"And you believe in the reliability of these statements?" asked the king, when Hardenberg paused.

"I am satisfied of it, your majesty. The reports of my spy have hitherto always proved correct and reliable. It would be impossible for me to doubt his accuracy."

The king looked at his watch. "It is already a quarter past seven," he said. "Then it is not my carriage that is waiting for me at the palace-gate, but another?"

"Yes, your majesty."

"The clairvoyante was right," muttered General Kockeritz.

"If I now enter the carriage, you believe, M. Chancellor, I would be carried off?"

"That is what my spy reports, and I have additional evidence confirming his statements. At least it is entirely correct that Grenier's chasseurs are again in the immediate vicinity of Potsdam. I confess to your majesty that, owing to this danger, I have already taken the liberty, without obtaining your consent, to take most urgent steps, and that I have conferred with the commanders of the garrison of Potsdam for this purpose. These gentlemen, like myself, felt the necessity of immediate action. Couriers and spies were sent out by them in all directions, and have brought the news that the four thousand men who, two days ago, made an attempt to occupy Potsdam forcibly, are now again approaching the city in the utmost haste. Already about fifty chasseurs are stationed behind the high fence of the last garden on the road, alluded to in the letter of my spy, and seem to wait there for the carriage. Your majesty will see all my statements confirmed if you will be gracious enough to receive the report of the officer who commanded the expedition, and who has now accompanied me to the palace. The commanders of the garrison found the proofs of the insidious intentions of the French to be so startling that they are causing at this moment all their troops to form in line, and are marching them as noiselessly as possible to the neighboring park."

"Without having previously applied to me for orders?" asked the king, quickly.

"Your majesty, the pressing danger excuses this rashness. I have engaged to solicit your majesty's consent to this measure."

"The troops shall be sent to their quarters," said the king, energetically, after a moment's reflection.

"Great Heaven!" exclaimed General Kockeritz, anxiously, "what does your majesty intend to do? Will you expose yourself to the danger of—"

"Hush!" interrupted the king, sternly, seizing the bell and ringing. The chamberlain entered. "The officer who is waiting in the anteroom is to come in," ordered the king. A minute afterward the officer appeared, and remained in a military attitude at the door.

"Did you reconnoitre to-night?" inquired the king.

"I did, your majesty. A part of Grenier's division is rapidly approaching the city; fifty chasseurs are already on the garden road behind the last board fence."

"Return to the general commanding," ordered the king. "The troops are at once to leave the park and go back to their quarters. The whole affair is to be kept a secret, and all eclat to be avoided. Go!"

The officer saluted, and turned toward the door, but on opening it he looked back and cast an inquiring glance on the face of the chancellor. Hardenberg nodded almost imperceptibly. The officer went out and closed the door after him. [Footnote: When the king heard that the troops had been marched to the park, he ordered them to be dismissed to their quarters; but the apprehensions of the officers were so great that they dared to obey the royal orders only partially. They marched the troops from the park to another place, where they kept them under arms during the whole night and a part of the following day.]

"I do not wish this affair to be made public," said the king, "otherwise I should have to renounce France immediately and decidedly; but my circumstances forbid me to do so."

"But, your majesty, you are now exposing yourself to the danger of falling into the hands of the French," exclaimed General Kockeritz, anxiously. "If Grenier's troops enter Potsdam now, they would meet with no resistance whatever, as your majesty has withdrawn our own soldiers."

"The French troops will not enter Potsdam after seeing that their plan has failed, and that I do not arrive in the coach at the place where the chasseurs are waiting for me," said the king.

"Besides," exclaimed Field-Marshal Kalkreuth indignantly, "it remains to be seen whether the whole intrigue is not a mere fiction. The chancellor of state himself said that he paid his spies well. Perhaps some enterprising fellow has got up this story for the sole purpose of receiving a large reward. He could imagine that the king, after being warned, would not drive out to Sans-Souci to-night, and that the affair therefore would be buried in the darkness of this evening."

"And does your excellency believe, too, that my spy caused four thousand men to march upon Potsdam to second his intrigue?" asked Hardenberg, smiling. "Do you believe that he is able to send detachments of chasseurs whithersoever he pleases?"

"I cannot believe in this plan; it would be too audacious!" exclaimed Field-Marshal Kalkreuth. "I ask a favor of your majesty. If this report is correct, the carriage in which you are to be abducted ought now to be at the palace-gate and await your majesty. Please permit me to go down-stairs and enter it in your place. I want to see whither they will take me."

"No," said the king—"no! I wish to avoid any thing like an open rupture with France. The time for that has not come yet."

"Oh," whispered Hardenberg to himself, sadly and reproachfully, "that time will never come! My hopes are blasted."

The king paced the room silently and musingly, with his hands folded behind him. Field-Marshal Kalkreuth and General Kockeritz followed every motion in anxious suspense. Hardenberg cast down his eyes, and his features were expressive of profound grief.

"Gentlemen," said the king, "come with me! Let us go down to my carriage!"

"Your majesty, I trust, does not intend to enter it?" exclaimed Kockeritz, in dismay.

"Come with me!" said the king, almost smilingly. "Come!"

The firm, determined tone of his majesty admitted of no resistance. The three left the cabinet with him in silence, crossed the anteroom and the lighted corridor, until they arrived at the small staircase leading to the side-gate of the palace. All was silent. Not a footman met them on the way, and only a single sentinel stood at the upper end of the passage. The king, who led the way, went quickly down and across the small hall toward the door, which he opened with a jerk. The storm swept into the hall and beat into the faces of the gentlemen. It had already blown out the two lanterns in front of the door, and an impenetrable darkness reigned outside.

"Hush, now!" whispered the king. "Step out softly and place yourselves here at the wall. No one will see you. Wait now!" He quickly stepped to the carriage, scarcely visible in the darkness, and, groping for the knob of the coach door, opened it. A moment of breathless suspense ensued for those who stood at the wall, and tried to see what was to occur. The king slammed the door, and jumped back toward the gate. At the same moment the coachman whipped the horses and the carriage rapidly sped away.

"Now, let us reenter the palace," said the king, with perfect composure. "It is a stormy night! Come!" He stepped back into the hall, and the gentlemen followed. "Well," he said, smiling, and standing still, "the coachman, in the firm belief that I am in the carriage, will take the indicated route; the chasseurs will surround the carriage and capture it. Let those who got up this miserable intrigue convince themselves to their shame that it has miscarried. They will not dare complain, and the whole affair will never be revealed."

"But suppose it should really have been your majesty's carriage?" asked Kalkreuth. "The darkness was so great that it could not be recognized."

"But the darkness did not prevent me from feeling," said the king, "and my hands served me this time instead of my eyes. I felt that it was another carriage than mine. The door-knob was much larger. But now I should like to have some news about my dear old coachman, Thomas, and learn what has become of him."

"If your majesty will permit me, I will try to ascertain if the carriage is still in the avenue outside the gate," said Kalkreuth, quickly.

"I intended to request you to do so, field-marshal," said the king. "Your coach is in readiness, is it not?"

"It is, your majesty."

"Let the servants, then, have it brought up," said the king, ascending the staircase. On arriving at the anteroom, he himself ordered the lackey in waiting to have the carriage of the field- marshal brought to the door.

"If your majesty will permit me," said General Kockeritz, "I will accompany the field-marshal."

"I ask for the same favor," said the chancellor of state, quickly.

"Accompany the field-marshal, general," said the king, turning to Kockeritz. "Take no servants with you, except Timm my chamberlain, who may render assistance to my poor Thomas. My chamberlain is reticent and faithful. Pray have your carriage stopped at the entrance of the avenue, and proceed then on foot. If you find every thing as stated in the spy's report, Timm will drive the carriage to Sans-Souci, that my good old coachman may go to bed and recover from his fright. You will tell him, however, that I wish him not to breathe a word about his adventure. You, gentlemen, will thereupon return and report to me. And you, M. Chancellor, will follow me into my cabinet."



CHAPTER XXI.

THE COURIER'S RETURN.

On reaching his cabinet, the king slowly paced his room, seemingly without noticing the presence of the chancellor. Hardenberg, who waited in silent patience, withdrew softly into a window-niche, and listened to the noise of the carriage rolling away at this moment. "The spies the king has sent out are driving to the avenue," said Hardenberg to himself. "They will, no doubt, find every thing as stated in the report, and yet all will be in vain. He will not make up his mind to enter a bold course, and while he is hesitating all of us and Prussia will perish."

While he was thus absorbed in his sombre reflections, and sadly gazing out into the dark night, he had not noticed that the king stood still at the other end of the room, and, with his arms folded on his breast, was casting searching glances on the chancellor of state. Now he crossed the room with slow steps and erect head, and stood in front of Hardenberg. "M. Chancellor," said Frederick William, in an unusually mild and gentle tone, "you are sad and discontented, are you not? You are almost despairing, and it seems to you that the King of Prussia, whom the French have again so deeply insulted and humiliated, and whom Napoleon is now threatening even with seizure, should at length revolt against such treatment, and submit no longer to it. It seems to you that, cut to the quick by so many slights, insults, and perfidies, he ought to put an end to his temporizing policy; to rise and exclaim, 'I will die rather than bear this disgrace any longer! I will die rather than endure those humiliations.' You are right; were I, like you, so fortunate as to be nothing but a man who had to defend only his own honor and existence, I would be allowed to risk every thing in order to win every thing. But I am the king, and, moreover, the king of an unfortunate state. I must forget my own wrongs, and remember only that I have sacred duties to fulfil toward my people, and that, so far as my own person is concerned, I am not yet allowed to possess any other courage than that of resignation. I am not allowed to stake the existence of my monarchy and the welfare of my people to obtain personal satisfaction. Until I obtain the incontestable certainty that such a course would be brought to a successful issue, I must not throw down the gauntlet to France, for failure in this case would be not only my ruin, but that of my whole people. I shall wait, therefore, M. Chancellor, for an opportunity; but I believe that this course requires on my part more constancy and courage than if I, as you wish me to do, should now unreservedly forsake France and render the decision of my fate dependent on the fortune of war. It is my solemn conviction that I ought not to do this, but advance only step by step, and with the utmost caution and deliberation, for—Well, what is it?" asked the king, turning to the chamberlain, who opened the door and entered the cabinet.

"Pardon me, your majesty, for disturbing you," said the chamberlain, respectfully. "But the gentleman who has just entered the anteroom assured me that he was the bearer of important news, which admitted of no delay."

"And who is the gentleman?"

"Sire, it is Major Natzmer, whom your majesty sent recently as a courier to Old Prussia."

"Natzmer?" exclaimed the king, joyously, "admit him at once!—Ah, M. Chancellor, we shall hear now how affairs are looking in my province of Prussia, and how my troops have received York's removal from his command."

"I hope Major Natzmer will bring your majesty good and joyful news," said Hardenberg, with perfect outward calmness, while his heart was throbbing with impatience for Major Natzmer, who now entered; and, while he saluted the king, Hardenberg fixed his eyes, with an anxious expression, on the countenance of the new-comer. For a moment their eyes met. There was an inquiry in those of Hardenberg; Natzmer replied by a slight motion of his eyelids, and an almost imperceptible smile.

"In the first place, report to me briefly and succinctly," said the king. "Reply to all my questions as pointedly and clearly as possible. Afterward we will expatiate on the most important points. Well, then, you saw Murat and Macdonald?"

"I did, your majesty. I met the King of Naples at Elbing, and had the honor of delivering your majesty's letter to him. He received me very kindly, and was delighted at being thus assured of your friendly feelings toward France. Marshal Macdonald, to whose headquarters I then repaired, was less kind and polite. He was still exceedingly indignant at the course of General York, which he openly stigmatized as traitorous; but he was pacified when I informed him that I was the bearer of an order depriving York of his command, and was about to convey it to the camp of the Russians and Prussians."

"He raised no obstacles, then, but allowed you to pass over without hinderance to the Russian camp?"

"Yes, your majesty. While Macdonald continued his march, I rode to the Russian pickets, and was conducted by an officer, detailed by General Choplitz for this purpose, to the commander-in-chief, Prince Wittgenstein, who had established his headquarters at Heilsberg."

"What business had you at Wittgenstein's headquarters?"

"I wanted, in accordance with your orders, to ask his permission to pass through to General York; and, besides, I wished to ascertain where the Emperor Alexander had established his headquarters, that I might repair to them."

"Prince Wittgenstein, of course, gave you immediate permission to pass through his camp, did he not?"

"No, your majesty; he refused my request."

"How so? What reasons could he adduce? Did you tell him what you intended to do at York's headquarters?"

"Your majesty ordered me to tell every one what I was to do at General York's headquarters, and what punishment you intended to inflict upon him. I was therefore authorized and obliged to inform General Wittgenstein of the object of my mission."

"And he dared to resist you?"

"He did, your majesty. He declared that he would not permit me by any means to go to York, and that so long as he lived no one should bring to the general a dispatch by which the most generous, magnanimous, and valiant general of the Prussian army was to be deprived of his command."

"Then he really prevented you from going to York?"

"Yes, your majesty; he told me I was his prisoner, and did not permit me to leave him."

"So that, at this moment, General York has not, as I desire, transferred his command to General Kleist?"

"Precisely, your majesty. General York is still in command."

"And he did not receive the order removing him from his position?"

"I was unable to deliver it, and your majesty required me to give it to none but the general himself. I was, however, a prisoner at General Wittgenstein's. He asked me whether I had received other commissions; and when he heard that I was to deliver a letter to his majesty the emperor, he immediately had a sleigh brought to the door, detailed an officer to escort me, and we set out for the imperial headquarters."

"Let us speak of that hereafter," said the king, quickly. "Tell me first whether you have heard further news about my corps. General York, then, is still in command?"

"Yes, your majesty."

"But even though he has not received the dispatches, he must have seen the news in the newspapers. For the Berlin journals contained a copy of the order superseding him, and he must have noticed it."

"I was told by General Wittgenstein, on returning from the headquarters of the Emperor of Russia, that York had been informed by the newspapers of the severe punishment which your majesty intended to inflict upon him, and that you disavowed him and the course he had taken. Accordingly, he requested General Kleist to take command of the troops. But Kleist refused to do so, alleging that he had received no direct orders from your majesty, and that the dispatches of your majesty, addressed to him personally, would determine his course, and induce him to take command of the troops."

"General Kleist was right in making this declaration," said the king. "So long as York had not received the dispatches, he remained commander-in-chief."

"He is still at the head of the army," exclaimed Natzmer, "for I bring back the dispatches addressed to Generals York and Kleist. As I was unable to deliver them, I return them to your majesty."

The king took the papers which the major presented to him, contemplating them for a moment. He turned toward Hardenberg, and saw that heart-felt joy was beaming from his face. "Are you glad that my orders have not been carried into effect, M. Chancellor of State?" asked the king.

"Yes, your majesty," said Hardenberg, in a voice tremulous with emotion, "I am glad of it, for now it seems to me as if our night is drawing to a close, and a new morning is about to dawn upon Prussia. York took the first step for this purpose, and it will be necessary for your majesty to pursue the same course. For, as York has not been deprived of his command, the French will no longer believe that you disavow the action of your brave general, and your people and all Germany will take heart, for they will see that the era of disgrace is past, and that a German king dares at length to resist the French tyrant."

"Well, we shall see," said the king. "Now, Major Natzmer, tell me about your mission to his majesty the Emperor Alexander. I told you that it was a state secret. Did you keep it?"

"I did, your majesty."

"Well, tell me the result."

"Will your majesty permit me to withdraw?" said the chancellor, approaching the door. "As you intrusted Major Natzmer with a secret mission—"

"Oh, no, your excellency, pray remain; I wish you to hear the message I sent to the emperor, and what he replied to it.—Answer my questions now, major. Did you carry out the commission I gave you? Did you verbally lay before the emperor the message which I dared not confide to pen and paper? Did you tell the emperor that I would offer him a defensive and offensive alliance if Alexander would engage to carry on the war against Napoleon to the best of his power, and cross the Vistula and the Oder without delay? Did you make this offer to Alexander in my name?"

"I did, your majesty."

The king glanced quickly at Hardenberg, and the surprised face of his chancellor of state made him smile.

"And what did the emperor reply?" asked Frederick William, turning again to the major.

"The emperor was overjoyed at the offer, and declared his readiness to grant all which you would stipulate now and hereafter. The Emperor Alexander imposed only a single condition."

"What was it?"

"He demanded that the fortress of Graudenz should be garrisoned by Russian troops, and insisted most obstinately on this point."

"Did you not tell him that I had made up my mind in regard to this point, and would renounce the proposed alliance if Graudenz, the most remote fortress of my kingdom, should be garrisoned by other than Prussian troops?"

"I stated this to the emperor."

"And then?"

"The emperor resolved to yield even this point, and to leave Graudenz to the Prussian troops."

A sunbeam seemed to light up the grave, calm face of the king, and the cloud that generally darkened his brow disappeared. "M. Chancellor," he said, turning to Hardenberg with a mild and kind smile, "are you now reconciled with your Fabius Cunctator? Will you forgive me for having hesitated until Natzmer would bring me Alexander's reply?"

"Oh, sire," exclaimed Hardenberg, "my soul bows in joyous admiration, and your greatness and mildness make me blush."

At this moment the door opened, and Kockeritz and Kalkreuth entered the cabinet.

"Ah," exclaimed the king, meeting them, "my two generals whom I sent out on a reconnoissance! Well, gentlemen, speak! Did you find my carriage?"

"We did, your majesty," said Field-Marshal Kalkreuth, sighing. "The report was but too true. A vile plot had been formed; we have the proofs, for we really found the carriage of your majesty in the avenue leading to Sans-Souci; the horses had been partially unhitched—"

"And my poor coachman?" asked the king. "Kockeritz, tell me what has become of my faithful Thomas?"

"We found him exactly in the condition stated in the spy's report," said General Kockeritz, hastily. "He lay in the interior of the carriage; his hands and feet firmly tied; his head covered with a cape, which had been closely fastened round his neck to prevent him from crying; it had, moreover, almost choked him when we arrived."

"But he has recovered from his fright?" asked the king, in a tone of sympathy.

"Yes, your majesty," said Kockeritz, "and he would not permit Timm to accompany him to Sans-Souci. He felt strong enough to return to Potsdam, and arrived here at the same time as we did."

"I suppose you have ordered him to say nothing about the whole affair?"

"Yes, your majesty, and he swore he would not mention it."

"And now, gentlemen, give me your opinion. Field-Marshal Kalkreuth, you have satisfied yourself now that the French really intended to seize and abduct me to-night?"

"I have unfortunately satisfied myself that they made such an attempt," said the field-marshal.

"And you, Kockeritz, believe so, too?"

"I do, your majesty; I am fully convinced that such an outrage was in contemplation."

"And you, M. Chancellor of State?"

"I was confident of the existence of this plot before coming hither, and every thing has confirmed it; yes, such an outrage was surely intended. The French meant to seize your sacred person."

"Will your majesty permit me also to reply to this question?" said Major Natzmer.

"What do you mean?" asked the king, surprised. "Have you not just arrived? How can you pass an opinion on what occurred before your arrival?"

"Your majesty, it is true I have just now come; but still I knew what was to occur here, and what an infamous transaction was planned," said Major Natzmer. "The Emperor Alexander gave me this information; he had just received from a perfectly reliable source the news that Marshal Augereau had been instructed to seize the person of your majesty. The emperor was greatly alarmed, and told me he would be unable to find any rest until he had heard that you were safe, and had left Berlin and Potsdam. [Footnote: Droysen's "Life of York," vol. ii., p. 120.] I myself set out at once in the greatest consternation, and as I left the emperor on the 13th of January, I would have arrived here much earlier if I had not heard at Landshut that Murat had issued an order to all the authorities to have me arrested and conveyed to the French headquarters, [Footnote: Ibid.] This compelled me to take a roundabout course, and now I rejoice the more heartily as I have arrived at the very time to caution your majesty, in the name of the Emperor Alexander, against the insidious designs of the French."

The king made no reply. He paced the room slowly and with his head bent down; the four gentlemen stood in silence on both sides of the cabinet. Suddenly standing in the middle of the room, with his countenance full of determination, he said: "Gentlemen, I will tell you a state secret. Will you pledge me your word of honor, all four of you, that you will keep it?"

"We will!" they all shouted at the same moment.

"Listen to me, then," added the king. "I shall leave Potsdam and repair to Breslau, whither the seat of government will be temporarily transferred. All the necessary preparations must be made from this hour with the utmost dispatch and prudence. To-morrow night I shall set out with the crown prince; the rest of the royal family will follow me on the next day. Troops will be stationed along the route; the hussars forming my escort, and the lifeguards following to Breslau. It is my duty to place myself beyond the reach of insidious attacks, and to render it impossible for the French to seize me. I will, therefore, go to Breslau!" While uttering these words, the king glanced successively at the faces of the four gentlemen. He saw that Field-Marshal Kalkreuth looked gloomy and abstracted, and opposite him the chancellor of state, with burning cheeks and radiant eyes.

"Well, Hardenberg," said the king, mildly, "have you nothing to say to me?"

"I am unable to say any thing," whispered Hardenberg, in a tremulous voice, "but I do what I have not done for many years past—I weep tears of joy! Our night is at an end; a new morning is dawning upon Prussia, and the sun of a new era will shed his beams upon all of us!"



CHAPTER XXII.

THE MANIFESTO.

The people were moving in dense crowds through Berlin. The long and splendid street "Unter den Linden" was filled with a vast multitude, whoso greeting cheers resembled the noise of the ocean's billows.

"The king has safely arrived at Breslau!" cried one of the men to another, and immediately the enthusiastic cry of "Long live the king!" burst from all those who heard it, and, like a jubilant echo, the people along the whole street repeated, "Long live the king!"

"The king has reappointed General Scharnhorst quartermaster-general, and General Blucher is with him at Breslau!" exclaimed a stentorian voice. "Long live Scharnhorst! Long live Blucher!" shouted the crowd. "Long live our heroes!" "Down with the French!" and thousands answered in tones of intense hatred, "Down with the French!"

"They so long trampled us under foot!" cried another citizen. "Now, let us pay them for it! Come, let us go to the French ambassador and give him a few groans! We will no longer be silent!"

"Yes, we are determined to speak!" yelled the multitude, who hurried toward the gate in front of which the residence of the ambassador was situated. But suddenly they were stopped by a procession approaching from the Brandenburg gate. It was headed by three men— one of short and feeble frame, his face pale and emaciated, but lit up by large flashing blue eyes; the second was tall and broad- shouldered, his eye looking frank and bold, and his hair falling on his shoulders like a lion's mane; the third was not tall, but of a firmly-knit frame, and, with his proud head and intrepid air, looked like the embodiment of chivalry. Behind them was a line of more than two hundred youths, in light, simple attire, their cheeks glowing with excitement or exercise, and their eyes flashing with enthusiasm.

"Hurrah!" shouted the people. "Here are the Turners! Here is Father Jahn with his Turners! Long live Jahn!"

The Turners, at a beck from "Father Jahn," had taken position across the street, and thus, like a chain, prevented the citizens from passing on. The three leaders stood in front, and gazed gravely upon the approaching multitude.

"Clear the track!" cried the crowd. "We have business to attend to on the square in front of the gate!"

"Believe me, it is as I said," whispered the smallest of the three men to his neighbor. "It is a riot directed against the French ambassador!"

"Where are you going?" shouted the man with the lion's mane, pushing back those at the head of the crowd with his herculean arms.

"We are going to the French ambassador, to sing him a new German song, and accompany it with stones for his windows."

"And why do you wish to do so?" asked the tall man. "What do you care for the Frenchman on this beautiful and joyous day? Men like you have something else to do than to break the windows of the French ambassador. There will be other battles before long. I hope you have heard or read what great events have occurred; I hope you know the message which the king has sent to us from Breslau?"

"No, we know nothing about them!" replied a few voices. "Yes, we do," said others. "But we would like to hear the news again," cried another. "Pray, repeat it to us, Father Jahn!"

"I am not very well able to do so; our gymnastic performances to-day have exhausted me," replied Jahn. "I went out of the gate with my pupils at an early hour in the morning. These two gentlemen came to us and told us the news, and that is the reason why we have come back. My friend will tell you what he told me, and he knows better how to speak than I do, for he has an eloquent tongue. This is well known to all of you, for who among you is not acquainted with Frederick Schleiermacher, the great preacher?"

"Schleiermacher! Long live Schleiermacher! Let Schleiermacher repeat to us what the king said! Let him tell us what is on the large placards on the street corners. Hearing it read, we understand it better than on reading it ourselves."

And many arms were stretched out toward the feeble little man who stood by the side of Jahn, lifting him up and placing him gently on the balcony fixed above the door of a neighboring house.

"That is a good pulpit," shouted the people; "Schleiermacher, address us from it!"

The little man with bright eyes and a genial countenance gazed for a moment in silence upon his auditors, who thronged around him in suspense and curiosity. He then raised his arms, commanding silence. The laughter, shouts, and yells, died away; all eyes were fixed upon Schleiermacher, and the noise of the multitude seemed arrested as by a magician's wand, as the voice of the preacher resounded through the street clear and distinct. "You want me to read what has been addressed to us all," he said, "the manifesto which Minister von Hardenberg has issued to the people in the king's name. Listen, then!" He took a large folded paper from his breast-pocket, and, opening it, read as follows: "'The dangerous position in which the state has been placed by recent events requires a rapid augmentation of the troops now in arms, while our finances admit of no lavish expenditures. In consideration of the patriotism and faithful attachment to the king which have always animated the people of Prussia, and manifested themselves most strikingly in times of danger, there is but an opportunity required to give a definite direction to these sentiments, and to the desire for activity which distinguishes so many young men, that they may swell by their accession to the army the ranks of the older defenders of the country, whom they would emulate in nobly fulfilling the first of all duties incumbent upon us. For this reason his majesty has designed to order the organization of companies of volunteers, to be embodied with the regiments of infantry and cavalry already in the service, that an opportunity to enter the army in a manner suitable to their education, and their position in life, may be given to all those classes who, under the existing conscription laws, are exempt from service, and are rich enough to pay for their own outfit and horse, and that a prospect of distinguishing themselves may be held out to men who, owing to their education and intellect, might immediately do good service, and soon be appointed line and field officers.' [Footnote: Hardenberg issued this manifesto at Breslau, on the 3d of February; it was published at Berlin on the 5th.] It is unnecessary for me to read the conclusion of the proclamation," said Schleiermacher. "You know enough, for you know now that the king calls his people; that he calls upon all the youths and men of his kingdom to rally round him, and that he requests, and does not order them to do so. The country is in danger; and not the king's order, but your own voluntary action, is to make you soldiers of the fatherland and put arms into your hands. Remember that your free will is your most precious and sacred possession, and that he is twice a hero whom it actuates, and is not forced into duty. No greater honor can be conferred on you than that your country calls you, trusts in your strong arm, and hopes in your free will to save it from destruction. Take that into consideration, and decide then whether you will stay at home or obey the call."

The two men who had been by his side at the head of the procession, Jahn, the brave Turner, and the chivalrous La Motte Fouque, now ascended the balcony.

"I do not care to stay at home when my country calls me to her aid!" exclaimed M. de la Motte Fouque, in a loud, sonorous voice. "I joyfully offer my services as a soldier. I have a wife and children, but my country is to me more precious than they are, and I enroll here my name as the first volunteer who responds to the call of his king and country."

"And I enroll my name as the second volunteer!" exclaimed Jahn, the Turners' father. "I swear here to my country that I will joyously fight for it. Henceforth, my blood and life belong to the fatherland.—And where are you, my boys, my Turners? Shall I march out all alone, or will you accompany me?"

"We will go with you!" cried a hundred youthful voices, and their enthusiastic shouts rent the sky. "We will march with you! We will fight for the fatherland!" And the crowd, carried away by what they saw and heard—the men with tearful eyes, the youths with flashing glances—all shouted: "We will march with you! We will fight for the fatherland!" Neighbor gave his hand to neighbor, and friend embraced friend; those who had never before seen each other understood the common feeling, and those who had never exchanged a word conversed now like old acquaintances. One grand impulse seemed to move the multitude—one patriotic feeling beamed from all eyes—one vow burned in all hearts: to be faithful soldiers to their country. It was no mere transitory enthusiasm, soon to disappear, and to be succeeded by a corresponding reaction—it was no momentary ardor kindled by the manifesto issued at Breslau, but the sacred fire of patriotism burning in the heart of the whole people of Prussia, and increased from day to day. Every one felt himself a soldier, and would have considered it a disgrace to remain at home while others marched to the war of liberation.

The pupils of the lyceums closed their books, and the teachers did not prevent them; they only appeared in the school-rooms, to say to the half-grown youths: "Farewell! The country has called us! Let us march to the field! Those of you who have reached their seventeenth year, and are willing to fight, follow us!" And, with shouts of exultation, the older youths rallied round their teachers, while the younger ones retired with tearful eyes, as if ashamed of their age. What occurred in the lyceum was repeated in the offices, the courts, the counting-houses of the bankers and merchants. No one would stay at home, or refuse the country his arm and his strength. All selfish calculations, all distinctions of rank had ceased. Princes and counts were seen in the ranks of the volunteers by the side of the humblest youths; and poor men, who had sold every thing they had to buy arms and a uniform, did not think of their future, or what was to become of them after their return from the war. The fatherland had called them, and they voluntarily took up arms in its defence. Death had lost its terrors, life had lost its value. With exulting hearts, mothers saw their sons preparing for the struggle. The affianced bride uncomplainingly clasped her departing lover for the last time in her arms; without fear for the fate of his wife and children, the husband and father embraced his dear ones, and his wife did not attempt to dissuade him. She would have despised him if he desired to remain, and loved his wife and his children more devotedly than his country, calling to him in the hour of her peril.

Four days had not yet elapsed since the publication of the manifesto of the king, when there stood on the Gendarmes market at Berlin one hundred and fifty young volunteers, who, within a few days, had fully armed and equipped themselves, either from their own means, or with the assistance of friends, and who were now about to march to Potsdam in order to set out with a company of ninety volunteers, which had been recruited in that city for the king's headquarters at Breslau. [Footnote: Nine thousand young men volunteered at Berlin in the first three days after the manifesto was issued, and active preparations were made to uniform and equip them at the earliest moment.] All Berlin wished to participate in the farewell of this first company of volunteers which were sent to its king. Every one desired once more to shake hands with the courageous defenders of the country—to shout a love-greeting, a last wish to them, and bless the soldiers of the fatherland. The windows of the houses on the Gendarmes market were therefore filled with ladies and children, who greeted the departing volunteers with their handkerchiefs, with wreaths and flowers; the church bells were ringing in their honor, and the fathers of the city, the burgomasters, and other members of the municipality, adorned with their golden chains, were assembled on the market-place to conduct the young soldiers, in the name of the city, to the gate, and behind them a dense multitude filled the square. Those remaining looked gloomy, and envied their brethren, because they were to take the field at so early a day; wishing thorn joy, they shouted: "Prepare quarters for us; we shall soon follow you!"

The church bells were ringing, and amid their solemn peals and the deafening cheers of the many thousands who nodded to them in the streets, and from the windows of the houses, the young soldiers left the Gendarmes market, escorted by the members of the municipality. They did not, however, march directly to the Potsdam gate. They would not leave Berlin without receiving the blessing of the Church, and this was to be given by the man who read to them the manifesto four days before, and who had exhorted them to comply with the call of their country. A committee, appointed by the young volunteers, had therefore waited on Schleiermacher, and requested him to give the blessing of the Church to their grave undertaking, and he gladly granted their request. The procession marched to Trinity church. There were waiting their mothers, sisters, and brides, greeting them with loving glances, and beckoning them to occupy the reserved places, embracing and praying hand in hand with them for the last time. The organ poured forth its solemn concords, and from all lips burst forth the anthem of "In allen meinen Thaten lass ich den Hochsten rathen." [Footnote: "In all my deeds. I let the Highest counsel."] The last notes of the music had not yet died away, when the noble face of Schleiermacher appeared in the pulpit. His eyes were beaming as never before; his voice was never so fervent and powerful, nor had he ever spoken with such irresistible eloquence, energy, and courage, as on that day. A profound silence reigned in the vast building; every one listened eagerly to the inspiring words of the prophet of a new and better era, and inwardly resolved to remember the stirring exhortations which Schleiermacher now, in concluding his sermon, addressed to the young men, that they may remain pure and true in the service of so righteous a cause. The thoughts of the audience were with God; to Him their hearts had all turned. But now Schleiermacher's voice grew softer; his eyes, which had hitherto been raised toward heaven, looked upon the wives and mothers, who sat in long lines before him. "Rejoice in the Lord, ye mothers," he said, "blessed are you in having given birth to such sons! blessed your breasts that nourished such children! God gave them to you, and you give them to the fatherland! Rejoice in the Lord, for He will achieve great things through them! Rejoice, and do not weep!" But now they could restrain no longer their tears and sobs. The words addressed to them had touched their feelings. They felt their hearts' wounds, and wept aloud. An electric shock, as it were, pervaded the whole assembly; not an eye remained dry, not a heart was unmoved; even Schleiermacher's voice was tremulous when he uttered his "Amen!"

They departed from the church to the Potsdam gate, and along the road leading to Potsdam, continuing their march on the following day, after being joined by the company which La Motte Fouque had recruited in that city. The grief of their separation from their dear ones was forgotten as they hastened toward the future—a future of battles and victories.

"Now, no more tears, no more sighs! Let us sing a merry song!" said the young volunteers.

"Yes. Where is a poet who can sing us a song such as we need now?"

"Fouque is here; let him sing! Yes, Fouque is among us! We have elected him captain! He is a chivalrous soldier, and gained his spurs in 1794, during the war against the French. He deserves to be our captain!"

"But he deserves, too, to be our bard, for by his 'Undine' he has also won his laurels as a poet."

"Let us have a song, brave La Motte Fouque!" shouted all the volunteers. "There is Father Jahn, who will persuade him. Ask Fouque to sing us a war-song!"

Jahn galloped up to the poet, who was riding in thoughtful silence at the head of his company; it is true, he had heard the solicitations of the young men, but continued his way, smiling and muttering to himself. "Fouque," shouted Jahn, in his stentorian voice; "do you not hear the requests of our bold youths? Give some expression to the enthusiasm burning in their hearts. Let us have a song, then, my poet!"

"Well," replied Fouque, quickly raising his head, and smiling on his friend; "I have just composed a poem. Listen to me, my friends!" He turned his horse, and in a loud voice commanded the volunteers to halt.

"You wish me to sing. I will give you a song just as it has sprung up in my heart during the march, and I have also composed the air. When I have finished repeat it with me!" And he began to sing in a powerful voice:

"Frisch auf zum frohlichen Jagen, Es ist schon an der Zeit! Es fangt schon an zu tagen, Der Kampf ist nicht mehr weit!"

"Auf lasst die Faulen liegen, Gonnt ihnen ihre Ruh; Wir rucken mit Vergnugen Dem lieben Konig zu."

"Der Konig hat gesproehen: Wo sind meine Jager nun? Da sind wir aufgebrochen, Ein wackeres Werk zu thun."

"Wir woll'n ein Heil erbauen Fur all das deutsche Land, Im frohen Gottvertrauen Mit rustig starker Hand."

"Schlaft ruhig nun, Ihr Lieben! Am vaterlichen Heerd, Derweil mit Feindeshieben Wir ringen Keck bewehrt."

"O Wonne die zu schlutzen, Die uns das Liebste sind! Hei! Lasst Kanonen hlitzen. Ein frommer muth gewinnt!"

"Die mehrsten zieh'n einst wieder Zuruck in Siegerreih'n; Dann toen Jubellieder Dess' wird'ne Freude sein!"

"Wie gluh'n davon die Herzen So froh und stark und weich. Wer fallt, der kann's verschmerzen, Der hat das Himmelreich!"

[Footnote: La Motte Fouque composed this poem on the march from Potsdam to Breslau, whither he conducted the first companies of volunteers. It was the first song of liberty published in 1813:

Mount! mount! for sacred freedom fight! The battle soon must be. The night is past, and red the light Streams o'er the dewy lea.

Up! let the coward idlers sleep! Who envies them their rest? We march with joyful hearts to keep Our honored king's request.

To us he said: "My brave ones all!— My chasseurs! where are they?" Responsive to his patriot call We hastened to obey.

We vowed to strike with mighty hand As it becomes the free— A safeguard for our native land With Heaven's grace to be.

Sleep calmly, wives and children dear To God your sorrows tell. The hour, alas! of blood is near, But all your fears dispel.

Approved we hasten to the field; What though the strife begins! 'Tis joy our loved ones thus to shield, For pious courage wins.

Returning, all may not be found! But some, in glory's grave, Shall never hear the songs resound Of those they died to save.

Come, glowing heart! despise the pain Of death; for, evermore,. Shall he who falls, a kingdom gain On heaven's eternal shore!]



CHAPTER XXIII.

LEONORA PROHASKA.

Old Sergeant Prohaska sat sad and musing in his old easy-chair near the stove; before him lay a copy of the Vossische Zeitung, which he had just perused. He laid it aside with a sigh; supporting his head on the leathern cushion, he puffed clouds of smoke from his short clay pipe. Close to him, at the small table standing in the niche of the only window which admitted light into the small, dark room, sat a young girl, busily engaged in drawing threads from a large piece of linen, and putting them carefully on the pile of lint on the table. She was scarcely eighteen years old, but her noble, pale countenance wore an expression of boldness and energy; her forehead was high, and vigorous thoughts seemed to dwell there. Large black eyes were flashing under her finely-arched eyebrows, which almost touched each other above her beautifully-chiselled, slightly-curved nose. Round her crimson lips was an expression of melancholy, and her cheeks seemed to have been bleached by grief rather than sickness. She was tall and well formed, but her whole appearance was more remarkable for the stern and heroic character it indicated than for grace and loveliness. While she was thus at work, and engaged in preparing lint, troubled thoughts seemed to pass from time to time across her face, and she raised her eyes to heaven with an angry and reproachful expression. She impulsively cast aside the linen, and jumped up. "No, father," she exclaimed, drawing a deep breath, "I cannot bear it any longer!"

"What is it that you cannot bear any longer, Leonora?" exclaimed her father, surprised.

"To sit here and prepare lint while the whole world is astir, while every heart is swelling with patriotism and warlike enthusiasm! And I cannot do any thing, I cannot join in the universal exultation—I can do nothing but prepare lint! Father, it is heart-rending, and I cannot bear it!"

"Must not I bear it?" asked her father in a tremulous voice. "Must not I sit still behind the stove, while all my old comrades are taking up arms and marching into the field? My right leg was buried at Jena, and I must limp about now as a miserable cripple; I cannot even take revenge for the disgrace of Jena; I cannot even pay the French for my leg by cutting off the heads of some of their accursed soldiers. I am a cripple, while others are hastening into the field! When I must bear that, a girl like you ought assuredly not to complain."

"Father," said Leonora, with flashing eyes, "do not despise me because I am a girl! Did you not tell me of the heroic women of Spain and the Tyrol, and of their glorious deeds? Did you not tell me that, by their intrepid patriotism, they had set a sublime example to the men. and that by their influence their country was to be saved? Was not the heroine of Saragossa a woman? Did not women and girls fight like heroes in the gorges of the Tyrol?"

"Yes, that is true," exclaimed her father, smiling, "but then they were Spanish and Tyrolese girls. They have fire in their veins, and love their country with an undying patriotism."

"Ah, one need not be born in the South to have warm blood," exclaimed Leonora, ardently, "It is not the sun that gives love of country, and patriotic hearts may throb even under the snow." "Have you such a heart, Leonora?" asked her father, casting on her a long and searching look.

"Father," she said, pressing her hands on her bosom, "there is something burning here like fire; and at times when I hear how all are rallying round the flag—and how the warlike enthusiasm is pervading the whole country, I feel as if the blood would burst from my heart and head. It is true I am no Spanish girl, but I am a Prussian girl!"

"Ah, I would you were a Prussian boy!" sighed her father, shaking his head. "If you were, I believe you would look well in the ranks of the volunteers; they would not likely reject the young soldier of eighteen."

"I am quite tall and strong, although I am but a girl," exclaimed Leonora, with flashing eyes; "I have seen among the soldiers who started yesterday many volunteers who were a great deal shorter and slighter than I am."

"But, at all events, they had shorter hair and a stronger voice than you have," laughed her father.

"Oh, I can cut off my hair," she said, quickly; "and as for my voice, Kalbaum, the tailor, who accompanied the volunteers, has a voice no stronger than mine, and yet he was accepted. And then—"

"Hush!" interposed her father quickly. "I hear your mother coming. Do not speak of such things when she is present. It would alarm her. Bold thoughts must be locked up in our hearts, for, if we speak of them, it looks like braggadocio; we are only allowed to speak of bold deeds. Do not forget that, my daughter, and give me a kiss!" Leonora hastened to her father, and encircling him with her arms, pressed a glowing kiss on the lips of the old invalid.

"Father," she whispered, "I believe you understand me, and can read my thoughts!"

"God alone is able to read our thoughts," said her father, solemnly, "and it is only from Him that we must not conceal any thing. But what is that? Is not your mother weeping outside?" And old Prohaska jumped up and limped, as quickly as his wooden leg permitted, toward the door.

At this moment the door was noisily opened, and a woman appeared on the threshold. Behind her was a tall, slender, and pale boy, scarcely fourteen years of age. Both entered the room with tearful eyes and loud lamentations.

"Wife, what is the matter—what has happened?" exclaimed Old Prohaska, anxiously.

"Why do you weep, my brother?" asked Leonora, hastening to the boy, and clasping him in her arms. He laid his head on her breast and wept aloud.

"What has happened?" wailed his mother. "All our hopes are blasted; we have been rejected!"

"Rejected? Where? And by whom?" asked the invalid, in amazement.

"By the military commission!" cried his wife, drying her tears with her long apron.

"What did you want of the military commission? Did you desire to become a vivandiere, old woman?"

"No, but Charles wanted to enlist, father! Yes, you must know all now. We thought we would prepare a joyous surprise for you, but the good Lord and the military commission would not let us do so. Look, old man! I perceived very well how painful it was to you, and how it was gnawing at your heart, that your wooden leg compels you to remain here at Potsdam, and prevents your marching out with the soldiers who are hurrying to the headquarters of their king at Breslau."

"Yes, it is true, it is very sad! My general, old Blucher, under whom I fought in 1806, is also at Breslau, and what will he say when he looks for his old hussars of 1806, and does not find Prohaska! He will say, 'Prohaska has become a coward—a lazy old good-for- nothing.'"

"No, father, he will not say so," exclaimed Leonora, ardently; "if he knows you, he cannot say so.—But speak, mother, tell us what makes you weep, and what has so afflicted my dear brother?"

"Both of us noticed father's secret grief, and comprehended how painful it was for him to be unable to participate in the war." said her mother. "I had not mentioned it to any one, and to God alone I had complained how grievous it is that I have no full-grown son, who, instead of his father, might serve his king at the present time. Last night, when all of you were asleep, Charles came to my bedside. 'Mother,' he said to me, 'mother, I must tell you something! I will and must enlist! It would be an eternal disgrace for me to stay at home, particularly as father is disabled, and cannot fight any more. Mother, the honor of the family is at stake; I must enlist or die!'"

"Ah, you are a true brother of mine," exclaimed Leonora, with a radiant face, drawing the boy closer to her heart.

"And what did you reply to Charles, mother?" asked the invalid.

"'You are my only son, and my heart would break if I should lose you. But you are right; it would be a disgrace for our whole family if it did not furnish a single soldier to the king and the fatherland, and if no substitute should enlist in your father's place, and revenge him on the French for crippling hiin at Jena. I will go with you to the military commission to-morrow, and we will pray the gentlemen to accept you, although you are still under age. We will pray them until they overlook your youth and enroll your name. But say nothing about it to father until we have been successful; then, tell him all.'"

"And you really went with him to the commission?" asked the old man, hastily.

His wife responded by nodding and sighing, and burst again into tears.

"Yes, father," exclaimed the boy, raising his head from Leonora's shoulder, and drying his eyes with an angry gesture, "we went to the military commission. We begged, implored, and wept! It was all in vain! They said they were not allowed to accept boys of fourteen; I was too young, and looked too feeble. In our despair we went to Eylert, the preacher, and begged him to intercede for me. He is always kind to me, and often praises me for my industry in preparing for confirmation. I revealed my whole heart to him; I told him I must consider myself disgraced, if now, that every one who is not a coward is taking the sword, I am compelled to go to school. I told him I should not dare to raise my eyes, and should think all the inhabitants would point with their fingers at me; the children in the streets would deride me; and the old men would contemptuously avert their heads when I passed them."

"Ah, my beloved brother," exclaimed Leonora, enthusiastically, "hitherto I have loved you as a child, but henceforth I shall love as a hero!"

"But it was all in vain," cried Charles, sobbing aloud in his grief and anger. "Even M. Eylert could not give us any comfort. He said it was impossible for the commission to accept me, for, though they overlooked my youth and my somewhat feeble health, they could not enroll me because I had not yet been confirmed. But as we begged so very hard, and shed so many tears, M. Eylert had at last pity on me, and went with us once more to the military commission. But it was of no avail. I am under age and have no certificate of confirmation, and M. Eylert's intercession was fruitless. [Footnote: Eylert, "Frederick William III.," vol. ii., p. 160.] They rejected me! Father, what am I to do now? I am doomed to remain here at Potsdam, with my tall figure, which will charge me with cowardice in the eyes of every one, while my schoolmates, who are much shorter than I am, are allowed to enlist and fight for their country. Oh, mother, why am I not your eldest child'? Then I should he preserved from the disgrace of running about as a coward, or of being obliged to have my certificate of birth constantly in my pocket!"

"My brother," said Leonora, laying her strong white hand on her brother's light hair, "if I could give you the four years by which I am older than you, I would do so, though it should cost me my life, for I comprehend your grief. But I am innocent of your affliction, and I pray you, therefore, not to be angry with me. It was God's will that I should be older, and have your place. You must take into consideration that the war may last a long time; six months hence you will be confirmed, and then it will be time for you to enlist in the king's army, and fight for liberty. Besides, my dear brother, it is not even settled yet whether all these warlike preparations are really intended for France. To be sure, every one is in hope that such is the case, but as yet no one is sure of it, for the king has not declared his intentions, and he is still at peace with France."

"No, the king has declared his intentions," cried Charles, impetuously. "And that is exactly what causes my distress and my despair. It is certain now that there will be war with France. You do not know, then, what has occurred?"

"No," exclaimed father and daughter at the same time, "we do not—we have not yet seen any one. Tell us the news, Charles."

"Well, we heard already at the office of the military commission that a courier had just arrived from Breslau, and brought a proclamation, addressed by the king to his people; they said it had immediately been sent to the printing-office, and was to be posted on all the street corners. The courier, besides, brought the news that the Emperor of Russia had arrived at Breslau, and that the first visit was to Baron von Stein, who secretly lived at Breslau."

"Hurrah!" shouted old Prohaska. "Prussia is safe now, for Baron von Stein is back again, and he will know how to expel Napoleon and his French from the country. Where Minister von Stein is he tolerates no French, and that is the reason why Bonaparte hates him, and has always been afraid of him. My boy, this is glorious news! Stein is back again; now we shall be all right! Have you any other news?"

"Yes, there is a great deal yet, father, but the tears burst from my eyes when I think of it, because I am unable to participate in the struggle."

"Oh, what is it?" begged Leonora. "What else has happened at Breslau?"

"Well," said Charles, in a tremulous and melancholy voice, "the courier reports that many hundreds of volunteers are arriving every day, not only from all parts of Prussia, but the whole of Germany, and that the city is rejoicing as though a festival were to be celebrated, and not as though we were on the eve of a terrible war. Above all, there is Major von Lutzow, round whose standard hosts of young men are rallying, enlisting a corps of volunteer riflemen, to whom he has given the name of 'The Legion of Vengeance.' They are to wear a black uniform as sign of the sorrow and disgrace that have weighed down the fatherland since 1806, and which they intend to avenge before discarding it."

"Oh, that is a grand idea," exclaimed Leonora, with flashing eyes. "To march out in mourning—to rush to the battlefield like angels of death and shout, 'We are the legion of avengers, sent by Prussia to atone for her disgrace! Our uniform is black, but we intend to dye it red in the blood of the French!' And then to fight exultantly in the thickest of the fray for the fatherland, and for our queen, whose heart was broken by the national dishonor and wretchedness! Oh, it must be blissful, indeed, to march with that legion to avenge the tears of Queen Louisa, and—"

"But Leonora!" cried her mother, staring in amazement at the young girl who stood before her with glowing cheeks, panting bosom, and uplifted right arm, as if she had just drawn the sword—"but, Leonora! what is the matter with you? What does your impulsiveness mean? Has Charles infected you with his enthusiasm? Do you want to increase the excitement and despair of the poor boy? He cannot join the 'Legion of Venegance;' he cannot be one of Lutzow's riflemen!"

"No," said Leonora, vehemently and almost triumphantly, "HE cannot be one of Lutzow's riflemen!"

"Leonora!" cried her father, in a warning tone, "Leonora, what are you saying?"

She started and dropped her arm. "It is true," she muttered to herself, "we should not betray our thoughts; God alone must know them."

Her father limped to her, and, laying his hands on her shoulder, looked into her excited and glowing face. "Come, my daughter," he said, "let us go out into the street and read what the king says to his people. For I believe the king's proclamation must have been printed by this time. Come, Leonora!"

"No, it is unnecessary for you to go into the street for that purpose, father," said Charles, "we have brought a copy of the proclamation; the man who was to post them gave us one for you, saying it would no doubt gladden your heart. Where did you leave it, mother?"

"I put it into my pocket. Here it is!" said the mother, taking a large printed sheet from the pocket hanging under her apron. "There, father, read it."

The old man took the paper and handed it to Leonora.

"Read it to us, my child," he said, tenderly. "I like best to hear from your lips what the king says to his people."



CHAPTER XXIV.

JOAN OF ORLEANS.

Leonora took the paper and read as follows, with crimson cheeks, and her heart aglow with enthusiasm:

"To my People!—I need not state the causes of the impending war either to my faithful people or to the Germans in general. Unprejudiced Europe is fully aware of them. We succumbed to the superior strength of France. The peace which wrested from me one- half of my subjects, did not confer any blessings upon us, but inflicted deeper wounds upon us than war itself. The enemy was bent on exhausting the resources of the country; the principal fortresses remained in his hands; agriculture was paralyzed, and so were the manufactures of our cities, which had formerly reached so proud an eminence; trade was everywhere obstructed, and the sources of prosperity were thus almost entirely ruined. The country was rapidly impoverished. By the most conscientious fulfilment of the engagements I had taken upon myself, I hoped to mitigate the onerous burdens imposed upon my people, and to convince the French emperor at length that it was to his own advantage to leave Prussia in the enjoyment of her independence; but my best intentions were foiled by arrogance and perfidy; and we saw only too plainly that Napoleon's treaties, even more than his wars, would slowly and surely ruin us. The moment has come when all deceptions have ceased. Brandenburgians, Prussians, Silesians, Pomeranians, Lithuanians! you know what you have suffered for seven years past; you know what your fate would be if we should not succeed in the struggle about to begin. Remember the history of the past; remember the noble elector; the great and victorious Frederick; remember what our ancestors conquered with their blood—freedom of conscience, honor, independence, commerce, industry, and science; remember the great examples of our powerful allies, especially the Spaniards and the Portuguese. Even smaller nations, for the same blessings, entered into a desperate struggle with more powerful foes, and achieved a glorious victory. Remember the heroic Swiss and Dutch. Great sacrifices will be required of all classes, for our undertaking is a great one, and the numbers and resources of our enemies are not to be underrated. You will prefer to make these sacrifices for the fatherland and your legitimate king rather than for a foreign ruler, who, as is proved by many examples, would devote your sons and your last resources to objects entirely foreign to you. Confidence in God, courage, perseverance, and the assistance of our allies, will crown our honest exertions with victory. But whatever sacrifices may be required, they are not equivalent to the sacred objects for which we make them, and for which we must fight and conquer, if we do not wish to cease being Prussians and Germans. It is the last, decisive effort which we make for our existence, our independence, our prosperity. There is no other issue than an honorable peace or a glorious overthrow. You would not shrink even from the latter, for honor's sake. But we may confidently hope for the best. God and our firm determination will make us victorious, and we shall then obtain peace and the return of happier times."

"FREDERICK WILLIAM. BRESLAU, March 17, 1813."

[Footnote: This proclamation was drawn up by Counsellor von Hippel, who proposed that the king should apply to his people directly, and call upon them to rise against the French. He communicated it to the chancellor of state at one of the conferences held every evening at Breslau, at Hardenberg's rooms, in presence of Gneisenau, Scharnhorst, Thile, and a few others. Hardenberg and all the rest approved it, and so did the king, when it was laid before him on the following day.—Vide Hippel's work on the "Life of Frederick William III.," p. 63.]

A pause ensued when Leonora ceased reading. Her father, who was standing by her side, and was supporting his hands on his crutch, heard her with a very grave face. Her mother sank down on one of the cane chairs, and listened devoutly, her hands clasped, and her eyes turned toward heaven; while her son, who was sitting by her side, leaned his arms on the table, and buried his face in his hands.

"Is that all?" asked the invalid, after a while. "I should really like to hear more of it, for it sounds as sacred as a church organ. Did you read it all, Leonora?"

"No, father, there is still another manifesto. It is printed under the one I read to you. You yourself must read it, for my heart is throbbing as if about to burst. In his second manifesto the king orders a 'landwehr' and a 'landsturm' to be formed. Listen to what he says at the end of this second manifesto: 'My cause,' he says, 'is the cause of my people, and of all patriots in Europe.'"

"Yes, he is right," said old Prohaska; "the king's cause is our cause!"

"Queen Louisa died for us all," exclaimed Leonora; "we should all join the Legion of Vengeance—that is, to avenge her death!"

"And I—I cannot do any thing," wailed Charles, raising his face, which was bathed in tears, and lifting up his hands as if supplicating God to help him. "I must wait and suffer here; I am doomed to remain a boy while my school-fellows have become men."

"Hush," said his mother, "an idea strikes me; we may, after all, be somewhat useful to our country, though we are unable to furnish soldiers for it. There is a great deal to be done besides fighting. The king's manifesto says expressly: 'Great sacrifices will be required of all classes.' Well, then, my dear ones, let us make sacrifices for the fatherland and our king!"

"What sacrifices do you mean, mother?" asked the invalid. "What have we, if we cannot furnish any soldiers?"

"We have our labor," exclaimed his wife, with pride. "When there is war, and battles are fought, there are wounded soldiers, I suppose?"

"Of course, and cripples, too," said the invalid, pointing to his wooden leg.

"And the wounded are brought home and conveyed to the hospitals, are they not? Who is to attend to them, to dress their wounds, give them food, and nurse them? We women will do so! That is our task! I will nurse the first wounded brought to Potsdam. The first maimed soldier, however, whom I meet at the hospital, and whose right leg has been amputated as that of my dear husband, we shall take to our house. You may nurse him here, old man; console him and show him that he may live quite happily, though with but one leg, and that wife and children will love their husband and father no less ardently, provided he is a true man, and has a courageous heart."

"You are right, mother," exclaimed Prohaska. "Let us take a wounded soldier into our house, and I will nurse him as a brother, teaching him how to use his wooden leg, while you are at the hospital, attending to the other sufferers. But you have not thought of the children. What are Leonora and Charles to do while we are thus engaged?"

"They can help us," said his wife, quickly. "Leonora will have a great deal to do. She will prepare lint, make nourishing soups, wash bandages, and sew shirts and clothing."

The invalid cast a quick glance on Leonora. She stood, drawn up to her full height, in the middle of the room; a proud, contemptuous smile was playing about her lips, which uttered no word in reply to her mother's plans.

"But what will Charles do?" asked Prohaska, quickly. "He cannot be as useful as his sister."

"Father!" ejaculated Leonora, somewhat reproachfully.

"Hush!" he said, almost sternly, "mother is right; it behooves you women to prepare lint, cook soups, nurse the wounded, and sew shirts for them. But war itself is the task of the men. But, my wife, before telling me what Charles is to do for our wounded, I must ask a very sad question. Where shall we find money for the expenses we shall have to incur? We are unfortunately poor, dependent on the labor of our hands. This small house and my pension of three dollars a month constitute our whole fortune, and if you were not the most skilful hair-dresser in Potsdam—if I could not besides earn a few dollars by making baskets, and if Leonora were not the best seamstress in town, I should like to know how we could live and send Charles to the Lyceum. But if we are to nurse the wounded, and devote our labor to them alone, we shall unfortunately soon lack the necessaries of life."

"I have thought of all that, husband," said his wife, eagerly. "But, listen to me! Charles wants also to have his share in our sacrifices, he does not intend to be idle while all are at work to promote the welfare of the country. As he cannot enlist and fight, he must use his head. He will, therefore, publish this advertisement: 'As I have unfortunately been rejected by the military commission on account of my youth, and because I have not yet been confirmed, I request generous patriots to allow me to give private lessons to their children, that I may earn a sufficient sum to nurse and support a wounded soldier till his complete recovery.'"

"Yes, I will do that!" exclaimed Charles. "The citizens will learn then why I have not enlisted, and I shall, moreover, be able to earn money for the country. I shall certainly get pupils, for my teachers are pleased with me, and I am already in the first class. I can give lessons in Latin, Greek, mathematics, and history; I have good testimonials, and, for the sake of the noble object I have in view, parents will assuredly intrust their children to me, and pay me well for my trouble."

"All of you will have employment, then," said Leonora, "and your labor will benefit the country. But I also want to render myself useful to the country."

"Well, you can assist me," said her mother; "you can prepare food, wash, and sew shirts."

"However industrious I might be, mother, I could in that way earn only as much as my own support would cost," said Leonora, shaking her head. "I can be of no use to you, I am superfluous; I will go therefore to another place, where I can render myself useful and make money."

"But whither do you intend to go, and what do you wish to do?" asked her mother in amazement, while her father cast searching glances upon her.

"To Berlin, and seek a situation as saleswoman," said Leonora. "What money I earn I shall send to you, and you will spend it for your wounded soldier. You know, mother, my godfather, Rudolph Werkmeister, who is a merchant at Berlin, has often asked me to go to see him, and take such a situation at his house. I have always refused, because I did not like to leave you, but thought I would stay with you and devote my whole life to nursing you; but God has decreed otherwise. Yesterday my godfather wrote again, stating that his wife had been taken sick, and that he was greatly embarrassed because he had no one at his house on whom he could depend. He offers me a salary of eighty dollars a year. Now, I pray you, dear parents, let me go! Let me pursue my own paths, and do my duty as I understand it. Dear mother, I am sure you will not refuse your consent? You will permit me to go this very day to Berlin, and make money for our wounded soldiers?"

"I will, my child," said her mother, her voice trembling with emotion. "I have no diamonds and golden chains to give my country, so I give to it the most precious and beautiful jewels I have—my children. Yes, go, my Leonora; take the situation offered you, and give the money you earn to the fatherland and its soldiers."

"Oh, thanks, mother!" exclaimed Leonora, hastening to her and clasping her in her arms—"thanks, for permitting me to put my mite on the altar of the country!" She kissed her mother with fervent tenderness, and then turned toward her father. "And you, father," she said, in a low and almost timid tone—"you do not say a word— you do not give your consent."

The invalid stood leaning on his crutch, and looked thoughtfully into the noble face of his daughter. He then slowly raised his right hand and laid it on Leonora's shoulder. "I repeat what your mother said. Like her, I have no treasures to give my country except this jewel, my Leonora! Go, my daughter!—do what you believe to be your duty, and may God bless you!" Opening his arms, she threw herself into them and leaned her head on his breast.

"And now," said Prohaska, gently disengaging himself from a long and tearful embrace, "let us be calm. These are the first tears I have wept since the death of our dear Queen Louisa—the first for your sake, my Leonora! May the Lord forgive them to a poor father who has but one daughter! The heart will yield to its emotions, but now I must again be a soldier, who knows no tears!"

"But, husband, Leonora will not leave us immediately," said her mother. "She must remain yet a day with us. Alas! we discover what treasures we possessed only when we lose them. I believe I have never loved Leonora so intensely as I do at this hour, and my heart is unable to part with her so suddenly. I must first accustom myself to the separation, and engrave her image upon my soul, that I may never forget her dear features. Let her stay, then, until to- morrow!"

The invalid gravely shook his head. "No," he said; "what is to be done must be done at once; otherwise, our hearts will grow weak, and our tears soften our resolutions. To-day I can permit Leonora to leave us; whether I shall be able to do so to-morrow, I do not know."

"Father, the stage-coach starts for Berlin in two hours, and I shall take passage in it!" exclaimed Leonora, quickly. "You are right, what is to be done must be done now, and when we have taken a resolution, we must not hesitate to carry it into effect. I will go to my chamber and pack my trunk."

"I will go and help you," said her mother, hastening toward the door, and leaving the room with Leonora.

"And I will write my advertisement," said Charles. "It must be published to-morrow, that I am obliged to stay here because my country will not accept me as a soldier, and that I desire to give private lessons, the proceeds of which are to be devoted to the support of a wounded soldier."

"And I—what shall I do?" asked the old invalid, when he was alone. "I must swallow my tears, and tell no one my thoughts. I shall quietly accustom myself to the idea that the darling of my heart, my Leonora, is to leave me, and that my old eyes are to see no more her dear face, or my ears hear her voice. Ah, when she looked at me, I felt as though it were spring in my heart, and the sun shining there; and when I heard her voice I thought it music rejoicing my soul. Now, how quiet and gloomy all around me will be in the small house—no more sunshine or music! all will be gone when Leonora is gone. And will she come back, then?—will not some bullet, some sword-blade—hush, my thoughts! I must not betray them! Be still, my heart, and weep! Be still and—" Tears choked his voice, and the strong man, overwhelmed with grief, sank into his easy-chair and sobbed aloud. After a long time he raised himself again and dried his tears. "Fie, Sergeant Prohaska!" he said aloud. "You sit here and cry like an old woman, and wring your hands in grief, instead of being glad and thanking the Lord that a substitute has been found for the invalid sergeant with the wooden leg. Thunder and lightning, Sergeant Prohaska! I advise you to behave yourself, and not be weak and foolish, while women are becoming men. Keep your head erect, turn your eyes on the enemy, and then, 'Charge them!' as old father Blucher used to say. I will go to work now," he continued, drawing a deep breath, after repeatedly pacing the small room with measured steps. "Yes, I will go to work, and that no one may discover that I have wept, I will sing a beautiful song I learned yesterday from a volunteer. Yes, I will work and sing!" He hastened to the chamber adjoining the sitting-room, and brought from it a neat half-finished basket upon which he had been at work the day before. "It must be finished to-day; I have promised it," he said, sitting down on his old easy-chair. He then commenced working assiduously, and sang in a powerful voice:

"Nun mit Gott! Es ist beschlossen! Auf, Ihr wackern Streitgenossen, Endlich kommt der Ehrentag! Besser flugs und f rohlich sterben, Als so langsam bin verderben, Und versiechen in der Schmach."

"Endlich darf das Herz sich regen, Sich die Zunge frei bewegen, Alle Fesseln sind eutzwei. Ach, da Alles schier zerstoben, Kam der Retterarm from oben, Neugeboren sind wir, fred!"

"Tag der Freiheit, Tag der Wonne! Bruder, seht! es tanzt die Sonne, Wie am ersten Ostertag! Todte sprengen ihre Grufte, Und durch Berg und Thai und Klufte Hallt ein freudig Jauchzen nach!"

"Auferstanden, auferstanden Aus der Knechtschaft Todesbanden, Streiter Gottes, nun zu Hauf! Unsre Adler! Ha sie wittern Ihrer Raub—die Feinde zittern, Unsre Adler fahren auf!"

"Zu den Waff en, zu den Rossen, Auf, Ihr wackern Kampfgenossen Er ist da, Der Ehrentag! Besser flugs und frohlich sterben, Als so langsam hin verderben, Und versiechen in der Schmach!"

[Footnote: It is resolved in God's great name! Up, comrades! to the field of fame! This day of glory save. Quickly and merrily to die Is better than the sick-bed sigh, And an unhonored grave.

Our heart at last resumes its life— Our tongues now urge to holy strife; The broken chains we see. When all seemed lost, a saving hand From heaven vouchsafes to bless our land, And make us strong and free.

O happy day! The sun new-born Is dancing as on Easter morn! See, risen brothers, see!

"We come from slavery's grave unbound, And mountains and the vales resound With songs of jubilee.

Ascending from Oppression's night, Behold the dawn of freedom's light! Soldiers of God, arise! The enemy will rue this day, For victory's eagle scents the prey And onward quickly flies.

To arms! to horse! my comrades brave! And let the battle-standard wave, For now is honor's day. The dying shout of bloody strife Is better than the pining life That sinks by slow decay."]

"Yes, it is better to die quickly and merrily than slowly pine away and perish in disgrace," repeated a sonorous voice behind him. It was Leonora, who had just entered the room, unnoticed by her father, and had listened to the last verse of his song. "Yes, the song is right," she said, enthusiastically. "But I, father, have already been pining away for a long time. The first volunteer I saw was as a dagger that pierced my soul, and ever since I have been ill and suffering, and in my heart a voice has been continually singing the words I once heard at the theatre: 'I wish to be a man!'"

"And why do you wish to be a man?" asked her father, bowing his head, and seemingly devoting his whole attention to his work.

"Because a man is allowed to do freely and boldly what he deems right and good," replied Leonora; "because, when the fatherland calls him, he may step forth with a bold front, and reply: 'Here I am! To thee, my country, belongs my arm—my blood! For thee I am ready to fight, and if need be to die!' Father, when a man talks thus, his words are sublime—the women clasp their hands and listen devoutly to him, and the children fall on their knees and pray for him. But if a girl talk thus, it would be as mockery; the women would deride their heroic sister, and the children point at and shout after her, 'Look at the foolish girl who wants to do what is solely the task of man! Look at the crazy one, who imagines she can do men's work!' Her most sacred sentiments, her most patriotic desires and resolutions, would be mercilessly ridiculed!"

"That is the reason, my child," said her father, calmly laboring at his basket, "why she should not betray her sentiments, and confide her thoughts to God alone. Have you forgotten what Charles read to us about Joan of Orleans? She left her parents silently and secretly, and went whither God called her."

"But her father cursed and disowned her for it," said Leonora, in a tremulous voice. "Do you think her father was right, merely because she followed the voice of God, and went out to deliver her king and country?"

"No," said Prohaska, laying his basket aside and rising, "I do not; I was always indignant when that particular passage was read to us."

"And what would you have said, father?" asked Leonora, in a tone of profound emotion. "Imagine me to be Joan, the inspired maid of Orleans, and that I say: 'Father, I cannot remain any longer in this narrow dwelling. The voice of the king and the fatherland has penetrated my heart also, and has called me. I must obey it, for I feel courageous and strong enough, and it would be cowardly to disobey.' What would you say if I were Joan of Orleans, and should talk thus to you?"

"I should say, 'Kneel down, my Leonora, and receive my last blessing,'" replied Prohaska, straightening himself and approaching his daughter.

Leonora knelt down, and, raising her tearful eyes to her father, whispered: "What blessing would you give me if I were Joan of Orleans? Oh, think I am she, and give me your blessing!"

"If you were Joan of Orleans," responded the old man, solemnly, "and should kneel before me as you do now, and ask my blessing, I should, as I do now, lay my hands on your head, and say to you: 'God the Lord, who holds heaven and earth in His hand, and without whose will not a hair falls from our head, watch over you and protect you! May He be with you on the battle-field! May He give you a brave heart, a strong arm, and a steady eye! May He give you courage to brave death! Yon have chosen men's work, you have pledged your love and your life to the fatherland; go, then, and be a man; love your country like a man, fight like a man, and, if need be, die like a man!' But when your last hour has come, my daughter, think of your father, and pray to God with your last thoughts that He may soon deliver me also, and take me away, for I shall feel lonely on earth when you are no more, and even the victorious shouts of the returning would no longer gladden my old soldier's heart if I find you not among the conquerors. But, hush! let no tear desecrate this secret hour of our last farewell! God has called all strong and courageous hearts—follow His call! It is incumbent on every one to love his country more intensely than parents, brothers, and sisters. Go, then, my daughter; do your duty, and remember that your father's blessing will be with you in life as well as in death! And now, give me a last kiss."

Leonora rose from her knees, and, encircling his neck with her arms, pressed a glowing kiss on his lips. "Father," she said, looking at him with a beaming face, "my lips have not yet kissed any man's lips but yours, and here I swear to you—and may God have mercy on me at my last hour if I do not keep my oath!—I swear to you that I shall kiss no man until I am permitted to return to you, my father!"

"I believe you, dear Leonora," said Prohaska, solemnly.

"Leonora, my child, it is time now!" exclaimed her mother, hastily entering the room. "The postilion has already passed our house, and in a quarter of an hour the stage-coach will stop at our door. I have myself gone to the postmaster, and he granted it as a favor that the stage-coach should stop here, and thus save you the trouble of going to the post-office. This will enable you to remain with us fifteen minutes yet."