The council of war broke up without any result, and the king retired to rest after the fatigues of the day.

The bivouac fires of the troops shone all around the town; and such merry songs, such cheerful voices rose on every side, it was hard to believe these were the exhausted soldiers who could not possibly undertake a two hours' march to Gotha, there to find rest and food.

Fritz Deyke meanwhile had ridden to the town, carrying Lieutenant von Wendenstein before him, without knowing whether he was alive or dead.

The young man lay heavily in his arms, his limbs hung helplessly down, and the wound in his breast bled afresh from the quick ride.

The young peasant reached the town, but there had been fighting in the streets, and it seemed deserted by its inhabitants, who had shut themselves into the back rooms of their houses.

"Where shall I find the best quarters?" he asked himself. "Perhaps they will take the greatest care of him in the hotel," he thought, after a moment's consideration, and he rode on in search of an inn. At a turn in the street he saw a large white house standing a little back, with a well-kept garden in front of it, and with various outbuildings beside it. Green jalousie blinds were closed over the windows.

As the cuira.s.sier rode past with the lifeless body in his arms, a fresh young voice cried, half in fear, half in compa.s.sion:

"Ah! the poor young officer!"

Fritz was touched by the sound of the voice, as well as by this mark of sympathy for his dear lieutenant, and looked up at the house.

A young girl's pretty blonde head peeped from a half-opened shutter, but bashfully withdrew as the soldier looked up; the blind, however, was not entirely closed.

Either the expressive voice, or the sympathy in the bright blue eyes still looking down through the small opening upon the strange and melancholy spectacle, caused the young man to conclude, that in this comfortable and well-to-do looking house he should find good quarters for his beloved officer: it was enough, he reined in his horse, and cried out--

"Yes, the poor young officer needs rest and care, and I demand quarters for him in this house."

The words were short and commanding, for he belonged to the army who entered the town as victors; but the tone of voice was gentle and imploring, and it caused the young girl to open the shutter entirely, and to stretch out her head. At the same moment, a stout, elderly man, with a full red face and short grey hair, appeared, and looked down with displeasure at the Hanoverian soldier.

"Quarters can be had in this house, if so it must be," he said, curtly and uncivilly; "but as to care, we have nothing to do with that, and there is nothing much to eat!"

"I will see to that!" cried Fritz Deyke, "only come down and help me to carry in my lieutenant!"

The old man withdrew from the window grumbling, whilst the young girl called out kindly, "I will get a bed ready at once for the poor wounded man, then we shall see what must be done next."

And she disappeared from the window.

The old man had opened the house door, and advanced towards the horseman.

"I cannot bid you welcome to my house," he said, gloomily and harshly, "for you belong to the enemies of my king and country, but I am bound to give you quarters; and," he continued, looking compa.s.sionately at the pale young officer, "I would rather give quarters to the wounded than to the sound."

"It is no question of friend or foe!" replied Fritz, in a conciliatory voice; "it is a question of Christian charity to a poor wounded man!"

"Come then!" said the old man, simply, and walked up to the horse.

Fritz Deyke let the lifeless form slide gently into the old man's arms; then dismounting, he tied his horse to the low garden railings, and together they bore the lifeless form to the house.

"Up here," said the old man, pointing to the stairs which led from the hall to the comfortable rooms above.

Fritz Deyke went up first, carefully supporting the lieutenant's head, whilst the old man followed, bearing him.

They entered a long pa.s.sage with doors on each side.

The young girl stood waiting for them, and hastened forwards to open the door of a large room, with two windows looking towards the courtyard; it was furnished plainly but with some elegance, and a snow-white bed was prepared for the sufferer.

Fritz Deyke, with the help of the old man, laid the wounded officer gently down upon it.

"Now, young man!" said his host, looking gravely at the cuira.s.sier, "your officer is safe, and he shall want for nothing that my house can afford,--the house of the Brewer Lohmeier," he added, with a look of dignified satisfaction, "that you may know whose guest you are. Come now, we will take your horse into the stable; and," he continued somewhat confidentially, "whilst you are here, keep others away if you can."

They went down stairs, leaving the young girl in the room with the wounded man. She smoothed the pillows, and looked with melancholy interest at the handsome face, pale as death.

Some infantry came down the street.

"We will find quarters in this street," cried one of them; "see, here is a nice-looking house,--let us go in,--there will be room for us all!"

Fritz Deyke came to the door at this moment with the brewer.

"Ah! there are cuira.s.siers here already," cried the infantry man; "is there still room, comrade?"

Fritz put his finger to his lips.

"A dangerously-wounded officer here," he said; "you must not talk so loud, nor make such a noise in marching."

"Then we must go further," said the infantry soldiers; they cast sympathizing looks at the upper windows, and walked on.

"Thank you!" said the old brewer, in a friendly voice.

Fritz Deyke led his horse through the yard gate to the stable, where he put him with the brewer's four horses. He then asked for a piece of chalk, and wrote in large letters upon the house door: "Dangerously wounded officers."

"Now," he cried, "I must go and find a surgeon; take care of my lieutenant, but do not move him!" He was about to hurry away.

"Stop," said the brewer, "your surgeons will all be busy at the field hospitals; our surgeon lives close here, he is a clever man, I will fetch him."

He went out, and soon returned with a fresh-faced, grey-headed old gentleman, with a very kind expression.

He stepped up to the bed, whilst Fritz studied his looks with the greatest anxiety.

The surgeon shook his head, he opened one of the closed eye-lids, looked at the eye of the wounded man, and said,

"Life is not extinct, whether we can retain it is in G.o.d's hand! I must look at the wounds, we must undress him, and you, dear Margaret, get us some warm water and some wine."

The young girl hastened away. Fritz carefully cut off the wounded man's clothes and boots.

There was a wound in the left breast, another in the shoulder.

"This is nothing," said the surgeon, pointing to the shoulder, "a bayonet wound, which will get well of itself; but here--" drawing a probe from a case, he examined the wound in the breast.

"The bullet has lodged upon the rib," he said; "if he does not die from loss of blood and exhaustion he may recover. For the present he must have perfect rest; I cannot attempt to extract the bullet until he has in some measure recovered his strength."

Margaret returned with warm water, linen, and a sponge. She then placed a small lamp upon the table, for it began to grow dark.

The surgeon washed the wound, and poured some wine into his patient's mouth. A deep breath parted his lips, a faint tinge of colour came to his cheeks, and he opened his eyes. He looked with surprise at everything around him; his eyes closed again, and scarcely audibly he murmured "Auf Wiedersehn!"

The young girl folded her hands, and raised her eyes, shining through tears to heaven.