties of their position. To make your apartment habitable, they have plundered their own; the very sofa on which you lie is from the young lady's bed-room."

Fink looked eagerly at the sofa, and settled himself on it again. "As it does not suit me," said he, "to travel off immediately, you will have the goodness to point out to me some way of living here with propriety. Tell me, offhand, something about the mortgages, and the prospects of the estate; assume for the moment that I am to be the unfortunate purchaser of this Paradise."

Anton made the statement required.

"That, at all events, is not so desperate," said Fink. "Now hear my proposal; you can not go on as at present; this restricted establishment is too undesirable for all parties, most of all for you. The property may be fearfully devastated, but still it seems to me possible to make something of it. Whether you are the people to do so or not, I will not decide; though if you, Anton, are willing to devote some years of your life to it, and to sacrifice yourself still further to the interests of others, it is not impossible that, in more tranquil times, you may succeed in procuring the necessary capital. Meantime I will advance—say fifteen thousand dollars, and the baron will give me a mortgage for that sum. This loan will not much diminish your income, and it will make it easier for you to get over this bad year."

Anton rose and paced up and down uneasily.

"It won't do," cried he, at length; "we can not accept your generous proposal. Look you, Fritz: a year ago, before I knew the man as well as I do now, I was intensely anxious to lead our principal to take an interest in the baron's affairs, and if you had made me this offer then, I should have been delighted; but now I should consider it unjust to you and to the ladies to accept your proposal."

"Shall the sofa out of Lenore's bed-room be defiled by the tobacco-ashes of your guests? I do it now; later it will be done by the Polish scythe-bearers."

"We must go through with it," replied Anton, mournfully.

"Headstrong boy!" cried Fink; "you shall not get rid of me thus. And now off with you, stiff-necked Tony!"

After this conversation, Fink did not allude further to his projected loan, but he had several confidential conversations in the course of the following day with Karl, and when evening came, he said to the baron, "May I request you to lend me your horse to-morrow? He is an old acquaintance of mine. I should like to ride over your property. Do not be angry with me, dear lady, if I fail to make my appearance at dinner."

"He is rich; he is come here to buy," said the baron to himself. "This Wohlfart has told his friend that there is a bargain to be made in this quarter. The speculation is beginning; I must be cautious."



CHAPTER XXXIV.

It was a sunny morning in April—one of those genial growing days that expand the leaf-bud on the trees, and quicken the throbs of the human heart. Lenore went with hat and parasol out into the farm-yard, and walked through the cow-houses. The horned creatures looked full at her with their large eyes, and raised their broad damp noses, some of them lowing in expectation of receiving something good at her hands.

"Is Mr. Wohlfart here?" asked Lenore of the bailiff, who was hurrying by to the stable.

"He is in the castle, my lady."

"His guest is with him, I suppose?" she further inquired.

"Herr von Fink rode off this morning early to Neudorf. He can't rest in the house, and is always happiest on horseback. He should have been a hussar."

When Lenore heard in which direction Herr von Fink had ridden, she walked slowly in a different one to avoid meeting him, and crossed the brook and the fields to the wood. She gazed at the blue sky and reviving earth. The winter wheat and the green grass looked so cheerful that her heart laughed within her. The spring had breathed on the willows along the brook; the yellow branches were full of sap, and the first leaves bursting out. Even the sand did not annoy her to-day. She stepped rapidly through the expanse of it that girdled the forest, and hurried on through the firs to the cottage. The whole wood was alive with hum and cry. Wherever a group of other trees rose amid the firs, the loud chirp of the chaffinch was heard, or the eager twitter of some little newly-wedded birds, disputing about the position of their nest. The beetle in his black cuirass droned around the buds of the chestnut; at times a wild bee, newly wakened from its winter sleep, came humming by; even brown butterflies fluttered over the bushes, and, wherever the ground sunk into hollows, these were gay with the white and yellow stars of the anemone and the primrose. Lenore took off her straw hat, and let the mild breeze play about her temples, while she drew in long draughts of forest fragrance. She often stopped and listened to the sounds around her—contemplated the tender leaves of the trees, stroked the white bark of the birch, stood by the rippling fountain before the forester's house, and caressed the little firs in the hedge, which stood as close and regular as the bristles in a brush. She thought she had never seen the forest so cheerful before. The dogs barked furiously; she heard the fox rattle his chain, and looked up at the bull-finch, who jumped to and fro in his cage, and tried to bark like his superiors.

"Hush, Hector! hush Bergmann!" cried Lenore, knocking at the door. The loud barking changed into a friendly welcome. As she opened the door, Bergmann, the otter-hound, came straddling toward her, wagging his tail immoderately, and Hector made a succession of audacious leaps, while even the fox crept back into its kennel, laid its nose on its trough, and looked slyly at her. But she saw a horse's head on the other side of the hedge; he that she had meant to avoid was actually here. For a moment she remained irresolute, and was going to turn away, when the forester came out. Now, then, retreat was impossible, and she followed him in. Fink stood in the middle of the room, in the full light of the rays which fell through the small panes. He advanced politely. "I came to make acquaintance," said he, pointing to the forester; "and here I am admiring your stout-hearted vassal and his comfortable home." The forester placed a chair; Lenore could but take it. Fink leaned against the brown wall, and looked at her with undisguised admiration. "You are a wonderful contrast to this old boy and to the whole room," said he, glancing round. "Pray make no sign with your parasol; all these stuffed creatures only wait your command to come to life again, and lay themselves at your feet. Look at the heron yonder, raising its head already."

"It is only the effect of the sunshine," said the forester, comfortingly.

Lenore laughed. "We know what that means," cried Fink; "you are in the plot; you are the gnome of this queen. If there be no magic here, let me sleep out the rest of my days. One wave of that wand, and the beams of this great bird-cage will open, and you fly with your whole suite out into the sunshine. Doubtless your palace is on the summit of the fir-trees without; there are the pleasant halls in which your throne stands, mighty mistress of this place, fair-haired goddess of Spring!"

"My comfort is," said Lenore, somewhat confused, "that it is not I who occasion these ideas, but the pleasure you take in the ideas themselves. I only chance to be the unworthy subject of your fancy. You are a poet."

"Fie!" cried Fink; "how can you detract from me so much! I a poet! Except a few merry sailors' songs, I do not know a single piece of poetry by heart. The only lines I care for are some fragments of the old school; for example, 'Hurrah! Hurrah! hop, hop, hop,' in a poem which, if I am not mistaken, bears your name. And even to these classic lines I have to object that they rather represent the material trot of a cart-horse than the course of a phantom steed. But we must not be too exact with these pen-and-ink gentry. Well, then, with this single exception, you will find no poetry in me, except a few of the great Schiller's striking lines: Potz Blitz, das ist ja die Gustel von Blasewitz. There's much truth in that passage."

"You are making fun of me," said Lenore, somewhat offended.

"Indeed I am not," asseverated Fink. "How can any one make or read poems in these days of ours, when we are constantly living them? Since I have been back in the old country, scarce an hour passes without my seeing or hearing something that will be celebrated by knights of the pen a hundred years hence. Glorious material here for art of every kind! If I had the misfortune to be a poet, I should now be obliged to rush out in a fit of inspiration, hide myself in the kennel, and, at a safe distance from all exciting causes, write a passionate sonnet, while the fox kept biting my heels. But, as I am no poet, I prefer to enjoy the beautiful when it is before me, to putting it into rhyme." And again he looked admiringly at the lady.

"Lenore!" cried a harsh voice from a corner of the room. Lenore and Fink looked in amazement at each other.

"He has learned it," said the forester, pointing to the raven; "in a general way he has left off learning, and sits there sulking with every one, but still he has learned that."

The raven sitting on the stove bent down his head, cast a shrewd glance at both the guests, kept moving his beak as though speaking to himself, and alternately nodding and shaking his head.

"The birds already begin to speak," cried Fink, going up to the raven; "the ceiling will soon fly off, and I shall be left alone with Hector and Bergmann. Now, sorcerer, does the water boil?"

The forester looked into the stove. "It boils famously," he said; "but what is to be done next?"

"We will ask the lady to help us," replied Fink. "I have," said he, turning to Lenore, "already been with your family trapper as far as the distillery and back, and I have brought what always serves me on my travels for breakfast and dinner." He took out a few tablets of chocolate. "We will concoct something like a beverage with this, if you do not disdain to lend us your aid. I propose that we try to mix this with water as well as we can. It would be charming of you to vouchsafe an opinion as to how we ought to set about it."

"Have you a grater or a mortar?" inquired Lenore, laughing.

"I have neither of those machines," replied the forester.

"A hammer, then," suggested Fink, "and a clean sheet of paper."

The hammer was soon brought, but the paper was only found after a long search. Fink undertook to pound the chocolate, the forester brought fresh water from the spring, Lenore washed out some cups, and Fink hammered away with all his heart. "This is antediluvian paper," said he, "thick as parchment; it must have lain for some centuries in this magic hut." Lenore shook the chocolate powder into the saucepan, and stirred it. Then they all three sat down, and much enjoyed the result of their handiwork.

The golden sunbeams shone fuller into the room, lighting up the bright form of the beautiful girl, and the fine face of the man opposite her; then they fell upon the wall, and decked the head of the heron and the wings of the hawk. The raven came to the end of his soliloquy, and fluttered from his seat, hopping about the lady's feet, and croaking out again, "Lenore! Lenore!"

Lenore now conversed at her ease with the stranger, and the forester every now and then threw in a suitable remark. They spoke of the district and its inhabitants.

"Wherever I have met Poles in foreign lands, I have got on very well with them," said Fink. "I am sorry that these disturbances prevent one visiting them in their own homes; for, certainly, one best learns to know men from seeing them there."

"It must be delightful to see so many different scenes and people," cried Lenore.

"It is only at first that the difference strikes you. When one has observed them a while, one comes to the conclusion that they are every where much alike: a little diversity in the color of the skin and other details; but love and hate, laughter and tears, these the traveler finds every where, and every where these are the same. About twenty weeks ago I was half a hemisphere off, in the log hut of an American, on a barren prairie. It was just the same as here. We sat at a stout rustic table like this, and my host was as like this old gentleman as one egg is to another, and the light of the winter sun fell in just the same way through the small window. But if men have so little to distinguish them, women are still more alike in essentials. They only differ in one trifling particular."

"And what is that?" asked the forester.

"They are rather more or less neat," said Fink, carelessly; "that is the whole difference."

Lenore rose, offended at his tone more than at his words.

"It is time that I should return," said she, coldly, tying on her straw hat.

"When you rose, all the brightness left the room," cried Fink.

"It is only a cloud passing over the sun," said the forester, going to the window; "that causes the shadow."

"Nonsense," replied Fink; "it is the straw hat hiding the lady's hair that does it; the light comes from those golden locks."

They left the house, the forester locked the door, and each went off in different directions.

Lenore hurried home; the linnet sang, the thrush whistled, but she did not heed them. She blamed herself for having crossed the threshold of the forester's house, and yet she could not turn away her thoughts from it. The stranger made her feel uneasy and insecure. Was he thus daring because nothing was sacred to him, or was it only through his extreme self-possession and self-dependence? Ought she to be angry with him, or did her sense of awkwardness only arise from the folly of an inexperienced girl? These questions she kept constantly asking herself, but, alas! she found no answer.

When Anton wanted to send a message that evening to the shepherd, neither Karl nor any other messenger was to be found, so he went himself. He was not a little surprised to see in one of the farthest fields through which he had to go his friend Fink on horseback, and the German farmer and Karl busily occupied near him. Fink was galloping along short distances, the others placing black and white pegs in the ground, and taking them out again. And then Karl looked through a small telescope that he rested on his peg. "Five-and-twenty paces," cried Fink.

"Two inches fall," screamed back Karl.

"Five-and-twenty, two," said the farmer, making an entry in his pocket-book.

"So you have come, have you?" cried Fink, laughing, to his friend. "Wait a moment; we shall soon have done." Again a certain number of leaps, observations through the telescope, and entries in the pocket-book; then the men collected their pegs, and Fink rapidly cast up the figures in the farmer's book. Then giving it back with a smile, he said, "Come on with me, Anton, I have something to show you. Place yourself by the brook, with your face to the north. There the brook forms a straight line from west to east, the border of the wood a semicircle. Wood and brook together define the segment of a circle."

"That is evident," said Anton.

"In olden times the brook ran differently," continued Fink. "It swept along the curve of the wood, and its old bed is still visible. If you walk along the ancient water-course toward the west, you come to the point where the old channel diverges from the new. It is the point where a wretched bridge crosses the brook, and the water in its present bed has a fall of more than a foot, strong enough to turn the best mill going. The ruins of some buildings stand near it."

"I know the place well enough," said Anton.

"Below the village, the old channel bends down to the new. It encompasses a wide plain, more than five hundred acres, if I can trust the paces of this horse. The whole of this ground slopes down from the old channel to the new. There are a few acres of meadow, and some tolerable arable land. The most part is sand and rough pasture, the worst part of the estate, as I hear."

"I allow all that," said Anton, with some curiosity.

"Now mark me. If you lead back the brook to its old channel, and force it to run along the bow instead of forming the arc of that bow, the water that now runs to waste will irrigate the whole plain of five hundred acres, and change the barren sand into green meadows."

"You are a sharp fellow," cried Anton, excited at the discovery.

"These acres, well irrigated, would yield a ton of hay an acre; consequently, each acre would bring in a clear profit of five dollars, or, in other words, the five hundred acres would give a yearly income of two thousand five hundred, and to bring this about would require an outlay of fifteen thousand dollars at the very outside. This, Anton, was what I had to say to you."

Anton stood there amazed. There was no doubt that Fink's calculations were not made at random either as to outlay or return, and the advantageous prospect which such a measure opened out occupied him so much that he walked on for some time in silence. "You show me water and pastures in the desert," said he, at length. "This is cruel of you, for the baron is not in a condition to carry out this improvement. Fifteen thousand dollars!"

"Perhaps ten might do," said Fink, sarcastically. "I have drawn this castle in the air for you, to punish you for your stiff-neckedness the other evening. Now let us speak of something else."

At night the baron, with an important air, summoned his wife and Lenore to a conference in his room. He sat up in his arm-chair, and said, with a greater degree of satisfaction than he had for a long time evinced, "It was easy to discover that this visit of Fink's was not exactly accidental, nor occasioned by his friendship for Mr. Wohlfart, as the young men both made it appear: you two pretended to be wiser than I; but I was right after all, and the visit concerns us more nearly than our agent."

The baroness cast a terrified glance at her daughter, but Lenore's eyes were so fully fixed on her father that her mother was comforted.

"And what do you suppose has brought this gentleman here?" continued the baron.

Lenore shook her head, and said at last, "Father, Herr von Fink has long been most intimate with Wohlfart, and they have not seen each other for some years. How natural that Fink should take advantage of his slight acquaintance with us to spend a few weeks with his dearest friend! Why should we seek any other reason for his presence?"

"You speak as young people always do. Men are less influenced by ideal impressions, and more ruled by their own interest, than your juvenile wisdom apprehends."

"Interest!" said the baroness.

"What is there surprising in it?" continued the baron. "Both are tradespeople. Fink knows enough of the charms of business to lose no opportunity of making a good bargain. I will tell you why he is come here. Our excellent Wohlfart has written to him stating, 'Here is an estate, and this estate has an owner who is at present unable to overlook its management himself. There is something to be made here. You have money, therefore come; I am your friend; some of the profits will naturally fall to my share.'"

The baroness gazed steadfastly at her husband, but Lenore sprang up and cried, with all the energy of a deeply-wounded heart, "Father, I will not hear you speak thus of a man who has never shown us any thing but the most unselfish devotion. His friendship for us is such as to enable him to bear with boundless patience the privations of this lonely place, and the disagreeables of his present position."

"His friendship?" said the baron; "I never laid claim to so great a distinction."

"We have done so, though," cried Lenore, impetuously. "At a time when my mother found no one else to stand by us, Wohlfart faithfully clung to us still. From the day that my brother brought him to us till this very hour, he has acted for you and cared for us."

"Very well," admitted the baron; "I find no fault with his activity. I willingly allow that he keeps the accounts in good order, and is very industrious in return for a small salary. If you understood men's motives better, you would hear me more patiently. After all, there is no harm in what he has done. I want capital, and am, as you know, a good deal embarrassed besides. What should prevent proposals being made to me which would advantage others and do me no injury?"

"For God's sake, father, what proposals do you mean? It is false that Wohlfart has any other interest at heart but yours."

The baroness beckoned to her daughter to be silent. "If Fink wishes to purchase the estate," said she, "I shall hail his resolve as a blessing—the greatest blessing, beloved Oscar, that could happen to you now."

"We are not talking of buying," replied the baron. "I shall think twice before I give away the estate in such a hurry under the present circumstances. Fink's proposal is of a different kind; he wishes to become my tenant."

Lenore sank down speechless in her chair.

"He wishes to rent from me five hundred acres of level ground, in order to convert them into profitable meadows. I do not deny that he has spoken openly and fairly on the subject. He has proved to me in figures how great his gains would be, and offered to pay the first year's rent at once—nay, more, he has offered to give up his tenancy in five years, and make over the meadows to me, provided I repay him the expenses incurred."

"Gracious Heaven!" cried Lenore; "you have surely refused this generous proposal."

"I have required time for deliberation," replied the baron, complacently. "The offer is, as I have already said, not exactly disadvantageous to myself; at the same time, it might be imprudent to concede such advantages to a stranger, when, in a year or so, I might be able to carry out this improvement on my own account."

"You will never be able to do so, my poor, my beloved husband," cried the baroness, weeping, and throwing her arms about the baron's neck, while he sank down annihilated, and laid his head on her breast like a little child.

"I must know whether Wohlfart knows of this proposal, and what he says to it," cried Lenore, decidedly; "and, if you allow me, father, I will at once send for him." As the baron did not reply, she rang the bell for the servant, and left the room to meet him at the door.

Fink sat, meanwhile, in Anton's room, amusing himself with rallying his friend. "Since you have given up smoking, your good angel has deserted you, after having so torn his hair at your stiff-neckedness that there he is now sitting bewigged among the angel choir. As for you, your punishment is to be the having your soul sewed up in a turnip-leaf, and daily smoked by the smallest imps in the pit."

"Have you been a member of some pious fraternity in America, that you are so well acquainted with the proceedings of the spiritual world?" inquired Anton, looking up from his account-book.

"Silence!" said Fink; "formerly there were, at least, occasional hours when you could trifle too, but now you are always carrying on your everlasting book-keeping, and, by Tantalus, all for nothing—for nothing at all!"

The servant entered, and summoned Anton to the baron.

As the latter left the room, Fink called out, "Apropos; I have offered to rent the five hundred acres from the baron at two dollars and half the acre—the land to be made over in five years' time on repayment of the capital expended, either in money or by a mortgage. Off with you, my boy!"

When Anton entered the baron's apartment, he found the baroness at her husband's side, his hand in hers, while Lenore walked restlessly up and down the room. "Have you heard of the offer that Herr von Fink has made to my father?" asked she.

"He has this moment told me of it," replied Anton. The baron made a face.

"And is it your opinion that my father ought to accept the offer?"

Anton was silent. "It is an advantageous one for the estate," said he, at length, with considerable effort. "The outlay of capital is essential to its improvement."

"I don't want to be told that," replied Lenore, impatiently, "but to know whether you, as our friend, advise us to accept this offer?"

"I do not," said Anton.

"I knew that you would say so," cried Lenore, stepping behind her father's chair.

"You do not; and wherefore, if you please?" inquired the baron.

"The present time, which makes all things uncertain, seems to me little fitted for so bold a speculation; besides which, I believe Fink to be influenced by motives which do him honor, but which would render it painful to the baron to accept his offer."

"You will allow me to be the judge of what I ought or ought not to accept," said the baron. "As a mere question of business, this measure would be advantageous to both parties."

"That I must allow," said Anton.

"And as to the views that people may take of political prospects, that is merely a personal matter. He who does not allow his undertakings to be interfered with is more praise-worthy than he who, through a vague fear, postpones advantageous measures."

"That, too, I allow."

"Would this undertaking lead to Herr von Fink permanently taking up his abode in our neighborhood?" asked the baroness.

"I do not think so; he would make over the task to a farmer, and his temperament is sure to send him wandering off again. As to his motives, I can but surmise. I believe them to be mainly the respect and regard he feels for your family, and possibly the wish to have some right to remain with you in these unquiet times. The very danger that would make this country undesirable to others has a charm for him."

"And would you not be glad to retain your friend with you?" inquired the baroness further.

"Till to-day I had no hope of it," answered Anton. "Formerly, my task used to be that of holding him back from precipitate resolves, and from staking much upon a sudden fancy."

"You consider, then," said the baron, "that your friend has been precipitate in his proposal to me?"

"His proposal is a bold one, so far as he himself is concerned," returned Anton, significantly; "and there is something in it, baron, which does not satisfy me on your account, though I should find a difficulty in defining it."

"Thank you," said the baron; "we will discuss the subject no further; there is no hurry about it." Anton bowed and left the room.

Lenore stood silently at the window, repeating to herself his last words, "I should find a difficulty in defining it," while a crowd of painful thoughts and forebodings rushed through her mind. She was angry with her father's weakness, and indignant with Fink for presuming to offer them assistance. Whether his offer were accepted or not, their relations to their guest were changed by it. They were indebted to him. He was no longer a stranger. He had intruded into their private griefs. She thought of the curl of his lip, of the contraction of his eyebrows; she fancied she heard him laughing at her father and at her. He had entered their house in his offhand way, and now carelessly seized the reins, and meant to direct their fortunes as he liked. Perhaps her parents might owe their deliverance to one of his arbitrary caprices. This morning she could feel at her ease with him, brilliant man of the world as he was; they were on equal terms, but how should they meet henceforth? Her pride rebelled against one whose influence she so sensibly felt. She determined to treat him coldly; she made castles in the air as to how he would speak, and how she would reply, and her fancy kept flying round the image of the stranger as the scared mother-bird does around the enemy of her nest.

"And what will you do, Oscar?" inquired the baroness.

"My father can not accept," cried Lenore, energetically.

"What is your opinion?" said the baron, turning to his wife.

"Choose what will soonest set you free from this estate—from the care, the gloom, the insecurity which are secretly preying on you. Let us go to some distant land, where men's passions are less hideously developed. Let us go far away; we shall be more peaceful in the narrowest circumstances than we are here."

"Thus, then, you advise the acceptance of his offer," said the baron. "He who rents a part will soon undertake the whole."

"And pay us a pension!" cried Lenore.

"You are a foolish girl," said her father. "You both excite yourselves, which is unnecessary. The offer is too important to be refused or accepted offhand. I will weigh the matter more narrowly. Your Wohlfart will have plenty of time to examine the conditions," added he, more good-humoredly.

"Listen, dear father, to what Wohlfart has already spoken, and respect what he keeps back."

"Yes, yes, he shall be listened to," said the baron. "And now good-night, both of you. I will reconsider the matter."

"He will accept," said Lenore to her mother; "he will accept, because Wohlfart has dissuaded him, and because the other offers him ready money. Mother, why did you not say that we could never look the stranger in the face if he gave us alms in our very house?"

"I have no longer any pride or any hope," replied her mother, in a low voice.

As Anton slowly re-entered his room, Fink called out cheerfully, "How goes it, man of business? Am I to be tenant, or will the baron himself undertake the matter? He would like it dearly. In that case, I lay claim to compensation—free room for myself and my horse as long as they play at war hereabouts."

"He will accept your offer," replied Anton, "though I advised him not."

"You did!" cried Fink. "Yes, indeed, it's just like you. When a drowning mouse clings to a raft, you make it a long speech on the imperative nature of moral obligations, and hurl it back into the water."

"You are not so innocent as a raft," said Anton, laughing.

"Hear me," continued Fink; "I have no superfluous sentimentality; but in this particular case I should not consider it friendly in you to wish to edify me by a lecture. Is it then so unpleasant to have me to help you through these confounded times?"

"I have known you long enough, you rogue," said Anton, "to feel sure that your friendship for me has had a good deal to do with your offer."

"Indeed!" said Fink, sarcastically; "and how much, pray? It is a good for nothing age: however virtuously one may act, one is so dissected that virtue turns to egotism under the knife of malice."

Anton stroked his cheek. "I do not dissect," said he. "You have made a generous offer, and I am not discontented with you, but with myself. In my first delight at your arrival, I disclosed more about the baron's circumstances and the ladies' anxieties than was right. I myself introduced you into the mysteries of the family, and you have used the knowledge you acquired from me in your own dexterous way. It is I who have entangled you with the affairs of this family, and your capital with this disturbed country. That all this should have happened so suddenly is against my every feeling, and I am amazed at my own incaution in having brought it about."

"Of course," laughed Fink, "it is your sweetest enjoyment to be anxious about those around you."

"It has twice happened to me," continued Anton, "whose caution you so often laugh at, to speak unguardedly to strangers about the circumstances of this family. The first time that I asked help for the Rothsattels it was refused me, and this, more than any thing else, led me out of the counting-house hither; and now that my second indiscretion has procured the help I did not ask, what will the consequences be?"

"To lead you hence back into the counting-house," laughed Fink. "Did one ever see such a subtle Hamlet in jack-boots? If I could only find out whether you secretly desire or fear such a logical conclusion!" Then drawing a piece of money from his pocket, he said, "Heads or tails, Anton? Blonde or brunette? Let us throw."

"You are no longer in Tennessee, you soul-seller!" laughed Anton against his will.

"It should have been an honorable game," said Fink, coolly. "I meant to give you the choice. Remember that hereafter."



CHAPTER XXXV.

The baron accepted. Indeed, it was difficult to resist Fink's offer: even Anton acknowledged that. But the baron did not come to this resolve in a straightforward way. His mind underwent many oscillations. It was disagreeable to him to let a stranger make so considerable a profit out of lands of his; and when he had confessed with a sigh that it was impossible to prevent this, it was further disagreeable to him that Fink should have ventured upon such a proposition as this the third day after his arrival; and he felt that Lenore's continued opposition was well-grounded. At these times he saw himself poor, dependent, under Anton's management, and was imbittered almost to the point of giving up the plan. But, after such divergences, he always came back to the main point—his own interest. He knew well how great a help the rent paid beforehand would be during the current year, and he foresaw that the outlay of capital would, in the course of a few years, double the value of the estate. Then he could not but admit to himself that, at the present disturbed time, Fink would be a desirable associate. However, he preserved a rigid silence toward his wife and daughter; good-naturedly threw back Lenore's attempts to bring him to a decision; and was more dignified than usual in bearing during this period of deliberation.

After a few days he called his old servant, and said, in strict confidence, "Find out, John, when Mr. Wohlfart goes out, and Herr von Fink remains alone in his room, and then go to the latter and announce me to him."

The baron being accordingly privately introduced into Fink's apartment, told him in a friendly way that he accepted his offer, and left it to him to get the contract drawn up by the Rosmin attorney.

"All right," said Fink, shaking hands with him; "but have you reflected, baron, that your kind consent obliges me to claim your hospitality for weeks, if not months? for I consider my presence desirable, at all events till the farming operations are fairly set going."

"I shall be delighted," replied the baron, "if you will put up with our unsettled establishment. I shall take the liberty of setting apart some rooms for you. If you have a servant to whom you are accustomed, pray send for him."

"I want no servant," said Fink, "if you will desire your John to keep my room in order; but I have something better from which I don't like to be long parted—a fine half-blood, which is at present standing in my father's stable."

"Would it not be possible to have the horse sent over here?"

"If you would allow it," said Fink, "I shall be very grateful to you."

Thus the two concluded their treaty in perfect amity, and the baron left the room with the comfortable impression of having made a clever bargain.

"The matter is settled," said Fink to Anton, on the return of the latter. "Make no lamentations, for the mischief is done. I shall settle myself in two rooms in a corner of this wing, and see to the furnishing of them myself. To-morrow I am off to Rosmin, and farther still. I am on the scent of an experienced man who can overlook the undertaking, and I shall bring him and a few laborers back with me. Can you spare me our Karl for a week or so?"

"He is not easily spared; but, since it must be so, I will do what I can to replace him. You must leave me abundant instructions."

The next morning Fink rode away, accompanied by the hussar, and things returned to their old course. The drill went on regularly; patrols were sent around as before; frightful reports were greedily listened to and repeated. Sometimes small detachments of military appeared, and the officers were welcome guests at the castle, telling as they did of the strife going on beyond the forest, and comforting the ladies by bold assurances that the insurrection would soon be put down. Anton was the only one who felt the heavy burden on the family funds that their entertainment involved.

Nearly a fortnight had passed away, and Fink and Karl were still absent. One sunny day, Lenore was busy enlarging her plantation, where about fifty young firs and birches already made some show. In her straw hat, a small spade in her hand, she seemed so lovely to Anton as he was hurrying by that he could not resist standing still to look at her.

"I have you, then, at last, faithless sir," cried Lenore; "for a whole week you have never given my trees a thought; I have been obliged to water them all alone. There is your spade, so come at once and help me to dig."

Anton obediently took the spade and valiantly began to turn up the sods.

"I have seen some young junipers in the wood; perhaps you can make use of them," said he.

"Yes; on the edge of the plantation," answered Lenore, appeased.

"I have had more to do these last days than usual," continued he. "We miss Karl every where."

Lenore struck her spade deep in the ground, and bent down to examine the upturned earth. "Has not your friend written to you yet?" inquired she, in a tone of indifference.

"I hardly know what to think of his silence," said Anton; "the mails are not interrupted, and other letters come. I almost fear that some misfortune may have happened to the travelers."

Lenore shook her head. "Can you imagine any misfortune happening to Herr von Fink?" inquired she, digging away.

"It is, indeed, difficult to imagine," said Anton, laughing; "he does not look as if he would easily allow any ill luck to settle down upon him."

"I should think not," replied Lenore, curtly.

Anton was silent for a while. "It is singular that we should not yet have talked over the change that Fink's remaining here will occasion," said he, at length, not without some constraint, for he had a vague consciousness that a certain degree of embarrassment had risen up on Lenore's side as well as his own—a light shadow on the bright grass, cast no one knows from whence. "Are you, too, satisfied with his sojourn here?"

Lenore turned away and twisted a twig in her fingers. "Are you satisfied?" asked she, in return.

"For my part," said Anton, "I may well be pleased with the presence of my friend."

"Then I am so too," replied Lenore, looking up; "but it really is strange that Mr. Sturm should not have written either. Perhaps," exclaimed she, "they will never return."

"I can answer for Karl," said Anton.

"But the other? He looks as changeable as a cloud."

"He is not that," replied Anton; "if he has difficulties to contend with, all the energy of his nature awakes; he is only bored by what gives him no trouble."

Lenore was silent, and dug on more zealously than ever. Just then a hum of cheerful voices sounded from the farm-yard, and the laborers ran from their dinner to the road. "Mr. Sturm is coming," cried one of them to the diggers. A stately procession was seen moving through the village toward the castle. First of all came half a dozen men all dressed alike, in gray jackets, wearing broad-brimmed felt hats set on one side, and decorated with a green sprig, a light gun on their shoulder, and a sailor's cutlass at their sides. Behind them came a series of loaded wagons: the first full of shovels, spades, rakes, and wheelbarrows symmetrically arranged; the latter laden with sacks of meal, chests, bundles of clothes, and household furniture. The procession was closed by a number of men dressed like those above described. As they neared the castle, Karl and a stranger sprang down from the last wagon; the former placed himself at the head of the procession, had the wagons driven to the front of the castle, arranged the men in two rows, and made them present arms. Last of all came Fink galloping up.

"Welcome!" cried Anton to his friend.

"You are bringing an army and ammunition," laughed Lenore, greeting him. "Do you always march with such heavy baggage?"

"I bring a corps that will henceforth be in your service," replied Fink, jumping down. "They seem decent folk," said he, turning to Anton; "but I had some trouble to collect them. Hands are scarce just now, and yet nothing gets done. We have been drumming and bribing in your country like recruiting sergeants. These fellows would hardly have been got here merely to work; the gray jackets and the chasseurs' caps settled the matter. Some of them have served already, and your hussar knows how to keep them together as well as any born general."

The baron and his lady now entered the court. The laborers, at Karl's bidding, raised a loud hurrah, and then strolled off to the side of the castle and lay down in the sunshine.

"Here are your pioneers, my chief," said Fink to the baron; "since your kindness allows me to be your inmate for some time to come, I have now a right to do something toward the security of your castle. The condition of this province is serious. Even in Rosmin they do not feel safe for a single day; and your imbodying a militia has not escaped the enemy, and called attention to your house."

"It is an honor to me," interposed the baron, "to be obnoxious to the rebels."

"No doubt," politely chimed in Fink. "But this is only an additional motive to your friends to watch over your and your family's personal safety. As yet you are hardly strong enough to defend the castle from an assault of the rascals immediately around. The dozen laborers that I bring will form a guard for your house; they have arms, and partly know how to use them. I have bound them to the performance of certain military functions which will help to keep them in order. They can work a few hours less daily, and exercise during the interval, patrol, and, in so far as you, baron, may think it desirable, keep up a regular correspondence with the neighboring districts. Of course their support and payment is my affair, and I have accordingly provided for it. I wish to run up a slight building for them on the land they are to cultivate, but just now it will be well to keep them as near the castle as possible, and therefore I have to ask you for temporary quarters for all these as well as for myself."

"Just as you like, dear Fink," cried the baron, carried away by the young man's enterprising spirit; "all the room we have is at your disposal."

"Then allow me to suggest," said Anton, "that a room in the lower story should be fitted up as a guard-room. There arms and implements can be safely kept, and some of the men might nightly take up their quarters there. The rest must be billeted in the farm-yard. In this way they will get accustomed to consider the castle their place of rendezvous."

"Capital," said Fink, "so that the disturbance thus caused does not prove an annoyance to the ladies."

"The wife and daughter of an old soldier will gratefully submit to any measures taken for their safety," replied the baron, with dignity.

Accordingly, the new colony began to settle by universal consent. The wagons were unloaded, the manager and his men accommodated for the moment in the farm buildings.

The first thing they did was to free the furniture from its wrappings of straw and canvas, and to carry it into the apartments of their new master.

The castle servants stood round and looked with curiosity at its simple style. One article, however, excited such loud admiration, that Lenore joined the group of gazers. It was a small sofa of singular aspect. The legs and arms were made of the feet of some great beast of prey, and the cushions were covered with the bright yellow skin, all dotted over with regular black spots. At the back and on the bolsters were three large jaguars' heads, and the framework, instead of wood, was of beautifully carved ivory.

"How exquisite!" exclaimed Lenore.

"If the thing does not displease you," said Fink, coolly, "I propose an exchange. There is a small sofa in my room, on which I rest so comfortably that I should like to keep it there. Will you allow your people to carry off this monster to some other room in the castle, and to leave me that sofa instead?"

Lenore could find no reply, and bowed a silent consent; and yet she was dissatisfied with herself for not having at once declined such an exchange. When she returned to her room, she found the jaguar-sofa already there. That vexed her still further. She called Suska and the man-servant, and desired them to move it elsewhere; but they so loudly protested that the beautiful creature was nowhere more in keeping than in their young lady's chamber, that Lenore, to avoid observation, sent them away and put up with the exchange. Thus it came to pass that her fair form rested on the jaguar-skins that Fink had shot in the far forests of the West.

The next day the new undertaking began. The manager went with his apparatus to the land in question, and the men had their work portioned out to them. Karl hunted out day-laborers from the German and Polish districts around, and even found a few in the village ready to help, so that in a few days there were fifty hands employed. It must be owned that things did not go on altogether undisturbed; the laborers came less regularly than might have been wished, but still the work progressed, for Fink as well as Karl well understood keeping men in order—the one by his haughty energy, the other by the invariable good-humor with which he praised or blamed. The forester came assiduously from his forest to conduct the military exercises, the castle was nightly watched, and patrols regularly sent to the villages around. A warlike spirit spread from the castle over the whole district. A strong esprit de corps soon sprang up among the broadbrims, which made discipline easy, and after a few days Fink was besieged with petitioners for a like uniform, and a gun, and the privilege of being taken into his service.

"The guard-room is ready," said Fink to Anton; "but you must have holes for muskets cut in the shutters of the lower story windows." Thus the troublous time was endured with fresh spirit. The stranger-guest gave a new impulse to each individual life; the very farm-servants felt his influence, and the forester was proud to do the honors of his wood to such a gentleman. Fink was a good deal in the woods with Anton, who, as well as Karl, soon fell into the habit of asking his advice. He bought two strong cart-horses—for his own use, he said—but he cleverly contrived that they should work on the baron's farm, and laughed at Anton's scruples. The latter was happy to have his friend near him. Somewhat of their former pleasant life had returned—of those evenings when the two youths had chatted, as only youths can, sometimes in mere childish folly, sometimes gravely on the highest subjects. Fink had changed in many respects. He had become more quiet, or, as Anton expressed it in counting-house phrase, more solid; but he was more inclined than ever to make use of men for his own varying interests, and to look down upon them as mere instruments. His physical strength was unabated. After having stood all morning superintending his workmen—after having wandered all through the wood with the forester, ridden, spite of Anton's remonstrances, far into the disturbed districts to seek information or establish relations there, and inspected on his return all the sentry-posts on the estate, there he was at the tea-table of the baroness, a lively companion, with such inexhaustible funds of conversation that Anton had often to remind him by signs that the strength of the lady of the house was not equal to his own. As for the baron, Fink had completely subjugated him. He never showed the least deference to the sarcastic humor which had become habitual to the unfortunate nobleman, never allowed him a bitter observation against Wohlfart or Lenore, or any one else, without making him at once sensible of its injustice. Consequently, the baron learned to exercise great self-control in his presence. On the other hand, Fink took pains to give him many a pleasure. He helped him to play a rubber of whist, initiated Lenore in the game, and gradually drew in Wohlfart as the fourth.

This had the effect of pleasantly whiling away many a weary hour for the baron; of making Wohlfart one of the family circle, and keeping him up, so that Fink might, if so minded, drink a glass of Cognac punch and enjoy his last cigar in his company. The ladies of the house alone did not seem to feel the cheering influence of Fink's presence. The baroness fell sick; it was no violent ailment, yet it came suddenly. That very afternoon she had spoken cheerfully to Anton, and taken from him some letters which the postman had brought for her husband, but in the evening she did not make her appearance at the tea-table, though the baron himself treated her indisposition as trifling. She complained of nothing but weakness, and the doctor, who ventured from Rosmin to the castle, could not give her malady a name. She smilingly rejected all medicine, and said it was her firm conviction that the exhaustion would pass away. That she might not detain her husband and daughter in her sick-room, she often expressed a wish to join the family circle, but she was not able to sit up on the sofa, and lay resting her head on the pillows. Thus she was still the silent companion of the others. Her eyes would dwell uneasily upon the baron, or searchingly upon Lenore, as they sat at the whist-table, and then she would close them and seem to rest, as if from some great exertion.

Anton looked with sincere sympathy at the invalid. Whenever there was a pause in the game, he took the opportunity of quietly stepping to the sofa and asking her commands. It was a pleasure to him to hand her even a glass of water, or take a message for her. He gazed with admiration at the delicate face, which, pale and thin as it was, retained all its beauty of outline. There was a silent understanding between the two. She spoke, indeed, less to him than to the rest; for while she often addressed her husband in a cheerful tone, or followed Fink's lively narratives with looks and gestures of interest, she did not take the trouble of hiding her weakness from Anton. Alone with him, she would collapse or gaze absently straight before her; but when she did look at him, it was with the calm confidence with which we are inspired by an old friend from whom we have no longer any secrets. Perhaps this arose from the baroness being able fully to appreciate his worth—perhaps, too, it arose from her never having looked at him in any other light than that of an obliging domestic since he first promised his services; but had this view of hers been discernible to our hero, it would in no way have shaken his allegiance to the noble lady. She seemed to him perfect, just as she was—a picture that rejoiced the heart of all who came within its influence. He could not get rid of the impression that some external cause, perhaps one of those letters he had himself given her, was answerable for the change in her health; for one of them was directed in a trembling hand, and had an unpleasant look about it, which had made Anton instinctively feel that it contained bad news. One evening, while the others were at the card-table, the invalid's head sunk down from the silken cushions; Anton having arranged them more comfortably, she looked at him gratefully, and told him in a whisper how weak she was. "I wish to speak with you once more alone," continued she, after a pause; "not now, but the time will come;" and then she looked upward with an expression of anguish that filled Anton's heart with painful fears.

Neither the baron nor Lenore, however, shared his anxiety.

"Mamma has often suffered from similar attacks of weakness before," said the latter. "The summer is her best cure, and I hope every thing from warmer weather."

But indeed Lenore was too preoccupied to be a good judge of what was going on around her. She too was changed. Many an evening she would sit mute at the tea-table, and start if addressed; at other times she would be immoderately lively. She avoided Fink; she avoided Anton too, and was reserved in manner to both. Her blooming health appeared disturbed; her mother would often send her out of doors from her own sick-room; and then she would have her pony saddled, and ride round and round the wood, till the indignant pony would take her home without her finding it out. Anton saw this change with silent sorrow. He was deeply conscious how different Lenore's relation to him had become, but he did not speak of this to her, and kept his feelings to himself.

It was a sultry afternoon in May. Dark thunder-clouds hung over the forest, and the sun threw its burning rays on the parched land, when the patrol which had been sent to Kunau came hurrying back to the guard-room to say that there were strange men lurking in the Kunau woods, and that the villagers wished to know what was to be done. Fink gave the alarm to his laborers, and sent a message to the forester and to the new farm. While the men carried the implements into the castle, and the farm-servants rode home with teams and prepared for a sally, a horseman came from Kunau to say that a band of Poles had broken into a court-yard in the village, and that the peasants requested help. All were now in the cheerful excitement which an alarm occasions when it promises adventures.

"Keep some of the workmen back," said Fink to Anton, "and guard the castle and village. I will send the forester with his little militia to Kunau, and ride over thither myself first of all, with Karl and the servants."

He sprang to the stable and saddled his own horse, while Karl was getting ready that of the baron for himself.

"Look at the clouds, Herr von Fink," said Karl. "Take your cloak with you; we shall have a tremendous shower."

Fink called accordingly for his plaid, and the little band galloped off toward Kunau. When they entered the forest they remarked how stifling the atmosphere was. Even the rapid pace of their horses brought with it no relief.

"Look how restless the beasts are," said Karl. "My horse pricks his ears. There is something in the wood."

They stopped for a moment. "I hear a horse's tread, and a rustling among the branches."

The horse that Karl rode stretched out his neck and neighed loudly.

"It is an acquaintance—one of our own number," said Fink, looking at the animal. The branches of the young trees parted, and Lenore, mounted on her pony, sprang out and barred the way. "Halt! who goes there?" cried she, laughing.

"Hurrah! the young lady!" exclaimed Karl.

"The password?" cried Lenore, in true martial style.

Fink rode up, saluted her, and whispered, "Potz Blitz, das ist ja die Gustel von Blasewitz."

Lenore blushed and laughed. "All right," said she; "I shall ride with you."

"Of course," cried Fink; "only let's go on."

The pony exerted himself to keep up with the tall horse of the stranger, and thus they reached Kunau and stopped at the rendezvous, where the village militia was assembled; and its commander, the smith, met the riders with an anxious face.

"Those hidden in our wood," cried he, "are an accursed set—armed Poles. This very day, in broad noonlight, a band of the men, carrying guns, came to Leonard's farm, which lies out there by the wood, invested the doors and gate, while their leader and some of the men marched into the room where the farmer and his family were sitting, and demanded money and the calf out of the stable. He was a blackguard fellow, with a long gun, a peacock feather in his cap, and a red scarf around his loins, like a thorough Klopice. The farmer refused to give up his money, at which they took aim at him; and his wife, in terror, ran to the closet, and threw all the money they had at the rascals. Next, they carried away the geese from the yard, and went off with their booty into the wood, leaving four rogues armed with guns to mount guard, and prevent any one getting off the premises till they were far enough. Next, two of the thieves discharged their guns into the roof, and then all ran away. The thatch took fire, but fortunately we got it put out."

"Hours have passed since then," cried Fink; "the rogues are over the mountains by this time."

"I do not think so," replied the smith. "I at once sent off Leonard to the border with our mounted men, that they might watch whether the thieves crept out of the wood or not, and a woman who crossed it two hours ago saw Poles there. They had some beast with them too, but the woman was too much terrified to know whether it was a calf or a dog; if it were a calf, the hungry wolves would rather eat it than carry it farther. I have just come from Neudorf; the men there are assembled like ourselves. We might make a search through the forest if your people would help us, and if you would show us the way." "Good," said Fink; "let us set about it." He then sent a message to the forester to the effect that those in the castle should set out on the search from their side, and discussed with the smith the best way of disposing the Kunau men. He next dispatched Karl and the servants to join the Kunau horsemen on the opposite side of the wood. "Don't stand upon ceremony with the rascals," he called out after Karl, with a significant tap on his pistols. "Now, then," said he to the smith, "I will go to Neudorf. When you have searched your half of the wood, wait for us; you shall then be joined by the Neudorf detachment."

The Kunau men set off accordingly to avenge the robbery committed. Fink, accompanied by Lenore, rode off to the neighboring village. On the way thither, he said, "At Neudorf we must part, lady." Lenore was silent.

Fink glanced sidelong at her. "I don't think," said he, "that the rogues will do us the pleasure of awaiting our approach; and if they are minded to run off, the evening is closing in, and we shall hardly hinder them; but the chase will be good practice for our people, and therefore we must make the most of it."

"Then I will go with you to the wood," said Lenore, resolutely.

"That is hardly necessary," replied Fink. "True, I fear no risk for you, but fatigue, and probably rain."

"Let me go with you!" prayed Lenore, looking up at him. "I have given you sensible advice; what more can be demanded from any one?"

"Between ourselves, I am rejoiced to find you so spirited. Gallop then, comrade!"

Arrived at Neudorf, Fink left the horses in the bailiff's stable, and led the band of villagers to the borders of the wood. There they deployed into a cordon, and the march now began; Fink walked with Lenore at the head of the right wing, which, according to the plan laid down, would be the first to join the Kunau detachment. All went silently onward, and looked with keen glance from tree to tree. As they got farther into the wood, there was a rustling in the tops of the trees, and looking through them, a leaden-colored sky was seen; but below, the sultriness was undisturbed, the birds sat supinely on the branches, and the beetles had crept into the heather.

"The very sky is on the side of these rogues," said Fink, pointing out the clouds to his companion; "it is getting so dark up there that in half an hour's time we shall not be able to see ten yards before us."

The forest now thickened and the light decreased. Lenore had some difficulty in discerning the men before her. The ground grew swampy, and she sank up to her ankles. "If only no cold be caught," laughed Fink. "None will," replied she, cheerfully; but the forest expedition no longer appeared to her the easy matter it had done an hour before.

The man nearest to Fink stood still, his whispered word of command ran along the whole chain, and all stopped to wait for the Kunau men. The sky grew still blacker, the wood still darker. The thunder began to roll in the distance, hollow and muffled, beneath the fir-wood arches. At first the rain sounded only on the tree-tops, but soon large, heavy drops came down, till at length all view was shut out by the sheets of water that fell. Each individual was isolated by darkness and rain, and when the men called to each other, they were hardly audible.

At that moment Lenore, as she looked at Fink, caught her foot in the root of a tree, and suppressing a cry of anguish, sank on one knee. Fink hastened to her.

"I can go no farther," said she, conquering her pain; "leave me here, I beseech you, and call for me on your return."

"To leave you in this condition," cried Fink, "would be barbarity, compared to which cannibalism is a harmless recreation. You will be good enough to put up with my proximity. But first of all allow me to lead you out of this shower-bath to some spot where the rain is less audacious; and, besides, I have, already lost sight of our men; not one of the worthy fellows' broad shoulders can I now discern." He raised Lenore, who tried to use the injured foot, but the pain extorted another cry of agony. She tottered, and leaned against Fink's shoulder. Winding his plaid about her, he lifted her from the ground, and carried her, as one carries a child, underneath some fir-trees, whose thick branches spread over a small dry space. Any one stooping might find tolerable shelter there.

"I must set you down here, dear lady," said Fink, carefully placing Lenore on the ground. "I will keep watch before your green tent, and turn my back to you, that you may bind your wet handkerchief round the naughty ankle."

Lenore squeezed herself in under the fir canopy. Fink stood leaning against the trunk of a tree.

"Is nothing broken?" said he; "can you move the foot?"

"It hurts me," said Lenore, "but I can move it."

"That is well," said Fink, looking straight before him; "now bind the handkerchief round it; I hope that in ten minutes you will be able to stand. Wrap yourself up well in the large plaid; it will keep you warm; else my comrade will catch a fever, and that would be paying too dear for the chase after the stolen calf. Have you arranged the bandage?"

"Yes," said Lenore.

"Then allow me to wrap you up." It was in vain that she protested; Fink wound the large shawl round and round her, and tied it behind in a firm knot. "Now you may sit in the wood like the gray manikin."

"Leave me a little breathing space," implored Lenore.

"There, then," said Fink; "now you will be comfortable."

Indeed, Lenore soon began to feel a genial warmth, and sat silent in her shady nook, distressed at the singular position in which she found herself. Meanwhile Fink had again taken up his post against the tree-trunk, and chivalrously kept aloof. After a time Lenore called out of her hiding-place, "Are you there still, comrade mine?"

"Do you take me for a traitor who forsakes his tent-companion?" returned Fink.

"It is quite dry here," continued Lenore, "only that a drop falls now and then upon my nose; but you, poor you, will be wet through out there. What fearful rain!"

"Does this rain terrify you?" inquired Fink, shrugging his shoulders. "It is but a weak infant, this. If it can break off a twig from a tree, it thinks it has done wonders. Commend me to the rain of warmer climates. Drops like apples—nay, not drops at all, streams as thick as my arm! The water rushes down from the clouds like a cataract. No standing, for the ground swims away beneath one's feet: no taking shelter under a tree, for the wind breaks the thickest trunks like straw. One runs to his house, which is not farther off, perhaps, than from here to that good for nothing stump that hurt your foot, and the house has vanished, leaving in its place a hole, a stream, and a heap of well-washed stones. Perhaps, too, the earth may begin to shake a little, and to raise waves like those of the sea in a storm. That is a rain which is worth seeing. Clothes that have been wet through by it never recover; what was once a great-coat is, after a whole week's drying, nothing more than a black and shapeless mass—in aspect and texture like to a morel. If one chances to be wearing such a coat, it sticks on fast enough indeed, but it never can be got off except by the help of a penknife, and in narrow strips, peeled away as one peels an apple!"

Lenore could not help laughing in spite of pain. "I should much like to have experience of such a rain as that," said she.

"I am unselfish in not wishing to see you in such a plight," replied Fink. "Ladies fare worst of all. All that constitutes their toilette vanishes entirely in torrents such as these. Do you know the costume of the Venus of Milo?"

"No," said Lenore, distressed.

"All women caught in a tropical rain look exactly like that lady, and the men like scarecrows. Nay, sometimes it happens that human beings are beaten down flat as penny-pieces, with a knob in the middle, which, on closer examination, proves to be a human head, and mournfully calls out to passers-by, 'Oh, my fellow-beings, this is what comes of going out without an umbrella!'"

Again Lenore could not help laughing. "My foot no longer hurts me so much; I believe that I could walk."

"That you shall not do," replied Fink. "The rain has not abated, and it is so dark that one can hardly see one's outstretched hand."

"Then do me the kindness of going to look for the others. I am better now, and I crouch here like a roe, hidden alike from rain and robbers."

"It won't do," rejoined Fink from his tree.

"I implore you to do so," cried Lenore, anxiously, stretching out her hands from the plaid. "Leave me now alone." Fink turned round, seized her hand, pressed it to his lips, and silently hurried off in the direction the men had taken.

Lenore now sat alone beneath the fir-tree. The rain still rushed down, and the thunder rolled above her, and at times a sudden flash showed her the two long rows of trunks, looking like the yellow pillars of an unfinished building, a black roof over them. At such moments the forest seemed like an enchanted castle, rising out of the earth and sinking into nothingness again. Mysterious tones, such as fill the woods by night, sounded through the rain. Over her head there was a knocking at regular intervals, as if some wicked wood-sprite were seeking admittance to her shelter, which made her start, and ask herself whether it proceeded from a spectre or the branch of a tree. Farther off was heard the vehement croaking of some crow whose nest had been flooded, and whose first sleep was disturbed. Close to her there was ghastly laughter. "Hee, hee! hoo, hoo!" and again Lenore started. Was it a malicious forest kobold, or only a night-owl? Nature spoke around her in a hundred melancholy tones. Lenore sometimes enjoyed, and sometimes trembled at the wild charm of this solitude. Other thoughts, too, passed through her mind: she blamed herself for having foolishly stolen out to join an undertaking that made such a result as this possible; she pictured to herself how they were seeking for her at home; and, above all, wondered what he who had just left her, at her earnest request, was thinking of her in his inmost heart. Pushing back the plaid, she listened, but there was not a human voice to be heard; nothing but the fall of the rain and the sighing of the wood. But near her something moved. At first she heard it indistinctly, then plainly as in leaps it came closer, and presently she felt something press against her plaid. Terrified, she cautiously reached out her hand, and touched the wet skin of a hare, who, scared from its form by the incessant rain, now sought shelter like herself. She held her breath not to disturb her little companion, and for a while the two cowered side by side.

Then shots sounded afar off through the rain and thunder. Lenore started, and the hare bounded away. Yonder there were men fighting; yonder, blood was being poured out on the dark ground. A scream was heard—a fierce, ominous scream, then all was still. "Was he in danger?" she asked herself; yet she felt no fear, and shook her head under her plaid, sure that, even if he were, no danger would reach him: the gun aimed at him would strike some broken branch, the knife drawn against him would break like a splinter before it struck him, the man who rushed on him would stumble and fall before he could touch that haughty head. He was above all danger, above all fear; he knew neither care nor grief; alas! he did not feel like other men. His head was lifted freely, his eyes were clear and bright when all others were cast in terror down to earth. No difficulty affrighted, no hinderance stopped him. With a mere wave of his hand he could remove what crushed other men. Such was he. And this man had seen her weak, precipitate, and helpless; it was her own fault that he had now a right to assume a transient intimacy. She trembled lest he should presume upon this right by a glance, a presumptuous smile, a passing word. In this way her heart kept beating and her thoughts fluttering for long hours.

The storm passed off. Instead of torrents there was small rain, and a dull gray succeeded to the black darkness and the fiery flashes. Lenore could now trace the trunk of the nearest trees. The feeling of solitariness oppressed her more and more. Just then she heard again the distant sound of human voices, call and counter-call grew louder, and the bailiff's voice cried, "They went beyond the quarry; look yonder, you Neudorf men." The steps of the speakers drew near, and Karl, making a speaking trumpet of his hands, shouted with all his might, "Halloa, hillo hoa, Fraeulein Lenore!"

"Here I am," cried a female voice at his very feet.

Karl started back in amazement, and joyfully called out, "Found!" The peasants surrounded Lenore's shelter.

"Our young lady is here!" cried a youth of Neudorf, and hurraed in his delight as though he were at a wedding.

Lenore rose; her foot still pained her; but, leaning on Karl's arm, she exerted herself bravely to walk. Meanwhile the young men broke down a few poles, and laid fir branches across them. In spite of her resistance, Lenore was constrained to seat herself upon the rude litter, while some ran on to the bailiff's stable to get her horse ready for her.

"Have you found the thieves?" inquired Lenore from Karl, who walked at her side.

"Two of them," replied he. "The calf had been killed; we have got its skin and part of its flesh. The geese were hanging up on a bough, with their necks wrung, but the rascals had divided the money. We found very little of it on our prisoners."

"Those we have caught are Tarow men," said the bailiff, anxiously; "the worst in the village. And yet I wish they were any where but here, for there are some desperately revengeful fellows yonder."

"I heard shots," inquired Lenore, further; "was any harm done?"

"Not to us," answered Karl. "In their foolhardiness they made a fire, not much beyond the border where our riders formed a cordon. The embers were glimmering in spite of the rain, and thus they betrayed themselves. We dismounted, crept near, and surprised them. They fired their guns and ran into the bush. There the darkness swallowed them up. It was a long time before the party on foot could join us, and but for the shots and the noise they would never have found us out. Herr von Fink described to us the place where we should meet with you. He is taking the prisoners with him to the estate, and to-morrow we will send them farther."

"But to think that Herr von Fink should have left you thus alone in the wood!" said the worthy bailiff: "that was a bold stroke indeed."

"I begged him not to remain behind," cried Lenore, casting down her eyes in spite of the darkness.

Half way to the village Lenore's pony was brought to meet them. At Neudorf, Karl got back the baron's horse and accompanied his young lady to the castle. It was very late before they arrived. Lenore's long absence had excited her mother's alarm, and put the baron fearfully out of temper. She escaped from his cross-questioning as fast as she could, and hurried to her room. An hour later, Fink, with the forester, came back from Kunau, bringing both the prisoners, who walked haughtily, with their hands bound, and carried their peacock's feathers as high as though they were leading the dance in a tavern.

"You shall pay for this," said one of them in Polish to his escort, and clenched his fettered fists.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

The rain still continued. It had ceased indeed in the morning, but only to begin again with double energy. The laborers had gone early to the field, but they soon returned. They were now sitting silently in the guard-room of the castle, drying their wet garments at the stove.

The baron sat in the arm-chair, listening to old John, who read him the newspaper that had reached the castle on the previous day. The monotonous voice of the domestic announced nothing but unwelcome news; the rain-drops rattled on the panes, and the wind rushed howling round the corner of the house in discordant accompaniment.

Anton was busy at his desk. Before him lay a letter from Commissary Horn, announcing that the judicial sale of the family estate was fixed for the middle of next winter; and that, since the advertisement of this definite period, several mortgages on the property had passed from one hand to another, bought up, as he feared, by one speculator, who disguised himself under different names. Accordingly, Anton reflected in gloomy mood upon the hazardous position of the baron.

In the neighboring room Fink was keeping the ladies company, the baroness lying back on the sofa cushions, covered by a shawl of Lenore's. She gazed in silence straight before her, but when her daughter came up with some tender inquiry, she nodded smilingly at her, and spoke a few cheering words. Lenore was sitting in the window occupied with some light work, and listening with rapture to the jests by which Fink brightened the otherwise mournful room. To-day, in spite of the rain, he was in the wildest spirits. From time to time Lenore's ringing laugh reached Anton through the massive door, and then he forgot sale and mortgage, looked with clouded brow at the door, and felt, not without bitterness, that a new struggle was approaching both for the family and for himself.

Without, as we have already said, the rain poured and the storm raged. The wind from the forest wailed to the castle. The old firs creaked, and ceaselessly bent down their branches toward the building. Around the pear-trees in the meadows leaves and white blossoms fluttered timidly to earth. The storm angrily stripped them off, and crushed them, low with his rain, howling the while. "Down with your smiling pomp! to-day all belonging to the castle shall wear mourning." Then the fierce spirit flew from the trees to the castle walls; it shook the flag-staff on the tower; it hurled the rain in slanting torrents against the windows; it groaned in the chimneys and thundered at the doors. It took advantage of every opening to cry, "Guard your house!" And this it did for hours together, but those within understood not its speech.

Neither did any one heed the horseman who was urging his weary horse through the village to the castle. At last the knocker outside the gate was heard, the strokes sounded impatient, and loud voices resounded in the court-yard and on the stairs. Anton opened the door; an armed man, dripping with wet and stained with mud, entered the room.

"It is you!" cried Anton, in amazement.

"They are coming," said Karl, looking cautiously round; "prepare for it; this time it is our turn."

"The enemy?" rapidly asked Anton. "How strong is the band?"

"It was not a band that I saw," replied Karl, seriously; "it was an army of about a thousand scythe-bearers, and at least a hundred horsemen at their head. I hear that they have orders to enlist all Poles and disarm all Germans."

Anton opened the door of the next room and made a sign to Fink.

"Ah!" cried Fink, as he cast a look on Karl, "he who brings half the highway into the room with him has no good tidings to tell. From which side comes the enemy, sergeant?"

"From the Neudorf birch wood straight down upon us. Our villagers are assembled in the tavern drinking and quarreling."

"No beacon-fires have been seen—no tidings have come from the neighboring villages," cried Anton at the window. "Have the Germans at Neudorf and Kunau been fast asleep, then?"

"They were taken by surprise," continued the messenger of ill. "Their watch saw the enemy yesterday evening half a mile beyond Neudorf, going down the high road toward Rosmin. When they had passed the turning to Neudorf, the villagers took heart again, but their horsemen followed the enemy till the last scythe-bearers were out of sight. In the night, however, the whole troop turned back; this morning they fell upon the village, and wrought sad havoc there. The bailiff is lying on the straw, covered with wounds, and a prisoner; the guard-house is burned down; but for this heavy rain we should see the smoke. At this present moment the enemy has divided. They are making the round of all the German villages: one party has gone off to Kunau, one to our new farm, the largest is on its way hither."

"How much time have we to prepare for these gentry?" asked Fink.

"In weather like this, the infantry will take an hour to get here."

"Is the forester warned?" asked Anton; "and do those at the new farm know?"

"There was no time to apprise them. The farm is farther from Neudorf than the estate, and I might have been too late getting here. I lit our beacon, but in rain like this, neither fire nor smoke is visible, and all signals are useless."

"If they have not looked out for themselves," said Fink, decidedly, "we can do no more for them."

"The forester is a fox," replied Karl; "no one will catch him; but as to the farmer and his young wife, Heaven have mercy on them!"

"Save our people!" cried a supplicating voice close to Fink. Lenore stood in the room, pale, with folded hands.

Anton hurried to the door through which she had silently entered. "The baroness!" cried he, anxiously.

"She has heard nothing as yet," hurriedly replied Lenore. "Send to the farm; help our people!"

Fink caught up his cap. "Bring out my horse," said he to Karl.

"You can't be spared now," said Anton, barring the way. "I will take your horse."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Wohlfart," interpolated Karl; "if I may ride Herr von Fink's horse, I shall be quite able to make it out."

"So be it, then," decided Fink; "send hither the forester and any man you can beat up; the women, horses, and children you can dispatch to the forest. Let the farmer go with all his cattle into the thicket as far as he can, and keep a look-out on the castle from the old firs near the sand-pit. As for you, keep on my horse, which I shall, alas! have to make over to you for some days to come; ride off to Rosmin, and seek out the nearest detachment of our soldiers; tell them we implore them to come to our aid, and, if possible, to bring cavalry with them."

"Our red-caps are about three miles beyond Rosmin," said Karl, turning to go. "The Kunau smith called that out to me as I rode by."

"Bring any military you can. I'll write a line to the commanding officer while you are saddling the horse."

Karl made a military salute, and hurried down stairs, Anton with him. While he was fastening the girths, Anton said, "As you pass by, call out to the men in the farm-yard that I will be with them at once. Poor fellow, you have hardly had any breakfast to-day, and there is little prospect of your getting any thing for some hours to come." He ran back to the house, got a bottle of wine, some bread, and the remnant of a ham, stuffed them into a bag, and, together with Fink's letter, gave them to the hussar just as he was setting off.

"Thanks," said Karl, seizing Anton's hand; "you think of every one. But I've one thing to ask: think of yourself too, Mr. Wohlfart; this Polish set, here and yonder, are not worth your risking your life; there are some at home with whom it would go hard if any thing happened to you."

Anton shook his hand heartily. "Good-by, Karl. I'll do my duty. Don't forget to send us the forester, and, above all, rescue the farmer's wife. Lead the military hither through the wood."

"No fear," said Karl, cheerily; "this gallant bay shall find out how much a stout-hearted trooper can get through."

With these words he waved his cap, and vanished behind the farm-buildings.

Anton bolted the gate, then hurried to the guard-room, and rang the alarm-bell, giving orders to the superintendent to let in the men, to invest the back door, and not to admit any one without questioning them, not even fugitives.

"Eat heartily and drink moderately; we shall have enough to do to-day," he cried.

Meanwhile Fink stood at the table in Anton's room, loading the guns, while Lenore reached him whatever he needed. She was pale, but her eyes glowed with an excitement which did not escape Anton as he entered. "Leave this serious game to us alone," said he, beseechingly.

"It is the home of my parents that you defend," cried she. "My father is unable to act at your head. You shall not expose your lives for our sakes without my sharing your danger."

"Forgive me," replied Anton; "your first duty most undoubtedly is to prepare the baroness, and not to leave her during the next few hours."

"My mother! my poor mother!" cried Lenore, clasping her hands, laying down the powder-flask, and hurrying to the neighboring room.

"I have set all the men eating," said Anton to Fink. "From this moment you must take the command."

"Good," replied Fink. "Here are your arms; this double-barrel is light; one barrel loaded with ball, the other with slugs. The bag of bullets is under your bed."

"You think of standing a siege, then?" inquired Anton.

"We must either not seek to defend ourselves at all, but surrender at the friendly discretion of the approaching band, or we must hold out to our last bullet. We are all prepared for the latter course; perhaps surrender would be the wiser, but I own it does not suit my taste. As there is a master of the house, however, still extant, he may decide; go to the baron."

Anton hurried through the passage to the other wing. Even when at a distance he could hear the chairs knocked about in the baron's room. There was an angry "Come in," and he entered. The baron was standing in the middle of the room, highly excited. "I hear," said he, "that there is something going on. I must consider it an unpardonable want of attention that I have not been apprised of it."

"Your pardon, baron," replied Anton; "we only heard a few minutes ago that a band of the enemy's cavalry and scythe-bearers was moving on toward your property. We sent off a messenger in all speed to the nearest military station, then bolted the door, and now we wait your orders."

"Send me Herr von Fink," replied the baron, authoritatively.

"He is at this moment in the guard-room."

"I beg that he will take the trouble of coming to me at once," cried the angry nobleman. "I can not discuss military matters with you. Fink is a gentleman, and half a soldier; I will give all necessary instructions to him. What are you waiting for?" rudely continued he. "Do you young people suppose that you are to trifle with me because I have the misfortune to be blind? He at least whom I feed and pay shall respect my commands."

"Father!" cried Lenore, on the threshold, looking imploringly at Anton.

"You are right, baron," replied Anton; "I crave your forgiveness for having in the hurry of the moment forgotten my first duty. I will send Herr von Fink here at once." Then hastening off, he made his friend acquainted with the baron's angry mood.

"He is a fool," said Fink.

"Go up at once," urged Anton; "the ladies must not suffer from his temper." Then throwing on a laborer's jacket, he sprang out through the door into the rain and to the back farm-yard.

There he found a dreary scene of confusion. German families from the neighboring villages had taken refuge in the guard-house, and sat there with their children, and some of their goods and chattels round them. There were about twenty persons lying on the floor—men, women, and children, the women lamenting, the children weeping, the men looking gloomily down. Several of them belonged to the village militia, and some had their guns with them. Their little carts stood in the yard. Servants, horses, cows, were all running against each other. Anton called the superintendent to his assistance.

He next made over the farm-horses and the cattle to the most trustworthy of the servants, and to the German dairy-maid. Calling aside the head servant, a resolute kind of man, he described to him a place in the thicket, not far from the sand-pit, where man and beast might lie concealed, and be in some degree protected from the weather. Thither the man was to drive the cattle, and to keep a sharp look-out for the bailiff, who was to have the management of the wood-party. Next he desired the maid to leave a cow behind, opened the gate himself, and saw them all set out toward the forest.

"What are we to do with the horses of the baron and of Herr von Fink?" hurriedly asked the superintendent.

"They must be brought, together with some of the vehicles, into the court-yard, come what will. Who knows whether we shall not have to fly, after all?"

Accordingly, Anton had Karl's newly-painted carts laden with sacks of potatoes, meal, oats, and as much hay as they could hold. He had the great water-butt brought in too, and filled to the brim with fresh water. The skies were still pouring down bucketfuls, and the servants had to load in the drenching rain. All was confusion; and weeping and cursing, in German and Polish, was heard on every side. As Anton approached the fugitives, the screams of the women grew louder, the men surrounded him and began to relate their disasters, the children clung about his knees: it was a mournful spectacle. Anton did what he could to comfort them. "Above all, be quiet; we will protect you as well as we can. I hope the military may come to our aid, meanwhile you will be safe in the castle. You have been faithful to us in this season of distress; as long as we have bread you shall not want."

After a quarter of an hour of extreme exertion Anton returned to the castle. The servants drove the carts to the back door, the troop of fugitives followed. People still poured in from the German villages around, and soon the smith of Kunau, with some of his near neighbors, stood at the castle gate. The whole party was now got into order, the horses unharnessed, the carts unloaded. The women and children were led by Anton into two rooms on the lower floor, which, were dark indeed, but far more comfortable than the guard-house in the soaked fields. The bringing in the horses was the most troublesome part of the matter; about a dozen of them had to crowd up beneath an open shed, poorly protected from rain or bullets. The water-butt was placed in the middle of the yard, and the potato-carts pushed up to the paling, to serve, in case of need, as a position for the guard. Next, all the men capable of bearing arms were assembled by the smith, and, besides Fink's laborers and four servants, fifteen German peasants were mustered, the larger number of them armed. Their footsteps sounded heavy in the long passages, and joining the laborers in the hall, the whole force was seen at once, Fink in his hunting-coat walking quietly up and down before his own corps. Anton now went up to him and gave in his report.

"You bring us men," replied Fink; "that is all very well; but we did not want a whole clan of women and children into the bargain; the castle is as full as a bee-hive—more than sixty mouths; to say nothing of a dozen horses; spite of your potato-carts, we shall have to gnaw the stones before twenty-four hours are over."

"Could I leave them outside?" asked Anton, dryly.

"They would have been just as safe in the wood as here," said Fink, with a shrug.

"Possibly," replied Anton; "but to send off people to the forest in rain like this, without provisions, and in deadly terror, would have been barbarity for which I could not be responsible. Besides, do you think we should have got the men without their wives and children?"

"At all events, we can make use of the men," concluded Fink, "and you may manage the commissariat as you can."

Fink next gave arms to those who wanted them, and divided the forces into four sections, one for the yard, two for the upper and lower stories, and one as a reserve in the guard-room. Next he had an exact report of the enemy given him by the Kunau smith and others. Meantime Anton had rushed to the underground kitchen, where he gave the provisions in charge of the superintendent, and caused wood and water to be carried in by the baron's servants. A sack of potatoes and one of meal were placed near the hearth, and the great caldron put on the fire.

As he went out, he confided to the cook that a cow had been taken into the stable, that, at all events, the family might not be without milk at this doleful time. Old Barbette wrung her hands in anguish. "Alas! Mr. Wohlfart, what a frightful thing it is!" cried she; "the balls will be flying about in my kitchen."

"Heaven forbid!" said Anton; "the window is much too deep for that. No one can reach you; cook away in peace; the people are famished; I will send two of the stranger women down to help you."

"Who could eat in such danger as this?" cried she.

"We will all eat," said Anton, comfortingly.

"Will you have soup or potato-broth?" inquired Barbette, feverishly brandishing her spoon in her despair.

"Both, my good woman."

The cook held him back. "But, Mr. Wohlfart, there are no eggs for the family; indeed, there is not an egg in the whole house. Mercy on us! to think of this misfortune happening to-day, of all days. What will the baron say when he has no fresh egg this evening?"

"The devil take the eggs!" cried Anton, impatiently; "we must not be so particular to-day."

As he returned, Fink called to him, "All is ready; we may now quietly await their arrival. I am going to the tower, and taking a few good shots with me. If any thing happens, I am to be found there."

And again the hall was empty and the house quiet. The sentinels stood silently watching the edge of the forest; the rest of the men sat talking in a low voice in the guard-room; but the noise was unceasing in the apartment where the children were, and a constant communication was kept up between the kitchen and the occupied rooms in the lower story. Anton walked to and fro in restless suspense from the house to the court, and back again to his own room, where he tied the baron's papers together; then through the passages and to the guard-room. In this way one quarter of an hour after another passed, till at length Lenore came from her mother's room crying, "This uncertainty is intolerable!"

"And we have no tidings from the farm either," replied Anton, anxiously; "but the rain is over, and whatever happens to-day will happen in sunshine. The clouds are breaking yonder, and the blue sky is seen through them. How is the baroness?"

"She is calm," said Lenore, "and prepared for every thing."

Both walked silently up and down the hall. At last Lenore went up to Anton, and passionately exclaimed, "Wohlfart, it is horrible to me to think of you in a position such as this for our sakes."

"Is this position, then, so terrible?" asked Anton, with, a mournful smile.

"You do not perhaps feel it so," said Lenore, "but you are sacrificing for us far more than we deserve. We are ungrateful to you; you would be happier elsewhere."

She placed herself at the window, and wept bitterly.

Anton tried to soothe her. "If," said he, "you allude to the hasty expressions of the baron, you need not pity me on that account. You know what we have formerly said on that subject."

"It is not that alone," cried Lenore, weeping.

Anton knew as well as she did that it was not that alone, and felt that a confession lay in the words. "Be it what it may," said he, cheerfully, "why should you grudge me the pleasure of an adventure? Certainly I am an inexperienced soldier, but it seems that our enemies will not give me much opportunity of doing them any harm to-day."

"No one thanks you for all that you bear for our sakes. No one!" cried Lenore.

"No one?" repeated Anton. "Have I not a friend here who is only too much inclined to overrate the little I am able to do? Lenore, you have permitted me to draw nearer to you than would have been possible under ordinary circumstances. Do you reckon it nothing that I should have won some of a brother's privileges with regard to you?"