"But my trunk, mother; we have to take it to the post-office?" asked Leonora.

"Oh, it would have been too heavy for us," said Mrs. Prohaska; "Charles and two of his school-mates are just carrying it to the post-office. Leonora's trunk is quite heavy, father. Thank God, she is well provided, and for the first year it will be quite unnecessary for her to buy any thing."

"My dear mother would indeed have packed up all her own things and dresses for me if I had not prevented her," said Leonora, smiling.

"I should like best to pack up my own heart for you, my dear child," exclaimed her mother, deeply moved, "but, as I could not do so, I put my bridal dress into your trunk. It is a nice silk dress, and I have worn it only three times in my life—on my wedding-day, and on the days when my two children were baptized; it is as good as new. I suppose, husband, you will permit me to give it to her?"

"Of course, but what is she to do with it?" asked Prohaska.

"Why, what a question!" exclaimed Mrs. Prohaska, "she is to wear it, and look pretty when she goes to parties on Sundays. Leonora, I suppose you will know what to do with it?" "Yes, mother, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the beautiful present, and I promise you that I shall use it only in a noble and worthy manner," said Leonora, gravely. "My mother's bridal dress shall not be worn for frivolous purposes, but it shall serve me to attain the highest and purest objects."

"Oh, I know," whispered the mother, who was scarcely able to restrain her tears, "I know that you are an excellent girl, and a good daughter, and that you will never do any thing of which your old parents would have to be ashamed. You have always been my pride and joy, and never would I consent to part with you unless every one had now to make the greatest sacrifices for the king and the fatherland. But still it is very painful, and—"

"Wife," interposed the old sergeant, "no tears now! When we are alone we shall have time enough for weeping. As long as Leonora is here, let us gaze at and rejoice in her.—I have to give you a commission yet. Go to my general, old Blucher, and tell him he ought not to be angry with me—that he must not believe me a lazy coward because I do not go to the war. Tell him that my leg had to be amputated some time after the battle, and that he ought to excuse my absence when the roll is called."

"I will assuredly repeat your words to the general, father."

"Why!" asked Mrs. Prohaska, wonderingly, "is General Blucher now at Berlin?"

"No," said her husband, carelessly, "he is at Breslau, whither all the volunteers are marching."

"But how is Leonora, then, to repeat your words to him?" asked his wife, in amazement.

"Father means that I shall tell General Blucher when he comes to Berlin?" said Leonora, quickly. "They say Blucher will come soon to expel the French from the capital, and father thinks I might then repeat those words to his old chieftain."

"Sister, sister, the stage-coach is coming," shouted Charles, rushing breathlessly into the room. "The postilion has already blown his bugle for the third time!"

"Well, then, my child, we must part," said the old sergeant, deeply moved, and clasping Leonora in his arms. "God bless you, my daughter! Your father's thoughts will always be with you!" He disengaged himself from her arms, and pushed her gently toward her mother. The two women remained a long time locked in each other's arms. Neither of them said a word, but their tears and their last looks were more eloquent than words.

"And you forget me?" asked Charles, reproachfully. "You do not care to take leave of me?"

Leonora released herself from her mother's embrace, and encircled her brother's neck with her arms. "Farewell, darling of my heart!" she cried. "Be a good son to father and mother, and remember that you must henceforth love them for both of us. Farewell, brother, and forgive me for being born earlier than you, and thus preventing your being in my place. God decreed it thus, putting us in our own places, and we must both fill them worthily."

"Yes," said Charles, amid his tears, "certainly we will."

A carriage was rattling over the pavement, and stopped in front of the house. A bugle sounded.

"Father, mother, and brother, farewell!" exclaimed Leonora. Then, raising her arms to heaven, she added: "God in heaven, watch over them, and, if such be Thy will, let me return to them!" She hastily wrapped herself in her cloak, and, without looking at them again, rushed out of the room, and jumped into the coach.

"Farewell, farewell!" shouted father, mother, and brother, who had followed her, and were standing in front of the house.

She leaned her head out of the coach window. "Farewell," she exclaimed, "and God—" The bugle drowned her words; the carriage rolled away.

The loving relatives gazed after it until it had disappeared around the next corner, and then returned sighing into the small house. Charles hastened to his little chamber up-stairs to give vent to his grief. The parents returned to their sitting-room. "Oh, how still it is here now, as still as in the grave," sighed Mrs. Prohaska, "for I miss my child, and will miss her everywhere. Oh, husband, my heart aches, and I feel as though I had lost my Leonora forever! Ah, why did we allow her to go? Why did we not keep her here, our child, our only daughter? Oh! if she should never return, if she should die! O God, have mercy on a poor mother's heart—protect my dear child!" She sank down on a chair, and, covering her face with her apron, sobbed aloud.

The old sergeant paced the room in silence. He scarcely knew that the tears, like large pearls, were running down his cheeks into his gray beard. The loud sobs of his wife aroused him. "Hush, wife; hush!" he said, standing in front of her. "It is too late now for weeping. Let us rather be glad, for Leonora is possessed of a brave heart, and has done her duty toward her country and her old invalid father. Let us, therefore, be glad, and sing!" And he commenced to sing in a tremulous voice, while the tears were still rolling from his eyes:

"Ihr Deutsche auf in Sud und Nord! Hinweg gemeiner Neid! Wir alle reden eine Sprach' Und stehen air fur eine Sach' Im ehrenvoilen Streit!"

"Und wer sich feig entzieht dem Kampf Fur Freiheit und fur Ehr', Wer nicht das Schwertergreift zur Stund! Der leb' und sterb' als schlechter Hund, Der sei kein Deutscher mehr!"

[Footnote: Arise, ye Germans, North and South! And honor's path pursue. Since all one common language speak And all one sacred object seek, Your jealousies subdue.

Let him who shirks his country's call, To freedom and to fame, Both live and die a cowardly hound, Despised wherever may be found A man of German name.]



CHAPTER XXV.

THE NATIONAL REPRESENTATIVES.

Leonora Prohaska reached Berlin at four o'clock in the afternoon. On the way, closing her eyes, she leaned back on the cushions, so that her companions paid little attention to her, whom they believed to be asleep. But Leonora heard every word, and every conversation of her fellow-travellers strengthened her soul and restored her former courage. They spoke of the enthusiasm in every city, village, and house—an enthusiasm spreading far beyond the frontiers of Prussia, and carrying all away as an irresistible torrent, drawing with it even the most cautious and timid, and filling the most desponding and disheartened with joyous hopes. One of the travellers was just returning from Breslau, and dwelt with impassioned eloquence on the bustle prevailing there; on the volunteers who were flocking in vast numbers to that city and parading every day under the king's windows; and on brave Major von Lutzow, who, with his beautiful young wife, had come to Breslau, and was endeavoring to live at a miserable tavern, because no other accommodations were to be had.

"And in the bar-room," he said, "beautiful Madame von Lutzow receives the names of the volunteers who wish to enlist in the Legion of Vengeance. Her husband is busily engaged, from dawn till late at night, in organizing his corps; in trying to procure arms, horses, and equipments for his men, and his handsome wife is his recruiting officer. She is as charming as an angel, the daughter of a wealthy count, and has, by her marriage with Major von Lutzow, contrary to her parents' wishes, so much exasperated her proud father that he gave her no dower, but imposed it as a condition of his consent that Major von Lutzow should marry without any. But the count's daughter joyously descended from the proud castle to the humble dwelling of the Prussian major, whom she loved on account of his bravery, and the scars which he bore on his forehead, and which he had received in 1806, in the war against the French."

"I know the lady," said the second traveller; "she is a daughter of the Danish Count von Ahlefeldt, a wonder of loveliness, grace, and refined manners. She hates the French as intensely as her husband, and it was precisely this common hatred of the French that brought them together."

"How so?" asked the other. "Pray tell us all about it."

"Several years ago, the young countess, attended by her governess, made a journey to a fashionable German watering-place. Both took dinner at the table d'hote of the 'Kurhaus,' where a crowd of persons from all countries were assembled. The neighbor of the young countess at the table happened to be a French officer, who managed to involve the young lady in a highly animated and interesting conversation. He told her in a very attractive manner of his campaigns and travels, and the young countess listened to him with pleasure and manifested her sympathy for him. The Frenchman dared to seize her hand and kiss it. The young countess started; a deep blush suffused her fair face, and, without reflecting, obeying only her first impulse, she took a glass of water which stood before her, and poured it over the hand which the Frenchman had dared to kiss. Several Prussian officers, seated near her had witnessed the occurrence, and, on noticing how she removed the stain of the French kiss from her hand, could not refrain from bursting into a loud cheer. One of them was Major von Lutzow. After dinner he approached the countess, was introduced to her by a mutual acquaintance, and expressed his ardent thanks, in the name of all Germans, for the bold rebuke she had administered to the Frenchman. That was the beginning of her acquaintance with Major von Lutzow, and the end of it was her marriage with him. [Footnote: I am indebted for an account of this occurrence to the Countess Ahlefeldt (formerly Madame Major von Lutzow) herself, who related it to me with charming naivete and grace.—L.] She is now at Breslau, and you have seen her."

"Yes, for I went to the major's headquarters with a friend who wished to enlist in his corps. We met there, however, only herself. She received my friend's request to enlist under her husband with so much grace, with such a look of joy—she dwelt in such soul-stirring words on the great and holy national war about to break out, and in which every one ought to participate, that I was quite fascinated by her eloquence, and would have enlisted at once if I had not already entered a landwehr regiment."

Not a word of this conversation escaped Leonora, and she said to herself: "I must make the acquaintance of this lady. I will go to her, mid she will enlist me for the German fatherland!"

The travellers continued their conversation, relating that Frederick William had not believed in the success of the first manifesto, in which he called for volunteers; and, for this reason, had not signed the manifesto which Chancellor von Hardenberg had drawn up; that four days afterward the king, who had just explained with unusual vehemence to General Scharnhorst the utter uselessness of this call, was interrupted by a strange noise in the street; and that, anxious to discover what was the cause, he stepped to the window, and General Scharnhorst followed him; that a line of at least eighty wagons had come in sight, and in them none but armed men were seated, who halted in front of the palace, and an aide-de-camp, who entered the room at that moment, informed the king that they were volunteers just arrived from Berlin; that Scharnhorst turned to him, and exclaimed triumphantly: "Will your majesty be convinced now that your people are ready to fight for you and the fatherland?" and that the king made no reply, but a flood of tears rushed from his eyes, and he smiled amidst his emotion.

At length Leonora arrived at Berlin. She stood alone beside her trunk in the court-yard of the royal post-office building. No notice was taken of her; no one manifested any sympathy for her; but she did not flinch, and her heart was free from doubt or anxiety. She sent for a hackney-coach by one of the boys playing in the court- yard, and then drove away. But she did not order the coachman to convey her to her godfather, Werkmeister, the merchant on Jager Street. Driving first to Tauben Street, the carriage stopped in front of a large, gloomy house. She alighted, and, begging the coachman to wait for her, slipped into the house. Quickly ascending three narrow flights of stairs, she reached a silent corridor, on both sides of which were small doors, and on each a number had been painted. Knocking at the door of number three, a female voice inquired, "Who is there?"

"It is I, Leonora Prohaska!"

A loud cry of joy resounded; the door was hastily opened, and a young soldier in full uniform appeared on the threshold. It was now Leonora who uttered a cry, and blushing drew back. "Pardon me," she said, timidly; "there must be a mistake. I am looking for my friend, a young milliner, named Caroline Peters."

The young soldier laughed, but it was the fresh, ringing laughter of a girl. "Then you really do not recognize me, Leonora?" he exclaimed. "You really take me for what I like to be and am not—a man?"

"Great Heaven! is it you?" exclaimed Leonora. "You—"

"Hush!" whispered the other, hastily drawing her into the room, and carefully locking the door. "For mercy's sake, let no one hear us! What a scandal it would be, if it should be discovered that Volunteer Charles Petersen receives the visits of pretty girls at his room! This hotel is entirely occupied by volunteers, and none of them suspect that I am a woman, nor shall they ever find it out. But now welcome, my dear Leonora, and tell me what has brought you to Berlin. Did you receive my letter?"

"Yes, Caroline, I did," said Leonora, gravely, "and it gave me pain, for you called me cowardly and destitute of honor, because I intended to stay at home when my country was in need of the arms of all its children, and when every one of any courage was participating in this holy struggle."

"And that is the truth, Leonora," exclaimed Caroline; "the fatherland has called us all, and those who do not listen to this call are cowards!"

"But who told you that I did not listen to it?" asked Leonora.

"What!" ejaculated Caroline, joyously. "Leonora, you, too—"

"Hush!" interrupted Leonora, "we must talk about all this afterward. I am in haste now, for there is a hackney-coach waiting for me at the door, and my trunk is on it. Tell me now quickly, Caroline, can I stay with you over night?"

"In female dress, Leonora? That would be hardly prudent."

"No, in male attire, Caroline."

"Oh, then you are a thousand times welcome here," exclaimed Caroline, encircling her with her arms, and drawing her to her heart.

"But I have not yet my male attire," said Leonora, smiling, "nor have I money to buy it. Give me, therefore, quickly, the name of some one who buys dresses, for I will drive to him immediately with my trunk, and sell all I have brought with me."

"Come, Leonora, I will accompany you," said Caroline. "I know at the Hospital Bridge a very patriotic and kind-hearted old Jew, to whom I have also sold my wearing apparel, and who paid me a very liberal price for it, when I told him that I wanted to buy a uniform for my brother. Let us drive there, but I will remain in the carriage while you go into the store, for he might recognize me. You will also find men's clothing, which you may purchase for your brother—that is to say, for yourself."

"Come, then, and let us make haste," said Leonora, drawing her friend with her.

Fifteen minutes afterward the hackney-coach halted in front of one of the second-hand clothing-stores near the Hospital Bridge, and Leonora alighted, holding in her arms a large package of dresses, shawls, skirts, and aprons, which she had taken from her trunk during the drive. Mr. Hirsch, the dealer in second-hand clothing, who was standing in front of his store, received her with a pleasant greeting, and invited her to enter and tell him what she wanted.

Leonora put the wearing apparel on the counter, and, drawing a deep breath, said in a tone of embarrassment, "I should like to sell these things, sir."

The Jew put his spectacles slowly on his nose, and then lifted up the dresses, one after another, contemplating them with scrutinizing glances.

"If he should not give me as much money as I need?" Leonora asked herself, anxiously, "if these things should not amount to so much that I cannot purchase a uniform?"

And old Hirsch, as if he heard the anxious question of her heart, said, shaking his head: "I cannot give very much for these few calico dresses and aprons. They are all very nice and well preserved, but of no value whatever."

"But there is also a silk dress, sir," said Leonora, in a tremulous voice, "an entirely new silk dress."

"New?" asked the Jew, shrugging his shoulders, drawing out the dress, and unfolding it with a sneer. "The dress is not new, for it is made after such an old fashion that it could be worn only at a masked ball; and the stuff is not worth any thing, either, for it is only half silk. It was just made to look at. It appears like heavy silk, but the oblique threads that make it look so heavy are all cotton. How much do you want for the whole, my pretty miss?"

"I do not know," said Leonora, in a low voice, "as much as you can give me for it."

"Yes, yes," grumbled the old man, "I am to give a great deal of money for very poor goods; that is what they all ask me to do. I will tell you, I cannot give you more than twelve dollars for the whole lot."

"Twelve dollars!" ejaculated Leonora, with such an expression of dismay that the Jew started, raising his green spectacles to his forehead, and fixing his small, twinkling eyes on Leonora.

"Twelve dollars!" repeated Leonora, and, no longer able to restrain her tears, she wrung her hands, and muttered: "It is all in vain, then! Twelve dollars arc not sufficient to buy a uniform and arms."

Hirsch heard her words. "What?" he asked, hastily. "You want to sell the dresses in order to buy a uniform and arms?"

"Yes, sir," replied Leonora, "my mother and I wanted to sell our dresses, because we hoped we would get money enough to buy my brother a complete uniform—a rifle, sword, and shako; for my brother intends to enlist in Lutzow's corps of riflemen."

"Your brother intends to enlist in Lutzow's corps of riflemen?" asked Hirsch, quickly. "Is that no pretext, eh? Do you not tell me so merely for the purpose of extorting money from me? Can you swear to me that that is why you wish to sell the dresses?"

"I can swear it by the great God in heaven, in whom we all believe," said Leonora, solemnly. "But I can prove it to you, too—"

"How so? In what way?"

"By buying a uniform for my brother here at your store. He is of the same height as I am, and has precisely the same figure: we are twins."

"And your brother intends to enlist in Lutzow's corps? Why did he not himself come to select a uniform?"

"He is at Potsdam, sir, and does not know that I am here. To-morrow is his birthday, and we want to surprise him by giving him his uniform to-morrow."

"And he shall have it!" exclaimed the Jew; "yes, he shall have it! I read in your eyes that you have told me the truth, my child, and that you do not want the money for frivolous purposes, but for the great cause of the German fatherland. I have also a heart for my country, and no one shall say that we Israelites do not feel and act like true Germans—that our hearts did not suffer under the disgrace which, for long years, has weighed down all Germany, and that we will not joyfully sacrifice our blood and our life; and, what is still more, our property, for the sake of the fatherland. Who was the first man at Berlin to make a voluntary contribution to this object? It was a Jew! The president of the Jewish congregation, M. Gumpert, made the first patriotic contribution. He sent three hundred dollars to the military commission, with the request that this amount might be spent for buying equipments for poor volunteers. [Footnote: Historical.] Our Gumpert was the first man who made a sacrifice for the benefit of the fatherland, and I do not wish to be the last. I made a mistake in appraising your things; I will do it over again, and what I can give I will give." He glanced again at the dresses; then shaking his head, and stroking the silk dress with his long, lean hand, he said, "How could I make such a mistake, and believe this stuff to be only half silk? It is all silk, heavy silk—and two dresses of the now fashionable tight cut can easily be made out of this splendid one. For this alone I will give you twenty dollars, and as for the other things, well, I will give you twenty dollars more."

"Oh," exclaimed Leonora, radiant with joy, and giving both her hands to the old Jew—"oh, you are a noble, generous man, a true patriot! I thank you, and may the delivered land some day reward you!"

"Ah, poor Hirsch cannot deserve great rewards at the hands of the fatherland," said the old man, sighing. "I am poor, I have not even a son whom I might give to the country, and intrust with the task of avenging me. I had a son, a good, dear boy; but, in 1807, when the French arrived here, he wished to defend our property against the soldiers who broke into our house; he grew very angry with the infamous ruffians, and called them and their emperor murderers and robbers. Thereupon they mortally stabbed him—they killed him before my own eyes! He was my only child, my only joy on earth! But, hush! this is no time for lamentations. I will rejoice—yes, rejoice, for the hour of vengeance has come, and we will pay the French for what wrongs they have inflicted on us. If I were not so old and feeble, I should myself willingly fight, but now I am only able to assist in equipping soldiers. Your brother shall become a soldier, my child; we will equip him for the Legion of Vengeance. He shall avenge my son, my innocent, beloved son, upon Napoleon the tyrant, and the French rabble, who have trampled us under foot so long and so disgracefully. Yes, yes, I will give you forty dollars for your things, but I will not give you the whole amount in cash. Look at this black uniform; it is quite new, the tailor delivered it only yesterday. Did not you tell me that your brother is of the same stature as you are?"

"Of the same stature and figure, for he is my twin-brother."

"Well, let us see if this uniform fits you."

Mr. Hirsch took out his tape-line, and measured Leonora's figure with the skill of au experienced tailor. He then applied the tape- line to the trousers and the coat of black cloth. "It fits splendidly," he exclaimed. "And here is also a nice silk vest that belongs to it. Now, listen to me! I charge you twelve dollars for the whole suit; you will, therefore, receive twenty-eight dollars in money. Now you will, in the first place, buy your brother a fine rifle, such as Lutzow's riflemen need. You will pay ten dollars for it; besides a sword and a shako, which will cost together five dollars. You will have thirteen dollars left. For this amount you will put a pair of good shirts and a new pair of boots into your brother's knapsack, and the remainder you will give him for pocket- money. Is it to be so? Is the bargain struck?" "Yes, the bargain is struck."

"Very well. Here is your uniform, and here are the twenty-eight dollars." He counted the shining dollars on the counter, and then pushed the money and the clothing toward Leonora. "Here is our Luztow's rifleman's uniform," he exclaimed.

"And here are the dresses, sir," said Leonora, handing the wearing apparel to the old man, but, while doing so, she quickly bent over it, and pressed a kiss on the silk dress.

Old Hirsch looked at her with amazement.

"It is my mother's bridal dress, sir," said Leonora, as if apologetically. "It was our greatest treasure, and I gave it only a farewell kiss."

The Jew looked down musingly. "Listen, my child," he said; "I must not sell this dress. I shall keep it until the war is over. If your brother gets safely back, you may bring him here, and, as a greeting of welcome, I will present your mother's bridal dress to him. But in return, he must do me a favor."

"What favor?"

"Whenever he cuts down a Frenchman, he is to shout, 'Moses Hirsch is avenged!' Moses was the name of my dear, unfortunate son, and I think he will sleep more calmly in his grave when he hears that his father has sent out an avenger of his death. Will you promise me, in your brother's name, that he will not forget to shout what I tell you?"

"I promise it! Whenever my brother cuts down a Frenchman, he will shout, 'Moses Hirsch is avenged!'"

"Thank you!" said Hirsch, greatly moved. "My son will hear it, and he will smile down from heaven on his old, lonely father. And now, my dear, beautiful child, good-by! Give me the package; I will take it for you to the carriage!"

"No, no, give it back to me," exclaimed Leonora, anxiously. But the old man did not listen to her. He took the package, and hastened with it out of his store to the hackney-coach.

Charles Petersen, at this moment, looked impatiently out of the window, and shouted to her friend to make haste.

Old Hirsch uttered a cry and stared at Caroline. "Great Heaven!" he exclaimed, "you in uniform—you a volunteer?"

"Ah," said Caroline, concealing her confusion by loud laughter, "I see what astonishes you. You confound me with my sister. I know she sold her dresses to you to buy a uniform and arms for me. Yes, it is difficult to distinguish us, for we greatly resemble each other. The reason is, we are twins."

"He has a twin-sister as you have a twin-brother," said Hirsch, turning to Leonora with a strange smile. "Hush! I understand all now. God protect the courageous twins! Coachman, start!"

"Whither?" asked the coachman.

"To M. Werkmeister's house, 23 Jager Street," replied Leonora, nodding a last greeting to the old Jew. The carriage wheeled away.

"What do you want at M. Werkmeister's?" asked Caroline.

"To pay him my last visit as a girl," said Leonora.

"Returning from his house, I shall divest myself of my female costume and become your comrade. Let us then go out together and buy my arms."

"But would it not be better for me to drive back to our hotel while you are Werkmeister's?" asked Caroline. "You have had the hackney- coach already above an hour, and we volunteers must be as economical as possible, in order to support ourselves as long as we can, and not become a burden to the state."

"That is true," said Leonora. "I will alight here, and you will be so kind as to take my trunk and the package to your quarters." The hackney-coach halted, and Leonora, wrapping herself in her shawl, leaped out of the carriage. "Drive back to Tauben Street, now," she said, "and assist the gentleman in carrying this trunk up to his room. But previously I will pay you the whole fare. How much do I owe you?"

"From the post-office to Tauben Street, four groschen," said the coachman, composedly.

"And besides?"

"Nothing else."

"How so—nothing else? You waited a good while in Tauben Street; we then drove hither, where you waited a long while again, and now you are about to return to Tauben Street."

"Yes; but in Tauben Street we took in a volunteer," said the coachman, whipping his horses in a gentle, caressing manner. "We hackmen never take any money for driving a volunteer. Every one must do as much for the fatherland as he can. You owe me, therefore, only four groschen."

"Here they are," said Leonora, handing the money to the hackman, "and we are much obliged to you."

"Oh, you are not obliged to me at all," said the hackman, "for you see I do not drive girls for nothing—only volunteers."

"To-morrow he will drive me, too, for nothing," said Leonora, gazing after the hackney-coach. "To-morrow I will no longer be a girl! For I am going now to bid a last adieu to my outward maidenhood and my past!" And she walked with resolute steps across the Gendarmes Market toward Jager Street.

"I must tell my dear godfather that I cannot accept his offer," she said to herself; "for, if I should not, he might perhaps write another letter to me to Potsdam, and mother: would then learn prematurely that I told her a falsehood, and am not now at my godfather's house; but when he knows that I cannot come, he will not write again, and no one will discover my plans."

There was an unusual throng to-day in front of the house No. 23 on Jager Street, where Werkmeister the merchant lived. It was not without difficulty that Leonora penetrated through the crowd to the door, where was to be seen a large placard, containing the following words: "Gold wedding-rings exchanged for iron ones here." Somewhat astonished at this strange inscription, Leonora entered the house, and stepped across the hall to the open door of her godfather's litting-room.

M. Rudolph Werkmeister, without looking attentively at her, presented her a small box containing a large number of glittering rings. "Please select one of these, and drop the gold ring into the aperture of the locked box," he said.

Leonora looked at him smilingly. "It is I, godfather," she said, offering him her hand.

"Ah, it is you, Leonora Prohaska," exclaimed M. Werkmeister, putting down the box. "You have received my letter, then, my child? You have at length made up your mind to comply with my wishes—to come to my house, and to assist my wife at the store and in the household? Well, you could not have come at a better hour, and I thank you for your kindness."

Leonora fixed her large dark eyes with an affectionate expression on the good-natured, pleasant face of the merchant, and stepping up to him laid both her hands on his shoulders. "Godfather, dear godfather," she said, greatly moved, "do not be angry with me, and forgive me for coming only to tell you I cannot accept your offer. Do not ask me why I cannot. I am not allowed to tell you the reason, but I know that, when you learn it some day, you will certainly approve what I have done. I really am no ungrateful girl, but I cannot come to you, dear M. Werkmeister. I have greater and holier duties to fulfil—duties to which God Himself has called me!"

"That is to say, my child, you do not wish to leave your poor old parents?" asked Mr. Werkmeister, in great emotion. "You will stay with them at their small house and eat the invalid's brown bread rather than live luxuriously at the beautiful capital of Prussia? You are right, perhaps, my child. You are the only joy of your parents, and I was selfish, perhaps, in trying to rob them of you. But, in doing so, I thought more of yourself, and desired to give a better and brighter sphere to your youth. But we must all pursue the paths which God and our conscience have marked out for us."

"Yes," exclaimed Leonora, enthusiastically, "you are right. Let me, therefore, pursue my own path, and may Heaven accompany me! You are not angry with me, then, godfather? You really are not? No? Now give me your hand, godfather, and let me take leave of you with an affectionate kiss!" She threw her arms round the old man's neck, and kissed him tenderly.

"But you do not intend to leave immediately?" asked M. Werkmeister, surprised. "You have not even seen my sick wife, and talk already of taking leave?"

"Ah, I must go. I have still much to attend to, and must leave Berlin to-night. But, tell me one thing! What is the meaning of the inscription at your door, and why is there such a crowd in front of your house?"

"They are reading the placard which I have hung out," said M. Werkmeister—"the request which I addressed to all patriots."

"And what do you request of them to do, godfather?"

"I request all families, and especially all wives and affianced brides, to bring their gold wedding-rings to me and receive iron ones in return; and in commemoration of these times, I have had ten thousand iron rings made, and the royal authorities approved my scheme and intrusted me with the collection of the gold ones. My request was published in the papers of this morning, and already more than thirty gold rings have been exchanged. Look, here are the iron ones. They are very neat, are they not?—the exact shape of genuine wedding-rings; only in place of the names, the inside contains the words, 'I gave gold for iron, 1813.' Read!"

"Oh, that is a very beautiful idea," exclaimed Leonora, contemplating the ring which he had handed her. "Such a memento will henceforth be the most precious ornament of all wives, and no gold will shine so brilliantly and be so valuable as these iron rings with which our women pledge their love to their native land. Ah, dear godfather, I would like to ask a favor of you. I am no wife, nor am I an affianced bride, and I have, therefore, no wedding-ring to give you. I have nothing but my heart, and in this heart there is no other love than that of country. Let me, therefore, offer it to the fatherland instead of gold, and give me for it an iron ring with the beautiful inscription: 'I gave gold for iron, 1813.'"

"There is a ring, my child; your heart is pure gold; let it remain so; then you will well deserve your ring!" He placed it on her finger, and she thanked him with a blissful smile.

"And now I go, dear godfather," said Leonora. "Farewell, and do not forget me! And—"

At this moment a lady entered the room. Her dress indicated poverty, and her face was pale and sunken, but her eyes were lit up with a noble enthusiasm. "The wedding-rings are exchanged here?" she asked.

"Yes, here."

She quickly drew two from her finger, and handed them to M. Werkmeister. "Take them," she cried. "One of these rings belongs to me, the other I drew from the finger of my dear husband. Ten years have elapsed since then; I have always worn them, and, although I have often suffered great privations, I could never part with my only treasure. But to-day I do so joyously. Give me my iron rings!" She took those handed her, and placed them on her finger. "Farewell, sir," she said. "These will be my daughter's heirloom, and I know she will rejoice over them." She had not yet crossed the threshold when another lady appeared, and another, and more followed in rapid succession. The newspapers, containing the request, had been read in the whole city; all the married women hastened to comply with it, and to lay down their wedding-rings on the altar of the fatherland. Leonora stood as if fascinated by the beautiful and soul-stirring scene. With radiant eyes she gazed at the ladies who came and received with joyous pride iron rings in exchange for gold ones—at the young women, who, blushing and with tearful eyes, gave up their first love-pledge—at the old matrons who came totteringly to exchange the golden reminiscences of the days of their youth for iron ornaments. [Footnote: On the first day about two hundred wedding-rings were exchanged.—Vide Beitzke, vol. i.] Tears of profound emotion fell from Leonora's eyes. She wished to embrace these women and thank them for their patriotism.

"I will also prove to the country how ardently I love it," she said to herself. "I will also make my sacrifices. I must go, Caroline is waiting for me. I must buy arms for the soldiers whom I intend to furnish." She shook hands with her godfather in silence. The crowd in front of the door receded before her, and allowed her to pass, filled with reverence for the women who returned from the solemn sacrifice they had made. She passed on, absorbed in her reflections. Once she raised her hand, and contemplated the iron ring on her finger. "I gave gold for iron!" she said, raising her dark eyes toward heaven. "I am now a bride, too, the bride of my country! Will it give me only iron for the gold of my love? Only a bullet or a sword-cut? No matter! I am the bride of the fatherland! I will live and die for it!" She was aroused from her musings by cheers suddenly resounding from the side of the Gendarmes Market. An immense crowd had assembled there, and shouted frantically, their faces beaming with joy.

"What is it?"

And a hundred jubilant voices replied: "General York is coming with the Prussians! The king has reinstated York! The court-martial has acquitted him!" [Footnote: York made his entry into Berlin at the head of the Prussian troops on the 17th of March, 1813, and was received with boundless enthusiasm.]

"Long live noble General York!" shouted the crowd. "York was the first man to take heart, and brave the French!"

"York is coming to Berlin!" shouted others, hurrying from the adjoining streets to the market-place. "York, with his Prussians, is outside the King's Gate, and to-morrow he will make his entry into Berlin!"

"Long live the brave general! All Berlin will meet him to-morrow, and cheer him who first drew his sword against the French! The new era is dawning on Prussia!"

"Yes, the new era is dawning on Prussia!" exclaimed Leonora. "We have long walked in sadness. But morning is breaking—the morning of freedom. Now we shall boldly raise our heads. The country has called us, and we all have heard the call, and are ready to conquer or die. Hail, brave York! The time of thraldom is past! We shall rise from the dust, and the Germans will now reconquer the sacred right of being Germans. Oh, my heart, rejoice! I am no longer a girl, I am one of Lutzow's riflemen, and to-morrow I shall go to Breslau, and add another soldier to the Legion of Vengeance. Farewell, Leonora Prohaska, farewell! Now you are a man, and your soul must be manly, strong, and hopeful. Long live Prussia!"



WAR AND AN ARMISTICE.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THEODORE KORNER.

Another corps of volunteers leaving Berlin had arrived at Breslau, and just alighted from their wagons on the large market-place, called the "Ring," and received their tickets for quarters at the city hall. Two of these volunteers, emerging from the building, descended arm in arm the steps of the front staircase. They were two young men of slight forms and strangely youthful appearance. Not the faintest down was around their fresh lips, and white and delicate were their foreheads. But no one was surprised at their tender age, for people were accustomed nowadays to see lads emulate manhood, believing that courage did not depend on years. By the side of aged men, boys who had just been confirmed were seen to enter the ranks of the volunteers, and handle their muskets with the same strength and energy as veteran soldiers. No one, therefore, particularly noticed the youthful age of the two volunteers who came forth from the city hall, and were now crossing the place arm in arm.

"Now our lot is cast," said one of them, with a smile. "We are soldiers!"

"Yes, we are soldiers," cried the other, "and we shall be brave ones, Caroline!"

"Caroline!" echoed the other, in dismay. "How imprudent! Did we not leave our female names with our wearing apparel at Berlin with the Jew, Leonora?"

"Ah, and you call me, too, by my female name," said Leonora, with a gentle smile. "No matter! it is all right enough so long as no one hears it. We have no secrets from each other, and we are, therefore, allowed to call each other by the names received at the baptismal font."

"But before the world we call ourselves differently now; I am Charles Petersen, and you—what is your name now, Leonora?"

"My name is Charles Renz," said Leonora, smiling. "That was the name of my dear teacher, to whom I am indebted for what little knowledge I have acquired, and who originally induced me to take the step I have ventured upon. He had been a soldier a long time, and loved his country and the royal family. History was his favorite study, and he told me of the heroic deeds of ancient nations in their struggles for liberty. His eyes beamed with transcendent ardor, and the words flowed from his lips like a stream of poetry. He taught me that, when the country was in danger, it was the duty of the women to take up arms in its defence, and that there was no more beautiful death than that on the field of honor. Joan of Orleans and the Maid of Saragossa were his favorite heroines, and he always called Queen Louisa the martyr of German liberty. When she died, three years ago, the first idea that struck me was, how my old teacher would bear up under this grief, and that it was incumbent upon me to comfort him. I hastened to him, and found him sad and disheartened. 'Now my hopes for Germany are gone,' he said, 'for the genius of German liberty has left us and fled to heaven. Beautiful and noble Queen Louisa might, perhaps, have still inspired the Germans to rise in arms against the tyrant; but she is dead, and liberty has died with her.' 'No,' I cried, 'no! liberty will blossom from her grave. Germany will rise to avenge the martyrdom of the queen; Germany's wrath will be kindled anew by the sufferings of this august victim that Napoleon's tyranny has wrung from us. Yes, the country will rise to avenge Louisa.' He gazed at me a long while, and his tears ceased to flow. After a prolonged pause he said: 'If it be as you say, if Germany take up arms, what will you do, Leonora? Will you stay at home, knit stockings, and scrape lint, or will you sacrifice your heart, your blood, your life, and be a heroine?' I exclaimed, joyously: 'I will sacrifice all to the fatherland, and help to achieve the victory, or die on the battle-field!' The eyes of my old teacher were radiant with delight. 'Swear it to me, Leonora,' he cried, 'swear to me, by all that is sacred—swear by the memory of our sainted Queen Louisa!' I laid my hand on the Bible, and swore by the memory of Queen Louisa to fight like a man and a hero. I am now about to fulfil my oath, and, as my dear old teacher has died, I have adopted his name as my inheritance, and call myself Charles Renz. It seems to me it is a doubly sacred duty now to be brave, for I must do honor to my teacher's name."

"And you will do so, I am sure," cried Caroline. "And I will do so, too, Leonora. No teacher has impelled me to love my native land. This sentiment is spontaneous; perhaps because I have nothing else to love. I am alone in the world; my dear parents are dead; I have no brothers or sisters, no lover; and inasmuch as I have nothing to love, I gave up my heart to hatred. I hate the French, and, above all, Napoleon, who has brought so much misery on Europe, and for ten years has spilt rivers of blood. It is hatred that has incited me— hatred has forced the sword into my hand, and when we go into battle, I shall not only call, like you, 'Long live the fatherland!' but add, 'Death to the tyrant Napoleon, the enemy of the Germans!' Yes, I hate this Bonaparte more intensely than I love my own life; and, as I could not stab him with the needle, with which I made caps and bonnets for the fair ladies of Berlin, I have cast it aside, and taken up the sword. That is my whole history—the history of the ci- devant milliner Caroline Peters, the future horseman Charles Petersen."

"What!" ejaculated Leonora, in amazement. "You intend to enlist in the cavalry?"

"If they will accept me. I am well versed in horsemanship, for when my father was still living I rode out with him every day. He was a much-respected farmer in the suburbs of Stralsund, and owned many horses. During the siege of Stralsund he lost every thing, and we were reduced to extreme poverty. My father died of grief, and since that time I have not again mounted a horse. But I think I still know how to manage one, and am not afraid of doing so."

"But why will you? Why not remain in the infantry, which would be much more natural and simple?"

"Why? Shall I tell you the truth, Leonora? Let me tell you, then, confidentially; it is because long marches would incommode me. And you? Would it not be better for you to follow my example?"

"No," said Leonora, "I shall remain in the infantry, and become one of Lutzow's riflemen—a member of the Legion of Vengeance.—I believe we have arrived at the house designated to us. Major von Lutzow lives here; the numerous volunteers who are going in and out show that we have reached his headquarters. Now, Caroline, farewell! and let me greet you, friend Charles Petersen!"

"Leonora, farewell! and let me greet you, friend Charles Renz!" They shook hands and looked into each other's glowing faces.

"Forward now, comrade!" said Caroline, walking toward the house

"Forward!" echoed Leonora, jubilantly.

Arm in arm they walked across the gloomy hall to the low, brown door, entering the room pointed out to them as Major von Lutzow's recruiting-office. It was a large, low room; long tables, painted brown, such as are to be found in small taverns or beer-saloons, stood on both sides of the smoky whitewashed walls; low stools, of the same description, were beside them, and constituted, with the tables, the only furniture of this hall, where the citizens and mechanics had formerly taken their beer, and where now the volunteers came to take the oath of fidelity to the fatherland and Major von Lutzow. In the middle of this room stood a young lady of rare beauty. A plain black dress enveloped her form, reaching to her neck and veiling her bust. Her face was very white and delicate, a complexion to be found only among the fair daughters of the North; her blond hair fell down in heavy ringlets beside her faintly- flushed cheeks; a fervent light was beaming from her large light- blue eyes.

"That is Madame von Lutzow, to whom the travellers in the stage- coach alluded," said Leonora to herself; "it is the count's noble daughter, who poured a glass of water over her hand because a Frenchman had kissed it, and who descended from her father's castle to marry a poor Prussian officer, whom she loved for the scars on his forehead."

The beautiful lady approached the two young volunteers with a sweet, winning smile. "You wish to see Major von Lutzow, do you not?" she inquired. "Unfortunately, he is not at home; pressing business matters prevent him from personally welcoming the young heroes who wish to join him. He has charged me with doing so in his place, and you may believe that I bid you welcome with as joyous a heart as my husband would do."

"Oh, we are so happy to be received by you," said Leonora, smiling, "for we were told at Berlin of noble and beautiful Madame von Lutzow enlisting the Legion of Vengeance, and who is so true a representative of the great idea of our struggle. For our struggle is one both of vengeance and love. Since then we have longed to be enlisted by you, madame, and to take our oath of fidelity."

"I accept it in the name of Major von Lutzow," said the lady, with a gentle smile. "Here are your numbers, and now give me your names that I may enter them in the recruiting book." She approached the table on which the large open book was lying, and quickly noted down the names which the two volunteers gave, affixing the numbers already given. "Now, then," she said, kindly, nodding to them, "you are enlisted in the sacred service of the fatherland, and I hope you will do your duty. I hope you—"

At this moment the door was opened hastily, and a young man rushed into the room.

"Theodore Korner!" ejaculated the lady, greeting him cordially.

"Yes, Madame von Lutzow, it is I," exclaimed the young man, saluting the two volunteers—"it is I, and I come to you a prey to boundless despair!"

Madame von Lutzow hastened to him, and looked with an expression of heart-felt sympathy into his handsome, pale face.

"Yes, indeed," she said, "your face looks like a cloud from which thunder and lightning may be expected at any moment. What is the matter? What has happened to you, my poet and hero?"

"Come, let us go," whispered Caroline to her friend.

"No, let us stay," said Leonora, in a low voice. "If it is a secret, they will bid us go; but I should like to know what ails the fine- looking young man whom Madame von Lutzow calls a poet and a hero. Oh, I have never yet seen a poet, and this one is so handsome!"

"Let us sit down on this bench," whispered Caroline, "and—"

"Hush, let us listen!" said Leonora, sitting down.

"It is not that, then?" exclaimed the lady, who in the mean time had continued her conversation with the young man. "Your father has not rebuked his son for the quick resolve he had taken."

"No, no," said Theodore Korner, hastily, "on the contrary, my father approves my determination to enlist, and sends me his blessing. I received a very touching letter from him this morning."

"It is his affianced bride, then, that has driven our poet to despair, because he loves her more ardently than the fatherland," said Madame von Lutzow. "It is true, I cannot blame her for it, for the woman that loves has but one country—the heart of her lover, and she is homeless as soon it turns from her. But this is precisely the grand and beautiful sacrifice—that you give up for the sake of your country all that we otherwise call the greatest and holiest blessings of life—your affianced bride; your pleasant, comfortable existence; a fine, honorable position, and a future full of a poet's fame and splendor. It is, indeed, a sacrifice, but a sacrifice for which the fatherland will thank you, and which will incite thousands to emulate your noble example."

"Would it were so!" exclaimed Korner, enthusiastically, raising his large black eyes to heaven; "would that our patriotic ardor struck all hearts like a thunderbolt, and kindled a conflagration, whose flames would shed a lustre over the remotest times! I do not deny that I felt how great was the sacrifice I made, but this very feeling filled me with enthusiasm. All the stars of my happiness were shining upon me in mild beauty, but I was not allowed to look up to them because it was the night of adversity; but now that this night is about to vanish, and a new morning is dawning, my stars, too, must fade before the sun of liberty. That was the sacred conviction which drove me away from Vienna, from my betrothed bride, and caused me to cast aside all that otherwise imparts value to life. A great era requires great hearts. I felt strong enough to go out and bare my breast to the storm. Could I do nothing but sing songs in honor of my victorious brethren? No one would have then loved and esteemed me any longer; my parents would have been ashamed of me, and my affianced bride would have contemptuously turned away from the cowardly poet. Therefore, I gave up every thing for the sake of my native land. It is true, my parents and my Emma will weep for me. May God comfort them! I could not spare them this blow. It is not much that I risk my life; but that this life is adorned with love, friendship, and joy, and that I nevertheless risk it, is a sacrifice that can be compensated only by love of country, more sacred than any other love, and to it we should devote our life. [Footnote: His own words.—Vide "Theodore Korner's Works," edited by Carl Streckfuss p. 54] My noble father feels and knows this, and so does my betrothed."

"And yet, agreed though you are with yourself and your dear ones, why this despair?" asked Madame von Lutzow, with a smile.

Korner looked down in confusion, and then raised his flaming eyes with a strange expression. "Ah, madame," he exclaimed, "I divine your stratagem; it is that of an angel, and, therefore, worthy of you."

"What stratagem do yon mean?" she asked, with a semblance of surprise.

"The angelic stratagem by which you comforted me in my grief, without knowing its cause. When I rushed so impolitely into this room, I told you that I was in despair. And you, instead of urging me to tell you at once the cause of it, inquired for the great affairs of my life, and whether my affliction came from my parents or my affianced bride. You thereby wished to admonish me that these momentous affairs and relations of my life, not having lost their harmony, my grief was, perhaps, but a passing dissonance, and that it really might not be worth while to give way to despair on account of it. I am sure, madame, I have understood you: was not this the object of your questions?"

Madame von Lutzow nodded gently. "You have understood me," she said. "I think in all our grievances we should, before giving way to vexation or despair, lay the great questions of life before us, and inquire whether that which weighs us down touches them, whether it strikes at our true happiness. Now, if this is not the case, we should bear the grievance lightly, and not consider it a misfortune. To feel greatly what is great, and to heed little what is little, is the true wisdom of life."

"You are right, as you always are," said Theodore Korner, reverentially bowing to the beautiful lady, "and let me penitently confess, then, that I have this time heeded greatly what is little and have considered what grieved me a great misfortune. But now that I have confessed my guilt, the guardian angel of the volunteers must have mercy upon me and come to my assistance. For something very unpleasant has really befallen me, and no philosophy can dispute it."

"Well, confess what it is," exclaimed Madame von Lutzow, smiling.

"You know, madame, that our Legion of Vengeance is to be solemnly consecrated at the village of Rochau, at the foot of the Zobtenberg, on Sunday next?"

"Of course I do, and I shall accompany Lutzow and the volunteers in order to witness the ceremony."

"At the village church we are all to appear for the first time in our black uniforms, to receive the preacher's blessing, and to be consecrated as soldiers of the fatherland. I myself have written a poem, adapted to the air of an anthem, for this solemn occasion, and all my comrades will sing it. After the sermon the volunteers in the church will take the oath of war upon the swords of their officers. I have been ardently yearning for this day, and now I shall probably be unable to participate in its services, for—do not laugh, madame, at my insignificant mishap—the tailor refuses to make me a uniform by that time, and in citizen's clothes, as a fashionable dandy, I really cannot appear among the brave men who will proudly walk about in their litefkaes. The tailor says it is impossible for him to make a uniform at so short a notice; he pretends to be overwhelmed with work, and does not know where to find hands. Now you, the helping, advising, and protecting genius of the volunteers, are my last consolation and resort. If you send for the cruel tailor, and tell him how important it is for me to participate in that ceremony, your words will render possible what now he declares impossible. Therefore, send for the tailor, madame; he fortunately lives close by, in the court-yard, in the large rear building; order him to make me a uniform, and he will have to do so, for who could withstand your words?"

"Well, I will try," said Madame von Lutzow, smiling. "I will see whether my words are so impressive as to move a tailor's heart."

"And if he is unable to comply with your wishes because he lacks assistants," said Leonora, hastily rising from her seat near the door, and approaching Korner and Madame von Lutzow, "I offer myself as an assistant, for I am a tailor."

"So am I," exclaimed Caroline, vividly. "I know, too, how to ply the needle, and am ready to assist in sewing a comrade's uniform."

"Ah, the volunteers whom I have just enlisted, and whose pardon I have to ask for having forgotten them," cried Madame Von Lutzow, smiling.

"We have rather to ask your pardon for staying here," said Leonora. "But we are indebted to you and to the poet Theodore Korner for the most soul-stirring sentiments, and it seems to me as though we have received only now the true consecration for the future that lies before ns. Now, that I know what great sacrifices one may joyously make, I feel how incumbent it was upon me to make them too, and I have no remorse at leaving my parents and my brothers—It is certainly true, as the poet said: 'A great era requires great hearts!' And therefore I will try, to the best of my power, to have a great heart, that I may be worthy of our great era."

"A great and noble heart is beaming from your eyes, my friend," said Theodore Korner, offering his hand to Leonora. "I greet you both as dear comrades of mine, and beg you to treat me as one."

"Yes, we will do so," exclaimed Caroline, shaking hands with the poet. "And we will prove it directly by going to that tailor and offering to assist him in making the uniform of our esteemed lieutenant."

"Softly, my friend!" laughed Theodore Korner, "I have not yet risen so high; I am no lieutenant."

"But you will be soon," said Caroline, ardently; "for one may easily read in your face that you are born to command, and not to obey. We volunteers are to elect our own officers. Well, then, I shall vote for Theodore Korner." [Footnote: Theodore Korner was elected lieutenant by his comrades on the 24th of April.]

"So shall I!" ejaculated Leonora.

"But while indulging in such dreams as to the future, we forgot the grim tailor," said Theodore Korner, smiling. "Madame von Lutzow, I beseech you, pity my distress, and send for him, that your eloquence may soften his heart."

"But suppose he does not comply?" asked Madame von Lutzow. "It would be wrong, too, to occupy his time while so busy. You say the man lives near?"

"Scarcely fifty steps from here."

"Well, then, conduct me to him!" said Madame von Lutzow, "we will pay a visit to him as Torquato Tasso once went to the Duke di Ferrara. You, my two young friends, will please accompany us, that we may present to him two willing assistants. Come!"

"Yes, madame, and may your eloquence prevail!" exclaimed Korner, opening the door, and posting himself beside it in order to allow the lady to pass out. Graceful and smiling, she hastened through the gloomy room and approached the door, followed by the two volunteers with their rosy faces and bright eyes. When about to cross the threshold, she stood and gazed archly at Korner, "Stop," she said, "I have to impose a condition. If we are to assist a poet, he must in return pay us a poet's tribute. I shall not cross this threshold before you recite one of your new war-songs."

"Yes, a song!" cried the two volunteers.

"Well, you are silent?" asked Madame von Lutzow, smiling. "Strike the chords of your lyre, and let us hear a battle-hymn!"

"No, not a battle-hymn," said Theodore Korner; "that requires the accompaniment of clashing arms and booming cannon. But to the fair patroness of the Legion of Vengeance I will communicate, although it is not completed, my hymn to the guardian angel of German liberty— Queen Louisa!" Raising his dark-blue eyes to heaven, he recited the following lines, addressed "to Queen Louisa:"

"Du Heilige I hor Deiner Kinder Flehen, Es dringe machtig anf zo deinern Licht. Kannst wieder freundlich auf uns niedersehen Verklarter Engel! Ifinger weine nicht! Benn Preussens Adler soll zum Kampfe wehen. Es drangt Dein Volk sich jubelnd zu der Pflicht, Und Jeder wahlt, und keinen siehst du leben, Den freien Ted fur ein bezwung nes Leben."

"Wir lagen noch in feige Nacht gehettet; Da rief nach Dir Deiu besseres Geschick, An die unwurd'ge Zeit warst Du gekettet, Zur Rache mahnte Dein gebroch'ner Blick. So hast Du uns den deutschen Muth gerettet. Jetzt sieh auf uns, sieh auf Dein Volk zuruck, Wie alle Herzen treu und muthig brennen! Nun woll uns auch die Deinen wieder nennen!"

"Und wie einst, alle Krafte zu beleben, Ein Heil'genbild, fur den gerechten Krieg Dem Heeresbanner schutzend zugegeben, Als Oriflamme in die Lufte stieg: So soil Dein Bild auf unsern Fabnen schweben, Und soil uns leuchten durch die Nacht zum Sieg! Louise sei der Schutzgeist deutscher Sache! Louise sei das Losungswort zur Rache!"

[Footnote: O sainted one I now let thy children's prayer, As incense, rise to realms of heavenly light; Beholding us thou canst' with gladness hear, And tears no more may dim thy vision bright: For Prussia's standard in the battle near Will nerve thy people to their ancient might. Thy sons in crowded ranks await the strife, Preferring a free death to slavery's life.

Enthralled in long and timid gloom we lay; When Heaven recalled thee, and thy fetters broke Which bound thee to thy times' unworthy sway, Thy dying eyes of future vengeance spoke. Thus didst thou save on that sad final day The German honor, and our courage woke. Behold us now, as we all fear resign, With glowing hearts, and once more call us thine!

As erst to serried legions in the field, A sacred symbol, as a golden flame, Lit up the battle-standard, and revealed For whom the victory's just though bloody claim: So let us, 'neath thy bannered image, wield A valiant sword—our "oriflamme" thy name— The pledge of honor and the gathering cry, To live for Prussia's glory, or to die!]

"Louisa shall be the guardian angel of the German cause and the battle-cry of vengeance!" echoed the two volunteers.

Madame von Lutzow said nothing. She stood, with her white hands clasped, as if in prayer, and her sweet face turned heavenward. Tears were glittering in her eyes; and, giving her hand to the poet, she said in a low voice: "You have paid us a tribute worthy of you. Thanks! And now come!" She quickly crossed the threshold toward the court-yard. Korner was by her side; Leonora and Caroline, the two volunteers, followed her.

"The four windows on the ground-floor yonder are those of the tailor's shop," said Korner.

Madame von Lutzow nodded, and walked across the wide court-yard toward the house.



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE HEROIC TAILOR.

The tailor and his hands were very busy. All sorts of colored cloths and pieces of uniforms were lying about. On the bench, in the middle of the room, sat four workmen, hard at work. Not a word interrupted the silence now desecrated by the noise of the opening door. He who sat on a somewhat raised seat, and was just braiding a magnificent scarlet hussar-jacket, hastily looked up. His hand, armed with his needle, had just risen and remained suspended; his eyes, which he had at first raised carelessly from his work, were fixed on the door, which framed so unusual and attractive a picture—a young lady of surpassing beauty, surrounded by three youthful soldiers, who looked very fine and imposing, too, and whose looks were turned to him with a kind and inquiring expression.

"You are M. Martin, the merchant tailor, are you not?" asked the lady, greeting the tailor with a gentle nod.

"That is my name," said M. Martin, involuntarily rising from his seat.

"Well, then, my dear sir," said the lady, advancing a few steps into the shop, "I should like to say a word to you."

"Yes, I imagine what it is," exclaimed the tailor, who fixed his eyes now upon Theodore Korner, and recognized his tormentor. "The gentleman has been here twice already about a uniform for Sunday. But I could not make it, if an angel descended from heaven to entreat me."

"Well, I thank you for your compliment," said Madame von Lutzow, smiling. "But tell me now, sir, why can you not accommodate him?"

"Because I have more work now than I am able to finish. I was rash enough to accept so many orders, that I do not know how I shall be able to fill them; and in the excitement and confusion prevalent in the city it is impossible to get assistance at present."

"Well, if that is the only reason, we bring you fresh help. These two young volunteers are ready to work under your supervision, and finish the uniform of their comrade."

The tailor glanced toward the two young volunteers. "Lads, scarcely sixteen years old!" he said, shrugging his shoulders; "it is impossible that they can be experienced artists."

"But both affirm that they are tailors," said Madam von Lutzow, "and skilled in their trade."

"Yes, sir, please give us a trial," begged Leonora.

"We are quick and skilful workmen," protested Caroline.

"Regular tailors?" asked M, Martin.

"Yes, regular tailors," replied Leonora.

"Very well. Finish this collar; the needle is still in it," said M. Martin, handing the scarlet soldier-jacket to Leonora.

The young volunteer blushed, and said in a low voice: "To be sure; sir. I must ask you to show me how to do it, for I have never yet worked on men's clothes."

"A ladies' tailor?" exclaimed M. Martin, with an expression of boundless contempt. "The other one, too?"

"Yes, I also am a ladies' tailor," said Caroline, smiling.

"And they are bold enough to offer their assistance to me!" exclaimed M. Martin, shrugging his shoulders.

"It is only necessary for you to give them proper directions, sir," said Madame von Lutzow, entreatingly, "for as they know how to ply the needle they will easily understand what to do."

"And if the uniform should not fit well, or be badly made, it will be laid at my door, and M. Martin will be blamed for it. I assure you I cannot take the job; I am short of workmen of the necessary experience. No one wants to work now-adays—all heads are turned— all young men are enlisting."

"No, sir," said the lady, "all heads are turned right again—to one thing necessary at this time—to the service of the fatherland."

"Bah! my shop is my fatherland," said the tailor, contemptuously.

"That is not true," exclaimed Madame von Lutzow, "you do not and cannot think so. For if you did, you would be no Prussian, no German, and no one could love and respect you. During the period of adversity and disgrace, your shop may have been a comfort to you; but now that the sun of liberty is rising, all hearts must throb joyously; all must go out and gaze upon the new world; the shop no longer contains the work worthy of a freeman—it is to be found only on the battle-field—deliverance of the country!"

"The lady is right!" exclaimed the tailor's three assistants, who had hitherto looked up but stealthily from their work, but now cast it aside with impetuosity. "Yes, the lady is right! It is a shame for honest men to sit here in this room and ply the needle, while our friends and brethren are drawing the sword and marching out to the holy war of liberation. We must also participate in the great struggle!"

"Oh, yes," cried the tailor, in grim despair, "now my last workmen are coaxed away from me! You have taken the money I offered you when you entered my service, and as honest men you must keep your word. Resume your work! You know well that we are very busy."

The men commenced their work again with morose faces, whispering to each other: "As soon as the week has expired, we shall leave the shop and enlist."

"Well, madame, what do you wish?" exclaimed the tailor, furiously. "You have come to give me a job, and at the same time you disparage my business, and seduce my workmen to leave me. I shall soon have to close my shop."

"But you will not do so, dear M. Martin, before having made a uniform for this young man," said Madame von Lutzow, in an entreating tone and with a sweet smile. "I have certainly not come to disparage your honorable business, for what should we do without the skilful tailor, who makes the uniforms of our soldiers and fits them out, as it were, for the service of their country? Oh, I am sure that you have worked at them with grand reflections, since this labor is more agreeable to you than if you had to make the most gorgeous suit for a chamberlain, and it gladdens you to think: 'I am likewise working hard for the fatherland. I am in my own way a soldier of the country; for I devote to it my skill and labor.'"

"That is true," said M. Martin, in confusion, "and that you may not believe me to be a worse man than I really am, I must tell you that I do not take pay for these jobs, but that I have offered to make twelve uniforms for our soldiers free of charge. I have nothing else to offer; hence, I give all I can!"

"And there is no nobler gift!" exclaimed Madame von Lutzow. "You are a good man; pray give me your hand and let me thank you." She offered her hand to the tailor, and he put his broad, cold hand timidly into it.

"Oh, now I fear nothing," said Madame von Lutzow, joyfully; "as you are so good a patriot, you will fulfil our prayer, and make a uniform for this young man for next Sunday."

"But I have told you already that I cannot," replied M. Martin, almost tearfully—"I cannot finish it."

"And I reply: Try, sir! I am sure you will finish it. For, take into consideration, dear M. Martin, that your own reputation is at stake, and that all the brave volunteers would execrate your name if it should be your fault that their favorite and celebrated bard could not attend the Sunday's ceremony."

"How so? What bard do you allude to, madame?"

"I allude to the great poet who stands before you—Theodore Korner."

"Ah, this is Theodore Korner!" exclaimed the tailor, "The poet who wrote 'Toni,' the splendid comedy that I saw last winter at our theatre?"

"The same, my dear sir," said Madame von Lutzow, while Korner nodded to the tailor with a pleasant smile. "And he has written many other beautiful plays, and magnificent songs to boot. This is the reason why, though he is only twenty-one years old, he is famous throughout Germany, and at Vienna occupied a brilliant position. He is affianced to a dear, sweet young woman, whom he loves with all his heart, and to whom he was to be married within a month; but suddenly the battle-cry of freedom resounded throughout Germany, the King of Prussia called upon the able-bodied young men to volunteer and avenge the disgrace of Germany, and see what love of country can accomplish! The young man casts aside every thing—he gives up all, his fame, his betrothed, his position, and hastens with enthusiasm to offer his arm and his services-to exchange his poetical fame and his earthly happiness for victory or an honorable death on the battle-field."

"Oh, that is really glorious," cried the men, striking with their clinched right hands their knee, as though it were a recruiting- drum.

"Yes, it is so," said M. Martin, thoughtfully, to himself.

"Madame," whispered the poet, smiling, "you make me blush by your too kind praise."

"Is it my fault that a plain statement of the facts in the case is such praise for you?" asked Madame von Lutzow. "For I have told you the truth, M. Martin, and all happened precisely as I have stated it. He has given up all to enlist. Vainly do his parents and his loved one weep for him. He hears nothing—sees nothing—for his country calls him, and he obeys. He does not desire happiness before his country is free, and sweeter than the most blissful life seems to him a glorious death for the fatherland. So he has come; the volunteers greeted him with shouts of exultation, and they believe now that Providence will cause their arms and their bravery to be successful, since an inspired bard will take the field with them, and endow them with redoubled ardor by his songs. But, before taking the field, they wish to implore God's blessing at the altar, and on Sunday next all those who are already uniformed and equipped are to take the oath of war and be consecrated. Theodore Korner has written for the occasion a pious hymn, which all the volunteers will sing, and now how can you be so cruel as to prevent him from singing his own hymn with them?"

"I?" cried the tailor, in dismay.

"Yes, you! For, if you do not accommodate him, he cannot be present."

M. Martin heaved a profound sigh, and cast a glance of despair around his shop. "There are still three hussar-jackets to be finished," he murmured. "If it were but a hussar-uniform that the gentleman asks for! But he does not wish to join the hussars?"

"No, my friend. I enlist in the Legion of Vengeance, and become one of Major von Lutzow's volunteer riflemen. It will, therefore, be less troublesome to suit me."

"But that dress is not near as showy as the other," said the tailor, morosely. "An entirely black uniform with red trimmings on the sleeves looks sad, and—cruel."

"And that is as it ought to be, my dear sir. The black color signifies our grief, the red signifies blood."

And suddenly he commenced to sing:

"Noch trauera wir im schwarzeu Racherkleide Um den gestorbnen Muth, Doch fragt man Euch, was dieses Roth bedeute; Das deutet Frankenblut!"

"Mit Gott!—Einst geht hoch uber Feindesleichen Der Stern des Friedens auf; Dann pflanzen wir ein weisses Siegeszeichen Am freien Rheinstrom auf."

[Footnote: By this black uniform we ever mourn The public spirit dead! And why is then this crimson facing worn?— With Frenchmen's blood it's red.

When high above vast heaps of slaughtered foes, The star of peace shall shine, The banner white, which victory bestows, Raise by our own free Rhine.]

"Then we shall raise a white symbol of our victory on the banks of the free Rhine!" echoed the volunteers, and the tailor and his assistants.

"M. Martin!" cried Madame von Lutzow, laughing, "you have forgotten yourself; you have joined in the chorus!"

"Yes, it is true," ho said, "I have sung these few words with them; they make my heart swell, and—I do not know what has happened to me—it seems to me the song and all you have said make another man of me, and—"

"You will make the uniform for Theodore Korner?" asked Madame von Lutzow, smiling.

M. Martin was silent, and quickly raised his head and looked at his assistants, who were gazing at him inquiringly.

"You have made up your minds, then?" he asked; "when the week is up, and your jobs are finished, you intend to leave me, and volunteer?"

"Yes, we have come to that determination," replied the three, unanimously, "and nothing shall prevent us from carrying it out,"

"Well, then, I must close my shop, and discontinue the tailoring business."

"But what do you intend to do, then, sir?" asked one of the journeymen, in surprise.

"I intend to enlist!" replied M. Martin. "This beautiful lady and the song have enchanted me. Hurrah! I also will enlist!"

"But my uniform?" asked Korner.

"Oh, you need not be concerned," exclaimed the tailor, in a proud tone; "it shall be made! I will work all night, and not lay aside my needle before it is done. Will you help me, journeymen?"

"Yes, sir, we will!"

"And you, too, volunteers? It is true, you are only ladies' tailors, but you know at least how to line and pad a coat. Will you take the job?"

"Yes, M. Martin, we will joyously do so," cried Leonora and Caroline.

"Well, then, we can finish two uniforms by Sunday—one for the poet, the other for myself!"

"My dear sir, I thank you from the bottom of my heart," said Madame von Lutzow; and then, turning her radiant face to Korner, she asked, "Are you now satisfied?"

"Ah, I knew well that no one could resist you, and that you are our good angel," whispered the poet, pressing the hand of the lovely lady to his lips.

"But listen, M. Korner," said the tailor; "if I am to work for you so industriously, I must impose a condition, and you must promise to fulfil it."

"What is it?"

"It is that you shall not pay me for my labor."

"But, sir, it is impossible for me to—"

Madame von Lutzow laid her hand softly on his shoulder. "I am sure you do not wish to offend this excellent man?" she whispered.

"It is impossible for me to take pay for a favor which I do to one of my future comrades," said M. Martin. "I suppose that is what you wanted to say, and you are right. But if you insist on indemnifying me, there is another way for you to do so."

"Pray tell me."

"You sang two verses, which sounded so bold and fresh that they touched my heart. Was that the whole song, or are there any more verses?"

"No, sir, they are the two last; three others precede them."

"Well, comrade," said M. Martin, gayly, "if you insist on my doing my last tailoring job for you, then sing me the other three."

Korner glanced inquiringly at Madame Lutzow. "I do not know," he said, hesitatingly, "if madame will permit it?"

Madame von Lutzow smiled. "I not only permit, but pray you to sing," she said. "Give us the whole song, and let us all join in the refrain. Come, brave soldiers of the future! cast aside your work, form in line, and sing with us the song of the Black Riflemen!"

The three journeymen jumped up, and posted themselves beside M. Martin. The lady again withdrew to the door. On both sides stood the two young volunteers, with their blooming faces, and between these two groups stood the tall and noble form of the young poet, whose fine face beamed with courage and energy, and on whose brow genius had pressed the kiss of inspiration.

"Now, listen attentively!" said Theodore Korner, smiling. "My song is easy to sing, for who is ignorant of the song of the Rhenish wine? Let us sing it to that melody!"

And through the tailor's shop, hitherto so peaceful and silent, resounded the song of the Black Riflemen:

"In's Feld, in's Feld, die Rachegeister mahnen, Auf, deutsches Volk, zum Krieg! In's Feld, in's Feld! Hoch flattern unsere Fahnen, Sie fuhren uns zum Sieg!"

"Klein ist die Schaar, doch gross ist das Vertranen Auf den gerechten Gott! Wo seine Engel ihre Veste bauen, Sind Hollenkunste Spott."

"Gebt kein Pardon! Konet Ihr das Schwert nicht heben, So wurgt sie ohne Scheu! Und hoeh verkauft den letzten Tropfen Leben, Der Tod macht Alle freil"

[Footnote: To the field! the spirits of vengeance cry; Rise, and your country save! Uplift your eagle banners to the sky— For victory they wave!

In number small, but great our confidence In a just God's decree; When His own angels build our sure defence, Vain is hell's strategy.

No quarter give, but strike the fatal blow, Dear let your life-blood be; Ask not for mercy, and to none bestow, For death makes all men free.

This whole scene is based on facts, for which I am indebted to personal communications from the Countess Ahlefeldt. Theodore Korner fell in the first year of the war of liberation, before the decisive battle of Leipsic, on the 26th of August, 1813, in a skirmish which the corps of Major von Lutzow had with the French near Gadebusch. Only an hour prior to his death, while lying in ambush, he wrote his immortal "Song of the Sword" in his note-book. The statement of Mr. Alison, the historian, that he was killed in the battle of Dresden, is erroneous.

Leonora Prohaska fell in an engagement on the Gorde, the 16th of September, 1813. A bullet pierced her breast. When she felt that she was dying, she revealed to her comrades that she was a woman, and that her name was Leonora Prohaska, and not Charles Renz.

Caroline Peters was more fortunate. She participated in the campaigns of 1813 and 1814, was decorated with the order of the Iron Cross on account of her bravery, and honorably discharged at the end of the war. She was then married to the captain of an English vessel whom she accompanied on his travels, and with whom she visited her relatives at Stettin in 1844.—L. M.]



CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE GENERAL-IN-CHIEF OF THE SILESIAN ARMY.

General Blucher was more morose and dejected than he had been for a long time. From the day he heard of the king's arrival at Breslau, and immediately left his farm of Kunzendorf to repair to that city, a perpetual sunshine lit up his face, and a new spring bloomed in his heart. But now the old clouds of Kunzendorf were again lowering on his brow, and a frost seemed to have blighted all the blossoms of his hope.

He sat on the sofa, closely wrapped in his dressing-gown, drumming with his hand a quickstep on the table in front of him, while he was blowing clouds of smoke from his long pipe. Very gloomy thoughts appeared to fill Blucher's soul, for his bushy eyebrows contracted, the quickstep was more rapid, and the smoke arose in denser masses. In the violence of his inward trouble, he grimly shook his head without thinking of the fragile friend in his mouth. Its delicate form struck against the corner of the table and broke into pieces.

"So," muttered Blucher to himself, "that was just wanting to my afflictions. It is the second pipe broken to-day. Well, there will be a day when Bonaparte shall pay me these pipes that he has already cost me. That day must come, or there is no justice in Heaven. Christian! O Christian!"

The door opened. Christian Hennemann appeared on the threshold, awaiting the orders of the general.

"Another wounded pipe, Christian," said Blucher, pointing at the pieces on the floor. "Pick them up, and see if there is not a short pipe among them."

"No, your excellency," said Christian, approaching and carefully picking up the pieces, "that is no wounded pipe, but a dead one. Shall I fetch another to your excellency?"

He was about to turn away, but Blucher seized the lap of his hussar- jacket. "Show me the broken pipe," he said, anxiously; "let me see if it really will not do any more."

"Well, look at it, your excellency," said the pipe-master, in a dignified tone, holding up the bowl with a very small part of the tube. "It is impossible for you to use it again. If I should fill the bowl with tobacco and light it, your excellency, it would assuredly burn your nose."

"That is true," said Blucher, mournfully; "I believe you are right. I might burn my nose, and that would be altogether unnecessary now. I burn it here at Breslau every day."

"How did you do it?" asked Christian, in dismay. "Your excellency has not yet smoked short pipes."

"Because I am myself like a short pipe," cried Blucher, with a grim smile, "or because the miserable, sneaking vermin at court—well, what does it concern you? Why do you stand and stare at me? Go, Christian, and fetch me a new Pipe."

"What, a new pipe!" asked a voice by his side. "Why, Blucher, you are still in your dressing-gown!"

It was his wife who had just entered the room by the side-door and approached her husband without being noticed. She was in full toilet, her head adorned with plumes, her delicate form wrapped in a heavy dark satin dress, trimmed with costly silver lace. Her neck and ears were ornamented with jewelry in which large diamonds shone; in her hand, radiant with valuable rings, she held a huge fan, inlaid with pearls and precious stones.

"Yes, Amelia, I am still in my dressing-gown," said Blucher, gloomily gazing at his wife. "Why, you are splendidly dressed to- day! What is it for?—and whither do you design to go?"

"Whither!" exclaimed the lady, in surprise. "But, husband, do you forget, then, the festival to take place to-night?"

"Well, what is it?" asked Blucher, slowly drawing his long white mustache through his fingers.

"Blucher, to-night the great ball takes place which the city of Breslau gives at the city hall in honor of the Emperor of Russia, when both their majesties will appear."

"Well, what does that concern me?"

"It concerns you a great deal, for you have solemnly promised the burgomaster, who came personally to invite us, that you would attend the ball to-night."

"And I shall not go to it after all, Amelia," cried Blucher, striking with his hand on the table. "No, Amelia! I am no dancing- bear to turn around at a ball, and to be led by the nose."

"But, Blucher, what has happened to you?" asked his wife, wonderingly. "You were as merry and high-spirited as a young god of spring; the violets laughed when they saw you pass by, and the snow- drops rang their tiny bells in your honor, and now suddenly it is winter again! Pray, tell me, what has happened to you?"

"Nothing at all has happened to me—that is just the misfortune," cried Blucher. "It is more than a month now since I have been sitting here at Breslau, and nothing has happened. I am still what I always was—an old pensioned general, who has no command, and nothing to do but to retire to Kunzendorf and plant cabbage-heads, while others in the field are cutting off French heads. And it will be best for me to go back to Kunzendorf. I have nothing to do here; no one cares for an old fellow like me. I have hoped on from day to day, but all my hopes are gone now. Amelia, take off your tinsel, and pack up our traps. The best thing we can do will be to start this very evening and return to our miserable, accursed village!"

"Dear me! what a humor you are in!" exclaimed his wife, "Every thing will be right in the end, my husband; you must not despair; things are only taking their course a little more deliberately than my firebrand wishes. But finally all will be precisely as you want it, for without Blucher they are unable to accomplish any thing, and will, therefore, at last resort to him."

"And I tell you they will try to get along without me," cried Blucher; "I shall be a disgraced man, at whom the very chickens will laugh, if he has to sneak back to Kunzendorf instead of taking the field. Pack up. Amelia, wo shall leave this day!"

"But that is impossible, Blucher! It would look like a cowardly flight, and your enemies would rejoice over it. No, you must go to the ball to-night; you—"

"General Scharnhorst!" announced a footman at this moment, and there appeared in the open door the general, dressed in his gala-uniform, and his breast decked with orders.

"I am glad you have come, general," exclaimed Amelia, hastening to him, and shaking hands with her friend. "Look at that stubborn old man, who does not wish to go to the ball! Say yourself, general, must he not go?"

"Certainly he must," said Scharnhorst, smiling, "and I come to beg of you a seat in your carriage, and to let me have the honor of appearing in the suite of General and Madame von Blucher. You had, therefore, better dress at once, my dear general. It is high time. Even their majesties have already set out."

Blucher gently shook his head, and slowly raised his eyes toward Scharnhorst, who stood in front of him. "Scharnhorst," he said, "every thing turns out wrong, and I wish myself dead rather than see such a state of affairs."

"What do you mean, general?" inquired Scharnhorst. "What has happened?"

Blucher cast a piercing glance on him, and seemed to read in the depths of his soul. "Is the matter settled?" he asked. "Pray, my friend, tell me the truth without circumlocution. It is better for me to know it at once than allow this incertitude longer to gnaw at my heart. Scharnhorst, I implore you, tell me the truth! Has the commander of the Silesian army been appointed?"

"No, general," said Scharnhorst, gravely.

"And you do not know whom they will appoint? The truth, my friend!"

"Well, then, the truth is, that I do not know it, and that their majesties themselves do not know it, although every patriot thinks they ought not to doubt which of the three gentlemen who stand on the list should be appointed, for every heart echoes, 'General Blucher is the man whom we need, and who will lead us to victory.' The emperor and the king are still vacillating; precious time is lost—Napoleon is organizing new armies, and strengthening himself on all sides, while they are hesitating."

"Three, then, stand on the list," said Blucher. "I have two competitors. Who are they, general?"

"One is Field-Marshal Kalkreuth."

Blucher started, and his eyes flashed with anger. "What!" he cried. "That childish old man to command an army! He who is constantly singing hymns of praise to Napoleon and his French—he who, only the other day, showed again that he deemed a frown of Bonaparte more terrible than the peril of a German patriot! He command an army to vanquish Napoleon! I suppose you know what he has done? He betrayed to the French ambassador, Count St. Marsan, who followed our king to Breslau in order to watch him, that Minister von Stein, our noblest friend, had secretly come for the purpose of negotiating with the king in the name of the Emperor of Russia; that he was living in a garret, and that conferences of the enemies of Napoleon were held there every night." [Footnote: Pertz's "Life of Stein," vol. iii., p. 210.]

"Yes, that is true," said Scharuhorst, "Field-Marshal Kalkreuth did so, and it is no fault of his that Baron von Stein, with his friends, one of whom I happen to be, was not secretly seized and carried off by the French. Fortunately, dear Count St. Marsan did not believe the field-marshal who betrayed his German countryman. The French ambassador allowed himself to be deceived by the stillness that reigned in the garret, which, according to the statement Kalkreuth made to him, was inhabited by dangerous Minister von Stein." [Footnote: Beitzke, vol. i., p. 170.]

"Well, and this man, the head of the French party, they wish to appoint general-in-chief of the Silesian army," said Blucher, mournfully. "Amelia, pack up our traps; let us return to Kunzendorf."

"But Field-Marshal Kalkreuth has not yet been appointed," Said Scharnhorst, smiling; "I believe his two competitors have as good— nay, better prospects than he has."

"It is true, I forgot the second competitor," grumbled Blucher. "Who is it?"

"It is Lieutenant-General Count Tauentzien, in whom the Emperor Alexander takes a great deal of interest."

"Of course," said Blucher, sarcastically, "he is a count, and he has such a polish, and courtly manners; he knows how to flatter the sovereigns, and tell them only what is agreeable. But now, you yourself must admit, Scharnhorst, that it is best for me to set out immediately for Kunzendorf, and that I have no prospects—none whatever! The two sovereigns, the king and emperor, alone will make the appointment, will they not?"

"Of course, they alone!"

"Well, each of them has a candidate of his own. The emperor is in favor of Count Tauentzien, and the king is for Field-Marshal Kalkreuth. Who, then, is to think of and speak for me?"

"Your glory will speak for you, general," said Scharnhorst, feelingly; "the love which every soldier feels for you will speak, and you will speak for yourself by your noble appearance—your self- reliant bearing, your energy and strength, which do not shrink from truth. Come, let us get ready for the ball, and, my friend, do not impose any restraint upon yourself there; give the reins to your discontent; tell every one frankly and bluntly that you are dissatisfied—that you ardently desire to be appointed general-in- chief, and that you would consider it a great misfortune if another man should be preferred to you."

"But, dear general," exclaimed Madame von Blucher, in dismay, "how can you give Blucher such advice? You know how hot-headed and rash he is! He will rave about so, that the king and the emperor themselves will hear him."

"Well," said Scharnhorst, smiling, "it is sometimes very well that there should be a man courageous enough to tell the kings and emperors the truth, and prove to them that mankind do not always fawn upon them with polite submissiveness."

"Scharnhorst is right," exclaimed Blucher, suddenly straightening himself; "yes, I will go to the ball, and tell them there at least what sort of men those are whom they wish to appoint, and what we may expect from them. They shall not afterward excuse themselves by saying that they were not forewarned, and that no one had called their attention to Blucher. I will do it myself—yes, thunder and lightning! I will remind them of Blucher, and they shall hear and understand me."