CHAPTER XXXI. THE BARON’S STORY

Every one knows how rapidly acquaintance ripens into intimacy when mere accident throws two persons together in situations where they have no other occupation than each other’s society; days do the work of years, confidences spring up where mere ceremonies would have been interchanged before, and in fact a freedom of thought and speech as great as we enjoy in our oldest friendships. Such in less than a fortnight was the relation between the baron and myself. We breakfasted together every morning, and usually sallied forth afterwards into the country, generally on horseback, and only came back to dinner--a ramble in the Park concluding our day.

I still look back to those days as amongst the pleasantest of my life; for although the temper of my companion’s mind was melancholic, it seemed rather the sadness induced by some event of his life than the depression resulting from a desponding temperament--a great difference, by the way; as great as between the shadow we see at noonday and the uniform blackness of midnight. He had evidently seen much of the world, and in the highest class; he spoke of Paris as he knew it in the gorgeous time of the Empire--of the Tuileries, when the salons were crowded with kings and sovereign princes; of Napoleon, too, as he saw him, wet and cold, beside the bivouac fire, interchanging a rude jest with some grognard of the Garde, or commanding, in tones of loud superiority, the marshals who stood awaiting his orders. The Emperor, he said, never liked the Germans; and although many evinced a warm attachment to his person and his cause, they were not Frenchmen, and he could not forgive it. The Alsatians he trusted, and was partial to; but his sympathies stopped short at the Rhine; and he always felt that if fortune turned, the wrongs of Germany must have their recompense.

While speaking freely on these matters, I remarked that he studiously avoided all mention of his own services--a mere passing mention of ‘I was there,’ or, ‘My regiment was engaged in it,’ being the extent of his observations regarding himself. His age and rank, his wound itself, showed that he must have seen service in its most active times; and my curiosity was piqued to learn something of his own history, but which I did not feel myself entitled to inquire.

We were returning one evening from a ramble in the country, when stopping to ask a drink at a wayside inn, we found a party of soldiers in possession of the only room, where they were regaling themselves with wine; while a miserable-looking object, bound with his arms behind his back, sat pale and woe-begone in one corner of the apartment, his eyes fixed on the floor, and the tears slowly stealing along his cheeks.

‘What is it?’ asked I of the landlord, as I peeped in at the half-open door.

‘A deserter, sir----‘’

The word was scarcely spoken when the colonel let fall the cup he held in his hand, and leaned, almost fainting, against the wall.

‘Let us move on,’ said he, in a voice scarcely articulate, while the sickness of death seemed to work in his features.

‘You are ill,’ said I; ‘we had better wait----’

‘No, not here--not here,’ repeated he anxiously; ‘in a moment I shall be well again--lend me your arm.’

We walked on, at first slowly, for with each step he tottered like one after weeks of illness; at last he rallied, and we reached Cassel in about an hour’s time, during which he spoke but once or twice. ‘I must bid you a good-night here,’ said he, as we entered the inn; ‘I feel but poorly, and shall hasten to bed.’ So saying, and without waiting for a word on my part, he squeezed my hand affectionately, and left me.

It was not in my power to dismiss from my mind a number of gloomy suspicions regarding the baron, as I slowly wended my way to my room. The uppermost thought I had was, that some act of his past life--some piece of military severity, for which he now grieved deeply--had been brought back to his memory by the sight of the poor deserter. It was evident that the settled melancholy of his character referred to some circumstance or event of his life; nothing confirmed this more than any chance allusions he would drop concerning his youthful days, which appeared to be marked by high daring and buoyant spirits.

While I pondered over these thoughts, a noise in the inn-yard beneath my window attracted my attention. I leaned out, and heard the baron’s servant giving orders for post-horses to be ready by daybreak to take his master’s carriage to Meissner, while a courier was already preparing to have horses in waiting at the stages along the road. Again my brain was puzzled to account for this sudden departure, and I could not repress a feeling of pique at his not having communicated his intention of going, which, considering our late intimacy, had been only common courtesy. This little slight--for such I felt it--did not put me in better temper with my friend, nor more disposed to be lenient in judging him; and I was already getting deeper and deeper in my suspicions, when a gentle tap came to my door, and the baron’s servant entered, with a request that I would kindly step over to his master, who desired to see me particularly. I did not delay a moment, but followed the man along the corridor, and entered the room, which I found in total darkness.

‘The baron is in bed, sir,’ said the servant; ‘but he wishes to see you in his room.’

On a small camp-bed, which showed it to have been once a piece of military equipment, the Baron was lying. He had not undressed, but merely thrown on his _robe de chambre_ and removed his cravat from his throat; his one hand was pressed closely on his face, and as he stretched it out to grasp mine, I was horror-struck at the altered expression of his countenance. The eyes, bloodshot and wild, glanced about the room with a hurried and searching look, while his parched lips muttered rapidly some indistinct sounds. I saw that he was very ill, and asked him if it were not as well he should have some advice.

‘No, my friend, no,’ said he, with more composure in his manner; ‘the attack is going off now. It rarely lasts so long as this. You have never heard perhaps of that dreadful malady which physicians call “angina,” the most agonising of all diseases, and I believe the least understood. I have been subject to it for some years, and as there is no remedy, and as any access of it may prove fatal, life is held on but poor conditions----’

He paused for a second or two, then resumed, but with a manner of increased excitement.

‘They will shoot him! Yes, I have heard it all. It’s the second time he has deserted; there is not a chance left him. I must leave this by daybreak--I must get me far away before to-morrow evening; there would not come a stir, the slightest sound, but I should fancy I heard the fusilade.’

I saw now clearly that the deserter’s fate had made the impression which brought on the attack; and although my curiosity to learn the origin of so powerful a sensibility was greater than ever, I would willingly have sacrificed it to calming his mind, and inducing thoughts of less violent excitement. But he continued, speaking with a thick and hurried utterance--

‘I was senior lieutenant of the Carabiniers de la Garde at eighteen. We were quartered at Strasbourg; more than half of the regiment were my countrymen, some from the very village where I was born. One there was, a lad of sixteen, my schoolfellow and companion when a boy; he was the only child of a widow whose husband had fallen in the wars of the Revolution. When he was drawn in the conscription, no less than seven others presented themselves to go in his stead; but old Girardon, who commanded the brigade, simply returned for answer, “Such brave men are worthy to serve France; let them all be enrolled,” and they were so. A week afterwards Louis my schoolfellow deserted. He swam the Rhine at Kehl, and the same evening reached his mother’s cottage. He was scarcely an hour at home when a party of his own regiment captured him; he was brought back to Strasbourg, tried by torchlight, and condemned to death.

‘The officer who commanded the party for his execution fainted when the prisoner was led out; the men, horror-struck at the circumstance, grounded their arms and refused to fire. Girardon was on the ground in an instant; he galloped up to the youth who knelt there with his arms bound behind him, and drawing a pistol from his holster, placed the muzzle on his forehead, and shot him dead! The men were sent back to the barracks, and by a general order of the same day were drafted into different regiments throughout the army; the officer was degraded to the ranks--it was myself.’

It was with the greatest difficulty the colonel was enabled to conclude this brief story; the sentences were uttered with short, almost convulsive efforts, and when it was over he turned away his face, and seemed buried in grief.

‘You think,’ said he, turning round and taking my hand in his--‘you think that the sad scene has left me such as you see me now. Would to Heaven my memory were charged with but that mournful event! Alas! it is not so.’ He wiped a tear from his eye, and with a faltering voice continued. ‘You shall hear my story. I never breathed it to one living, nor do I think now that my time is to be long here.’

Having fortified his nerves with a powerful opiate, the only remedy in his dreadful malady, he began:--

‘I was reduced to the ranks in Strasbourg; four years after, day for day, I was named Chef de Bataillon on the field of Elchingen. Of twelve hundred men our battalion came out of action with one hundred and eighty; the report of the corps that night was made by myself as senior officer, and I was but a captain.

‘“Who led the division of stormers along the covered way?” said the Emperor, as I handed our list of killed and wounded to Duroc, who stood beside him.

‘“It was I, sire.”

‘“You are major of the Seventh regiment,” said he. “Now, there is another of yours I must ask for; how is he called that surprised the Austrian battery on the Dorran Kopf?”

‘“Himself again, sire,” interrupted Duroc, who saw that I hesitated how to answer him.

‘“Very well, very well indeed, Elgenheim; report him as Chef de Bataillon, Duroc, and colonel of his regiment. There, sir, your countrymen call me unjust and ungenerous. Show them your brevet to- night, and do _you_, at least, be a witness in my favour.”

‘I bowed and uttered a few words of gratitude, and was about to withdraw, when Duroc, who had been whispering something in the Emperor’s ear, said aloud, “I’m certain he’s the man to do it. Elgenheim, his Majesty has a most important despatch to forward to Innspruck to Marshal Ney. It will require something more than mere bravery to effect this object--it will demand no small share of address also. The passes above Saltzbourg are in the possession of the Tyrolese sharpshooters; two vedettes have been cut off within a week, and it will require at least the force of a regiment to push through. Are you willing to take the command of such a party?”

‘“If his Majesty will honour me with----”

‘“Enough, sir,” interrupted the Emperor; “we have no time to lose here. Your orders shall be ready by daybreak; you shall have a squadron of Chasseurs, as scouts, and be prepared to march to-morrow.”

‘The following day I left the camp with my party of eight hundred men, and moved to the southward. It may seem strange to think of a simple despatch of a few lines requiring such a force--indeed, I thought so at the time; but I lived to see two thousand men employed on a similar service in Spain, and, worse still, not always successfully. In less than a week we approached Landherg, and entered the land of mountains. The defiles, which at first were sufficiently open to afford space for manouvres, gradually contracted; while the mountains at either side became wilder and more lofty, a low brushwood of holly and white-oak scarce hiding the dark granite rocks that seemed actually piled loosely one above another, and ready to crash down at the least impulse. In the valleys themselves the mountain rivulets were collected into a strong current, which rattled along amid masses of huge rock, and swept in broad flakes of foam sometimes across the narrow road beside it. Here, frequently, not more than four men could march abreast; and as the winding of the glens never permitted a view of much more than a mile in advance, the position, in case of attack, was far from satisfactory.

‘For three entire days we continued our march, adopting, as we went, every precaution against surprise I could think of; a portion of the cavalry were always employed as _éclaireurs_ in advance, and the remainder brought up the rear, following the main body at the distance of a mile or two. The stupendous crags that frowned above, leaving us but a narrow streak of blue sky visible; the mournful echoes of the deep valleys; the hoarse roar of the waters or the wild notes of the black eagle--all conspired to throw an impression of sadness over our party, which each struggled against in vain. It was now the third morning since we entered the Tyrol, and yet never had we seen one single inhabitant. The few cottages along the roadside were empty, the herds had disappeared from the hills, and a dreary waste, unrelieved by one living object, stretched far away before us. My men felt the solitude far more deeply than if every step had been contested with them. They were long inured to danger, and would willingly have encountered an enemy of mortal mould; but the gloomy images their minds conjured up were foes they had never anticipated nor met before. For my own part, the desolation brought but one thought before me; and as I looked upon the wild wastes of mountain, where the chalet of the hunter or the cot of the shepherd reared its humble head, the fearful injustice of invasive war came fully to my mind. Again and again did I ask myself what greatness and power could gain by conflict with poverty like this? How could the humble dweller in these lonely regions become an object of kingly vengeance, or his bleak hills a thing for kingly ambition? And, more than all, what could the Tyrol peasant ever have done thus to bring down upon his home the devastating tide of war? To think that but a few days back the cheerful song of the hunter resounded through those glens, and the laugh of children was heard in those cottages where now all was still as death. We passed a small cluster of houses at the opening of a glen--it could scarce be called a village--and here, so lately had they been deserted, the embers were yet warm on the hearth, and in one hut the table was spread and the little meal laid out, while they who were to have partaken of it were perhaps miles away.

‘Plunged in these sad reflections, I sat on a little eminence of rock behind the party, while they reposed themselves during the heat of noon. The point I occupied afforded a view for some miles of the road we had travelled, and I turned to see if our cavalry detachment was coming up; when, as I strained my eyes in the direction, I thought I could perceive an object moving along the road, and stooping from time to time. I seized my glass, and now could distinctly perceive the figure of a man coming slowly onwards. That we had not passed him on the way was quite evident, and he must therefore have been on the mountain, or in concealment beside the road. Either thought was sufficient to excite my suspicion, and without a second’s delay I sprang into the saddle, and putting my horse to his speed galloped back as fast as I could. As I came nearer, I half fancied I saw the figure move to one side and then back again, as though irresolute how to act; and fearing lest he should escape me by taking to the mountain, I called to him aloud to halt. He stood still as I spoke, and I now came up beside him. He was an old man, seemingly over eighty years of age; his hair and beard were white as snow, and he was bent almost double with time; his dress was the common costume of a Tyrolese, except that he wore in addition a kind of cloak with a loose hood, such as the pilgrims wear in Austria; and indeed his staff and leathern bottle bespoke him such. To all my questions as to the road and the villages he replied in a kind of patois I could make nothing of, for although tolerably well versed in all the dialects of Southern Germany, his was quite unintelligible to me. Still, the question how he came there was one of great moment; if _he_ had been concealed while we passed so near, why not others? His age and decrepitude forbade the thought of his having descended the mountain, and so I felt puzzled in no common degree. As these doubts passed through my mind, the poor old man stood trembling at my side as though fearing what fate might be in store for him. Anxious to recompense him for the trouble I had caused him, I drew out my purse; but no sooner did he see it than he motioned it away with his hand, and shook his head in token of refusal.

‘“Come, then,” said I, “I never met a pilgrim who would refuse a cup of wine;” and with that I unslung my canteen and handed it to him. This he seized eagerly and drained it to the bottom, holding up both hands when he had finished, and muttering something I conjectured to be a prayer. He was the only living object belonging to the country that I had seen; a sudden whim seized me, and I gave him back the flask, making a sign that he should keep it. He clutched the gift with the avidity of old age, and sitting down upon a stone began to admire it with eager eyes. Despairing of making him understand a word, and remembering it was time to move forward, I waved my hand in adieu and galloped back.

‘The cavalry detachment came up soon after; and guess my astonishment to learn that they had not seen the old man on the road, nor, although they narrowly watched the mountain, perceived any living thing near. I confess I could not dismiss a feeling of uncomfortable suspicion from my mind, and all the reflections I bestowed upon his age and decrepitude were very far from reassuring me. More than once I regretted not having brought him forward with us; but again the fact of having such a prisoner would have exposed me to ridicule at headquarters, if not to a heavy reprimand.

‘Full of these reflections, I gave the word to move forward. Our object was, if possible, to reach the opening of the Mittenwald before night, where I was informed that a small dismantled fort would afford a secure position if attacked by any mountain party. On comparing the route of the map, however, with the road, I discovered that the real distances were in many cases considerably greater than they were set down, and perceived that with all our efforts we could not hope to emerge from the ravine of the Schwartz-thal before the following day. This fact gave me much uneasiness; for I remembered having heard that as the glen approaches the Mittenwald, the pass is narrowed to a mere path, obstructed at every step by masses of fallen rock, while the mountains, more thickly covered with underwood, afford shelter for any party lying in ambush. Nothing could be more fatal than an attack in such a position, where a few determined men in front could arrest the march of a whole regiment; while from the close sides of the pass, a well- directed fire must sweep the ranks of those below. This gorge, which, narrowing to a mere portal, has been called the Mitten-Thor, was the scene of some fearful struggles between the French troops and the Tyrolese, and was always believed to be the most dangerous of all the passes of the Tyrol--every despatch to the headquarters of the army referring to the disasters that befell there, and suggesting plans for the occupation of the blockhouse near it, as a means of defence.

‘By the advice of my officers, one of whom was already acquainted with all the circumstances of the ground, I determined on halting at a part of the glen about two miles from the Mitten-Thor, where a slight widening of the valley afforded more space for movement if attacked; and here we arrived as evening was beginning to fall. It was a small oval spot between the mountains, through which a little stream ran, dividing it almost into equal portions, and crossed by a bridge of rude planks, to which a little path conducted, and led up the mountains. Scarcely were our watch-fires lighted when the moon rose, and although herself not visible to our eyes as we lay in the deep valley, a rich flood of silver light fell on one range of the mountains, marking out every cliff and crag with the distinctness of day. The opposite mountain, wrapped in deepest shadow, was one mass of undistinguishable blackness, and seemed to frown ominously and gloomily upon us. The men were wearied with a long march, and soon lay down to rest beside their fires; and save the low subdued hum of the little encampment, the valley was in perfect silence. On the bridge, from which the pass was visible for a good distance in both directions, I had placed a lookout sentry; and a chain of patrols was established around the bivouac.

‘These arrangements, which occupied me some time, being completed, I threw myself down beside my fire, and prepared for sleep. But somehow, though I had passed a day of fatigue and exertion, I could not slumber; every time I closed my eyes the vision of the old pilgrim was before me, and a vague, undefined feeling of apprehension hung over me. I tried to believe it was a mere fancy, attributable to the place, of whose terrors I had heard so much; but my mind dwelt on all the disasters of the Schwartz-thal, and banished every desire for repose.

As I lay there, thinking, my eyes were attracted by a little rocky point, about thirty feet above me on the mountain, on which the full splendour of the moonlight shone at intervals as the dark clouds drifted from before her; and a notion took me--why and how I never could explain to myself--to ascend the crag, and take a view down the valley. A few minutes after, and I was seated on the rock, from which I could survey the pass and the encampment stretched out beneath me. It was just such a scene as Salvator used to paint--the wild fantastic mountains, bristling with rude pines and fragments of granite; a rushing torrent, splashing and boiling beneath; a blazing watch-fire, and the armed group around it, their weapons glancing in the red light; while, to add to the mere picture, there came the monotonous hum of the soldier’s song as he walked to and fro upon his post.

‘I sat a long while gazing at this scene, many a pleasant thought of that bandit life we Germans feel such interest in, from Schiller’s play, passing through my mind, when I heard the rustling of leaves, and a crackling sound as of broken branches, issue from the mountain almost directly above me. There was not a breath of wind nor a leaf stirring, save there. I listened eagerly, and was almost certain I could hear the sound of voices talking in a low undertone. Cautiously stealing along, I began to descend the mountain, when, as I turned a projecting angle of the path, I saw the sentry on the bridge with his musket at his shoulder, taking a steady and deliberate aim at some object in the direction of the noise. While I looked, he fired; a crashing sound of the branches followed the report, and something like a cry, and as the echoes died away in the distance a heavy mass tumbled over the cliff, and fell from ledge to ledge till it rolled into the deep grass below. I had but time to perceive it was the corpse of a man fully armed, when the quick roll of the drum beat to arms. In an instant the men were formed; the cavalry standing beside their horses, and the officers crowding around me for orders. It was the discharge of the sentry’s musket had given the alarm; for, save himself, no one had seen anything.

‘Just then a wild unearthly cry of “Ha! ha!” rang out from one mountain and was answered from the other; while the sounds, increasing and multiplied by the echoes, floated hither and thither, as though ten thousand voices were shouting there. They ceased; all was still for a few seconds, and then a hailstorm of bullets tore through our ranks, and the valley rang again with the roar of musketry. Every cliff and crag, every tuft of brushwood, seemed to be occupied; while the incessant roll of the fire showed that our assailants were in great numbers. Resistance was vain; our enemy was unseen; our men were falling at each discharge; what was to be done? Nothing remained but to push forward to the Mittenwald, where, the valley opening into a plain, we should be able to defend ourselves against any irregular troops that might be brought against us. The order was given, and the men advanced in a run, the cavalry leading the way. Meanwhile the fire of the Tyrolese increased, and the fatal marksmen seldom missed a shot; two of our officers already lay dead, and three others dangerously wounded could scarce keep up with our party.

‘“The road is barricaded and intrenched,” cried the sergeant of the dragoons, galloping back to the main body in dismay.

‘A cry broke from the soldiers as they heard the sad tidings, while some springing from their ranks called out, “Forward, and to the storm!”

‘Rushing to the head of these brave fellows, I waved my cap, and cheered them on; the others followed, and we soon came in sight of the barrier, which was formed of large trees thrown crossways, and forming, by their massive trunks and interwoven branches, an obstacle far beyond our power to remove. To climb the stockade was our only chance, and on we rushed; but scarcely were we within half-musket-shot, when a volley met us directed point-blank. The leading files of the column went down like one man, and though others rushed eagerly forward, despair and desperation goading them, the murderous fire of the long rifles dealt death at every discharge; and we stood among the cumbered corpses of our fellow comrades. By this time we were attacked in rear as well as front; and now, all hope gone, it only remained to sell life as dearly as we could. One infuriated rush to break through the barricade had forced a kind of passage, through which, followed by a dozen others, I leaped, shouting to my men to follow. The cry of my triumph was, however, met by a wilder still, for the same instant a party of Tyrolese, armed with the two- handed sword of their country, came down upon us. The struggle was a brief and bloody one; man for man fell at either side, but overcome by numbers I saw my companions drop dead or wounded around me. As for myself, I clove the leader through the skull with one stroke. It was the last my arm ever dealt; the next instant it was severed from my body. I fell covered with blood, and my assailant jumped upon my body, and drawing a short knife from his belt was about to plunge it in my bosom, when a shout from a wounded Tyrolese at my side arrested the stroke, and I saw an uplifted arm stretched out as if to protect me. I have little memory after this. I heard--I think I hear still--the wild shouts and the death-cries of my comrades as they fell beneath the arm of their enemies. The slaughter was a dreadful one; of eight hundred and forty men, I alone survived that terrible night.

‘Towards daybreak I found myself lying in a cart upon some straw, beside another wounded man dressed in the uniform of the Tyrolese Jagers. His head was fearfully gashed by a sabre-cut, and a musket-ball had shattered his forearm. As I looked at him, a grim smile of savage glee lit up his pale features, and he looked from my wound to his own with a horrid significance. All my efforts to learn the fate of my comrades were fruitless; he could neither comprehend me nor I him, and it was only by conjecturing from the tones and gestures of those who occasionally came up to the cart to speak to him, that I could learn the fearful reality.

‘That day and the following one we journeyed onwards, but I knew naught of time. The fever of my wound, increased by some styptic they had used to stop the bleeding, had brought on delirium, and I raved of the fight, and strove to regain my legs and get free. To this paroxysm, which lasted many days, a low lingering fever succeeded, in which all consciousness was so slight that no memory has remained to tell of my sensations.

‘My first vivid sensation--it is before me at this minute--was on entering the little mountain village of the Marien Kreutz. I was borne on a litter by four men, for the path was inaccessible except to foot passengers. It was evening, and the long procession of the wounded men wound its way up the mountain defile and along the little street of the village, which now was crowded by the country-people, who with sad and tearful faces stood looking on their sons and brothers, or asking for those whom they were never to behold again. The little chapel of the village was converted into a hospital, and here beds were brought from every cabin, and all the preparations for tending the sick began with a readiness that surprised me.

‘As they bore me up the aisle of the chapel, a voice called out some words in Tyrolese; the men halted and turned round, and then carried me back into a small chapelry, where a single sick man was lying, whom in an instant I recognised as my wounded companion of the road. With a nod of rude but friendly recognition, he welcomed me, and I was placed near him on a straw mattress stretched beneath the altar.

‘Why I had been spared in the fearful carnage, and for what destiny I was reserved, were thoughts which rapidly gave way to others of deep despondency at my fortune--a despair that made me indifferent to life. The dreadful issue of the expedition would, I well knew, have ruined more prosperous careers than mine in that service, where want of success was the greatest of all crimes. Careless of my fate, I lived on in gloomy apathy, not one gleam of hope or comfort to shine upon the darkness of my misery.

‘This brooding melancholy took entire possession of me, and I took no note of the scenes around me. My ear was long since accustomed to the sad sounds of the sickbeds; the cries of suffering, and the low moanings of misery had ceased to move me; even the wild and frantic ravings of the wounded man near broke not in upon my musings, and I lived like one immured within a solitary dungeon.

‘I lay thus one night--my sadness and gloom weightier than ever on my broken spirits--listening to the echoed sounds of suffering that rose into the vaulted roof, and wishing for death to call me away from such a scene of misery, when I heard the low chanting of a priest coming along the aisle; and the moment after the footsteps of several persons came near, and then two acolytes, carrying lighted tapers, appeared, followed by a venerable man robed in white, and bearing in his hands a silver chalice. Two other priests followed him, chanting the last service, and behind all there came a female figure dressed in deep mourning; she was tall and graceful-looking, and her step had the firm tread of youth, but her head was bowed down with sorrow, and she held her veil pressed closely over her face. They gathered round the bed of the wounded man, and the priest took hold of his hand and lifted it slowly from the bed; and letting it go, it fell heavily down again, with a dull sound. The old man bent over the bed, touched the pale features, and gazed into the eyes, and then with clasped hands he sank down on his knees and prayed aloud; the others knelt beside him--all save one; she threw herself with frantic grief upon the dead body (for he was dead) and wept passionately. In vain they strove to calm her sorrow, or even withdraw her from the spot. She clung madly to it, and would not be induced to leave it.

‘I think I see her still before me--her long hair, black as night, streaming back from her pale forehead, and hanging down her shoulders; her eyes fixed on the dead man’s face, and her hands pressed hard upon her heart, as if to lull its agony. In all the wild transport of her grief she was beautiful; for although pale to sickness, and worn with watching, her large and lustrous eyes, her nose straight and finely chiselled like the features of an antique cameo, and her mouth, where mingled pride and sorrow trembled, gave her an expression of loveliness I cannot convey. Such was she, as she watched beside her brother’s death-bed day and night, silent and motionless; for as the first burst of grief was over she seemed to nerve her courage to the task; and even when the hour came, and they bore the body away to its last resting- place, not a sigh or sob escaped her.

‘The vacant spot--though it had been tenanted by suffering and misery-- brought gloom to my heart. I had been accustomed each day to look for him at sunrise, and each evening to see him as the light of day declined; and I sorrowed like one deserted and alone. Not all alone! for, as if by force of habit, when evening came, _she_ was at her place near the altar.

‘The fever, and my own anxious thoughts, preyed on my mind that night; and as I lay awake I felt parched and hot, and wished to drink, and I endeavoured with my only arm to reach the cup beside me. She saw the effort, and sprang towards me at once; and as she held it to my lips, I remembered then that often in the dreary nights of my sickness I had seen her at my bedside, nursing me and tending me. I muttered a word of gratitude in German, when she started suddenly, and stooping down, said in a clear accent--

‘“Bist du ein Deutscher (Are you a German)?”

‘“Yes,” said I, mournfully, for I saw her meaning.

‘“Shame! shame!” cried she, holding up her hands in horror. “If the wolves ravage the flocks it is but their nature; but that our own kindred, our very flesh and blood, should do this----”

‘I turned my head away in very sorrow and self-abasement, and a convulsive sob burst from my heart.

‘“Nay, nay, not so,” said she, “a poor peasant like me cannot judge what motives may have influenced you and others like you; and after all,” and she spoke the words in a trembling voice--“and after all, you succoured _him_ when you believed him sick and weary.”

‘“I! how so? It never was in my power----”

‘“Yes, yes,” cried she, passionately; “it was you. This _gourde_ was yours; he told me so; he spoke of you a hundred times.” And at the instant, she held up the little flask I had given to the pilgrim in the valley.

‘“And was the pilgrim then----”

‘“Yes,” said she, as a proud flash lit up her features, “he was my brother; many a weary mile he wandered over mountain and moor to track you; faint and hungry, he halted not, following your footsteps from the first hour you entered our land. Think you but for him that you had been spared that nights slaughter, or that for any cause but his a Tyrolese girl had watched beside your sick-bed, and prayed for your recovery?”

‘The whole truth now flashed upon me; every circumstance doubtful before became at once clear to my mind, and I eagerly asked the fate of my comrades.

‘A gloomy shake of the head was the only reply.

‘“All?” said I, trembling at the word.

‘“All!” repeated she, in an accent whose pride seemed almost amounting to ferocity.

‘“Would I had perished with them!” cried I, in the bitterness of my heart, and I turned my face away and gave myself up to my grief.

‘As if sorry for the burst of feeling she had caused me, she sat down beside my bed, took my hand in hers, and placed her cold lips upon it, while she murmured some words of comfort. Like water to the seared, parched lips of some traveller in the desert, the accents fell upon my almost broken heart, suggesting a thought of hope where, all was darkness and despair, I listened to each word with a tremulous fear lest she should cease to speak, and dreading that my ecstasy were but a dream. From that hour, I wished to live; a changed spirit came over me, and I felt as though with higher and more ennobling thoughts I should once more tread the earth. Yes, from the humble lips of a peasant girl I learned to feel that the path I once deemed the only road to heroism and high ambition could be but “the bandit’s trade,” who sells his blood for gain. That war which animated by high-souled patriotism can call forth every sentiment of a great and generous nature, becomes in an unjust cause the lowest slavery and degradation. Lydchen seldom quitted my bedside, for my malady took many turns, and it was long--many months-- after that I was enabled to leave my bed and move up and down the chapel.

‘Meanwhile the successes of our army had gradually reduced the whole country beneath French rule, and except in the very fastnesses of the mountains the Tyrolese had nowhere they could call their own. Each day some peasant would arrive from the valleys with information that fresh troops were pouring in from Germany, and the hopes of the patriotic party fell lower and lower. At last one evening as I sat on the steps of the little altar, listening to Lydchen reading for me some Tyrol legend, a wild shout in the street of the village attracted our notice, which seemed to gain strength as it came nearer. She started up suddenly, and throwing down her book rushed from the chapel. In another moment she was back beside me, her face pale as a corpse, and her limbs trembling with fear.

‘“What has happened? Speak, for God’s sake! what is it?” said I.

‘“The French have shot the prisoners in the Platz at Innspruck! twenty- eight have fallen this morning,” cried she, “seven from this very village; and now they cry aloud for your blood; hear them, there!”

‘And as she spoke a frightful yell hurst from the crowd without, and already they stood at the entrance to the chapel, which even at such a time they had not forgotten was a sanctuary. The very wounded men sat up in their beds and joined their feeble cries to those without, and the terrible shout of “blood for blood!” rang through the vaulted roof.

‘“I am ready,” said I, springing up from the low step of the altar. “They must not desecrate this holy spot with such a crime. I am ready to go where you will.”

‘“No, no,” cried Lydchen; “you are not like our enemies. You wish us naught of evil; your heart is with the struggle of a brave people, who fight but for their homes and Fatherland. Be of us, then; declare that you are with us. Oh, do this, and these will be your brothers and I your sister; ay, more than sister ever was.”

‘“It cannot be; no, never,” said I; “it is not when life is in the balance that fealty can change.”

‘With difficulty I freed myself from the clasp of her arms, for in her grief she had thrown herself at my feet, when suddenly we heard the deep accents of the aged priest, as he stood upon the steps of the altar, and commanded silence. His tones were those of severity and sternness, and I could mark that not a murmur was raised as he continued.

‘“You are safe,” whispered Lydchen; “till to-morrow you are safe; before that you must be far away.”

‘The respite of the priest was merely to give me time to prepare for death, which it was decreed I should suffer the following morning in the Platz of the village.

‘Scarcely had evening begun to fall when Lydchen approached my bed and deposited a small bundle upon it, whispering gently, “Lose no time; put on these clothes, and wait for my return.”

‘The little chapelry where I lay communicated by a small door with the dwelling of the priest, and by her passing through this I saw that the father was himself conniving at the plan of my escape. By the imperfect glimmer of the fading day I could perceive that they were her brother’s clothes she had brought me; the jacket was yet stained with his blood. I was long in equipping myself, with my single arm, and I heard her voice more than once calling to me to hasten, ere I was ready.

‘At length I arose, and passing through the door entered the priest’s house, where Lydchen, dressed in hat and mantle, stood ready for the road. As I endeavoured to remonstrate she pressed her hand on my mouth, and walking on tiptoe led me forward; we emerged into a little garden, crossing which she opened a wicket that led into the road. There a peasant was in waiting, who carried a small bundle on his shoulder, and was armed with the long staff used in mountain travelling. Again, making a sign for me to be silent, she moved on before me, and soon turning off the road entered a foot-track in the mountain. The fresh breeze of the night and the sense of liberty nerved me to exertion, and I walked on till day was breaking. Our path generally lay in a descending direction, and I felt little fatigue, when at sunrise Lydchen told me that we might rest for some hours, as our guide could now detect the approach of any party for miles round, and provide for our concealment. No pursuit, however, was undertaken in that direction, the peasants in all likelihood deeming that I would turn my steps towards Lahn, where a strong French garrison was stationed; whereas we were proceeding in the direction of Saltzbourg, the very longest and therefore the least likely route through the Tyrol.

‘Day succeeded day, and on we went. Not one living thing did we meet on our lonely path. Already our little stock of provisions was falling low, when we came in sight of the hamlet of Altendorf, only a single day’s march from the lake of Saltzbourg. The village, though high in the mountain, lay exactly beneath us as we went, and from the height we stood on we could see the little streets of the town and its market- place like a map below us. Scarcely had the guide thrown his eyes downwards than he stopped short, and pointing to the town, cried out “The French! the French!” and true enough, a large party of infantry were bivouacked in the streets, and several horses were picketed in the gardens about. While the peasant crept cautiously forward to inspect the place nearer, I stood beside Lydchen, who, with her hands pressed closely on her face, spoke not a word.

‘“We part here!” said she, with a strong, full accent, as though determined to let no weakness appear in her words.

‘“Part, Lydchen!” cried I, in an agony; for up to that moment I believed that she never intended returning to the Tyrol.

‘“Yes. Thinkest thou that I hold so light my home and country as thou dost? Didst thou believe that a Tyrol girl would live ‘midst those who laid waste her Fatherland, and left herself an orphan, without one of her kindred remaining?”

‘“Are there no ties save those of blood, Lydchen? Is your heart so steeled against the stranger that the devotion, the worship, of a life long would not move you from your purpose?”

‘“Thou hast refused me once,” said she proudly; “I offered to be all your own when thou couldst have made me so with honour. If thou wert the Kaiser Franz, I would not have thee now.”

‘“Oh, speak not thus, Lydchen, to him whose life you saved, and made him feel that life is a blessing! Remember that if _your_ heart be cold to me, you have made _mine_ your own for ever. I will not leave you. No---- “

‘“Is it that thou mayst bring me yonder and show me amongst thy comrades--the Tyrol maiden that thou hast captured, thy spoil of war?”

‘“Oh, Lydchen, dearest, why will you speak thus----”

‘“Never!” cried she, as her eyes flashed proudly, and her cheek flushed red, “never! I have the blood of Hofer in my veins; and bethinkest thou I would stoop to be a jest, a mockery, before thy high-born dames, who would not deem me fit to be their waiting-woman? Farewell, sir. I hoped to part with thee less in anger than in sorrow.”

‘“Then I will remain,” said I.

‘“Too late, too late!” cried she, waving her hand mournfully; “the hour is past. See, there come your troops; a moment more, and I shall be taken. You wish not this, at least----”

‘As she spoke, a cavalry detachment was seen coming up the valley at a canter. A few minutes more and she would be discovered. I knew too well the ruffian natures of the soldiery to hazard such a risk. I caught her to my arms with one last embrace, and the next moment dashed down the path towards the dragoons. I turned my head once, but she was gone; the peasant guide had left the breach of the chasm, and they both were lost to my view.

‘My story is now soon told. I was tried by a court-martial, honourably acquitted, and restored to my grade--_en retraite_, however, for my wound had disabled me from active service. For three years I lived in retirement near Mayence, the sad memory of one unhappy event embittering every hour of my life.

‘In the early part of 1809 a strong division of the French army, commanded by my old friend and companion Lefebvre, entered Mayence, on their way to Austria; and as my health was now restored, I yielded to his persuasion to join his staff as first aide-de-camp. Indeed, a carelessness and indifference to my fortune had made me submit to anything, and I assented to every arrangement of the general, as if I were totally unconcerned in it all. I need not trace the events of that rapid and brilliant campaign. I will only remark that Eckmühl and Ratisbon both brought back all the soldier’s ardour to my heart; and once more the crash of battle, and the din of marching columns, aroused my dormant enthusiasm.

‘In the month of April, a _corps d’armée_ of twenty thousand men entered the Tyrol, and pushed forward to the Niederwald, where Lefebvre had his headquarters. I cannot stay to speak of the terrible scenes of that period, the most fearful in the spirit of resistance that ever our arms encountered. Detachments were cut off every day; whole columns disappeared, and never again were heard of; no bivouac was safe from a nightly attack, and even the sentinels at the gates of Innspruck were repeatedly found dead on their posts. But, worse than all, daily instances occurred of assassination by peasants, who sometimes dressed as sutlers entered the camp, and took the opportunity to stab or shoot our officers, caring nothing, as it seemed, for the certain death that awaited them. These became of such frequent occurrence that scarce a report did not contain one or two such casualties, and consequently every precaution that could be thought of was adopted; and every peasant taken with arms--in a country, too, where none are unarmed--was shot without trial of any kind whatever. That little mercy, or indeed justice, was meted out to the people, I need only say that Girardon was commandant of the garrison, and daily inspected the executions on parade.

‘It happened that one morning this savage old officer was stabbed by an Austrian peasant, who had long been employed as a camp servant and trusted in situations of considerable confidence. The man was immediately led out for execution to the Platz, where was another prisoner,--a poor boy found rambling within the lines, and unable to give any account of his presence there. Girardon, however, was only slightly wounded, and countermanded the the execution of his assassin, not from motives of forgiveness, but in order to defer it till he was himself able to be present and witness it. And upon me, as next in command, devolved the melancholy duty of being present on the parade. The brief note I received from Girardon, reminded me of a former instance of weakness on my part, and contained a sneering hope that I ‘had learned some portion of a soldier’s duty, since I was reduced to the ranks at Strasbourg.’

“When I reached the Platz, I found the officers of the Staff in the middle of the square, where a table was placed, on which the order for the execution was lying, awaiting my signature.

“‘The prisoner begs a word with the officer in command,’ said the orderly serjeant.

“‘I cannot accede to his request.’ said I, trembling from head to foot, and knowing how totally such an interview would unman me.

“‘He implores it, sir, with the utmost earnestness, and says he has some important secret to reveal before his death.’

“‘The old story--anything for five minutes more of life and sun-shine,’ said an officer beside me.

“‘I must refuse.’ said I, ‘and desire that these requests may not be brought before me.’

“‘It is the only way, Colonel.’ said another; ‘and indeed such intervals have little mercy in them; both parties suffer the more from them.’

“This speech seemed to warrant my selfish determination, and I seized the pen, and wrote my name to the order; and then handing it to the officer, covered my face with my hands, and sat with my head leaning on the table.

“A bustle in front, and a wild cry of agony, told me that the preparations were begun, and quick as lightning, the roar of a platoon fire followed. A shriek, shrill and piercing, mingled with the crash, and then came a cry from the soldiers, ‘It is a woman!’

“‘With madness in my brain, and a vague dread--I know not of what--I dashed forward through the crowd, and there, on the pavement, weltering in her blood, lay the body of Lydchen: she was stone dead, her bosom shattered by a dozen bullets.

“I fell upon the corpse, the blood poured from my mouth in torrents; and when I arose, it was with a broken heart, whose sufferings are bringing me to the grave.”

This sad story I have related without any endeavour to convey to my reader, either the tone of him who told it, or the dreadful conflict of feeling, which at many times prevented his continuing. In some few places the very words he made use of were those I have employed, since they have remained fast rooted in my memory, and were associated with the facts themselves. Except in these slight particulars, I have told the tale as it lives in my recollection, coupled with one of the saddest nights I ever remember.

It was near morning when he concluded, tired and exhausted, yet to all appearance calmer and more tranquil from the free current of that sorrow he could not longer control.

“Leave me now,” said he, “for a few hours; my servant shall call you before I go.”

It was to no purpose that I offered to accompany him, alleging--as with an easy conscience I could do--that no one was less bound by any ties of place or time. He refused my offer of companionship, by saying, that strict solitude alone restored him after one of his attacks, and that the least excitement invariably brought on a relapse. “We shall soon meet again, I hope,” was the extent of promise I could obtain from him; and I saw that to press the matter further was both unfair and indelicate.

Though I lay down in bed I could not sleep; a strange feeling of dread, an anxious fear of something undefined, was over me; and at every noise I arose and looked out of the window, and down the streets, which were all still and silent. The terrible events of the tale were like a nightmare on my mind, and I could not dismiss them. At last I fell into a half slumber, from which I was awakened by the Baron’s servant. His master was dangerously ill; another attack had seized him, and he was lying senseless. I hastened to the room, where I found the sick man stretched half dressed upon the bed, his face purple, and his eyeballs strained to bursting; his breathing was heavy, and broken by a low, tremulous quaver, that made each respiration like a half-suppressed sigh. While I opened the window to give him air, and bathed his forehead with cold water, I dispatched a servant for a doctor.

The physician was soon beside me; but I quickly saw that the case was almost hopeless. His former disease had developed a new and, if possible, worse one--aneurism of the heart.

I will not speak of the hourly vacillations of hope and fear in which I passed that day and the following one. He had never regained consciousness; but the most threatening symptoms had considerably abated, and, in the physician’s eyes, he was better. On the afternoon of the third day, as I sat beside his bed, sleep overtook me in my watching, and I awoke feeling a hand within my own: it was Elgenheim’s.

Overjoyed at this sign of returning health, I asked him how he felt. A faint sigh, and a motion of his hand towards his side, was all his reply. Not daring to speak more, I drew the curtain, and sat still and silent at his side. The window, by the physician’s order, was left open, and a gentle breeze stirred the curtains lightly, and gave a refreshing air within the apartment. A noise of feet, and a hurried movement in the street, induced me to look out, and I now saw the head of an infantry battalion turning into the Platz. They marched in slow time, and with arms reversed. With a throb of horror, I remembered the deserter! Yes, there he was! He marched between two dismounted gendarmes, without coat or cap; a broad placard fixed on his breast, inscribed with his name and his crime. I turned instantly towards the bed, dreading lest already the tramp of the marching men had reached the sick man’s ear, but he was sleeping calmly, and breathing without effort of any kind.

The thought seized me, to speak to the officer in command of the party, and I rushed down, and making my way through the crowd, approached the staff, as they were standing in the middle of the Platz. But my excited manner, my look of wild anxiety, and my little knowledge of the language, combined to make my appeal of little moment.

“If it be true, sir,” said a gruff old veteran, with a grisly beard, “that he was an Officer of the Empire, the fire of a platoon can scarcely hurt his nerves.”

“Yes, but,” said I, “there is a circumstance of his life which makes this ten-fold more dangerous--I cannot explain it--I am not at liberty-- “

“I do not desire to learn your secrets, sir,” replied the old man rudely; “stand back, and suffer me to do my duty.”

I turned to the others, but they could give me neither advice nor assistance, and already the square was lined with soldiers, and the men of the “death party” were ordered to stand out.

“Give me at least time enough to move my friend to a distant chamber, if you will not do more,” said I, driven to madness; but no attention was paid to my words, and the muster roll continued to be read out.

I rushed back to the inn, and up the stairs; but what was my horror to hear the sound of voices, and the tramp of feet, in the sick room I had left in silence. As I entered, I saw the landlord and the servant, assisted by the doctor, endeavouring to hold down the Baron on his bed, who with almost superhuman strength, pushed them from him in his efforts to rise. His features were wild to insanity, and the restless darting of his glistening eye, showed that he was under the excitement of delirium.

“The effort may kill him,” whispered the doctor in my ear; “this struggle may be his death.”

“Leave me free, sir!” shouted the sick man. “Who dares to lay hands on me--stand aside there--the peloton will take ground to the right,” continued he, raising his voice as if commanding on parade; “Ground arms!”

Just at this instant, the heavy clank of the firelocks was heard without, as though in obedience to his word. “Hark!” said he, raising his hand--“Not a word--silence in the ranks.” And in the deadly stillness we could now hear the sentence of death, as it was read aloud by the Adjutant. A hoarse roll of the drum followed, and then, the tramp of the party as they led forward the prisoner, to every step of which the sick man kept time with his hand.

We did not dare to move--we knew not at what instant our resistance might be his death.

“Shoulder arms!” shouted out the officer from the Platz.

“Take the orders from _me_,” cried Elgenheim wildly. “This duty is mine- -no man shall say I shrunk from it.”

“Present arms--Fire----”

“Fire!” shouted Elgenheim, with a yell that rose above the roll of musketry; and then with a groan of agony, he cried out, “There--there-- it’s over now!” and fell back, dead, into our arms.

***** *****

Thus died the leader of the stormers at Elchingen,--the man who carried the Hill of Asperne against an Austrian battery. He sleeps now in the little churchyard of the “Marien Hülfe” at Cassel.