"For G.o.d's sake!" shrieked the Prince in horror. "Cannot General Falkenried be notified?"

"That is the question. I fear that it will not be possible. I have sent out warnings upon two different routes, but our direct connection with R---- is cut off; the enemy has the mountain pa.s.ses in possession; the messengers will have to make a wide circuit and cannot arrive there in time."

Egon was silent in deepest consternation. The pa.s.ses were, indeed, occupied by the hostile forces. Eschenhagen's regiment had been sent to clear the way, but that might take several days.

"We have considered all possibilities," continued the General, "but there is no way out of it--nothing but a slight hope that the surrender has been delayed in some way; but Falkenried is not the man to allow himself to be kept waiting. He will hasten the finale and then he is lost with perhaps thousands with him."

He resumed his walk through the room. One could see how the fate of his endangered comrades went to the heart of this iron man.

The Prince, too, stood helpless, but suddenly a thought flashed upon him. He drew himself up.

"Your Excellency."

"Well?"

"If it should be possible to send a dispatch over the pa.s.ses, a good horseman might possibly get to R---- by to-morrow morning. Of course, he would have to ride for life and death----"

"And through the midst of the enemy--nonsense! You are a soldier and must tell yourself that it is impossible. The foolhardy rider would not get half a mile--he would be shot down."

"But if a man could be found who would be willing to make the attempt in spite of everything? I know such a man, Your Excellency."

The General frowned angrily.

"Does that mean that you wish to offer yourself for this useless sacrifice? I would have to prohibit that, Prince Adelsberg. I know how to value the courage of my officers, but I shall not give them permission for such impossible enterprises."

"I do not speak of myself," said Egon earnestly. "The man of whom I am thinking belongs to the Seventh Regiment, and is at present upon sentinel duty on the Capellenberg. It was he who reported the prisoner."

The General had grown thoughtful, but he shook his head incredulously.

"I say it is impossible; but what is this man's name?"

"Joseph Tanner."

"Private?"

"Yes, he entered voluntarily."

"You know him, then?"

"Yes, Your Excellency; he is perhaps the best rider in the whole army; dauntless to foolhardiness, and capable to act in such a case with the circ.u.mspection of an officer. If the thing can possibly be done, he will do it."

"And you believe--such a thing cannot be commanded--it is, indeed, an act of despair--you believe that the man would take this message of his own free will?"

"I stand for it."

"Then, indeed, I cannot nor dare not say no where so much is at stake.

I will order Tanner up immediately."

"May I not take the order to him?" Egon quickly interrupted.

The General stopped and looked at him searchingly.

"You wish to do it yourself--why?"

"To save time; the road which Tanner has to take leads by the Capellenberg; an hour would pa.s.s before he could get to headquarters and back."

Nothing could be said against that, but the General seemed to feel that something important was hidden beneath this. An ordinary private would hardly undertake such peril, which drove him almost into death's embrace, but the old warrior did not inquire further. He only asked:

"Do you stand for the man?"

"Yes," returned the Prince, firmly and calmly.

"Very well; then you can inform him yourself. But one thing more--he must have statements for the outposts on the other side, if indeed he reaches it, for every detention may prove fatal where moments count."

He stepped to his desk and wrote a few lines upon a paper, which he handed to the Prince.

"Here is the necessary pa.s.sport, and here the dispatch to Falkenried.

Will you bring me immediate news whether or not Tanner consents to go?"

"Instantly, Your Excellency."

Egon received the papers, took his leave, and hastened to his quarters, where he ordered his horse saddled at once. Five minutes later saw him on his way.

CHAPTER LVI.

The Capellenberg, of Chapel Mountain, which had probably borne originally another name, but was so called by the Germans because it bore a chapel, was only a small height, partly covered with forests. It was the last outrunner of the mountains at this side, and formed here the border of the German troops. A company of the Seventh Regiment was stationed in the farms which lay scattered over its side. Their position was rightly considered very hard and most dangerous.

The chapel lay desolate and lonely, half buried in the deep snow.

Priests and choir had long since fled, and the little edifice bore traces of destruction everywhere, for hot battles had been fought around this height. Walls and roof still stood intact, but a part of the ceiling had fallen, and the wind whistled through the shattered windows. Behind it rose the forest, clad in ice and snow, and all this lay in the uncertain light of the half-moon which was now visible in the heavily clouded sky, shedding her ghostly light upon the surroundings, only to again quickly disappear.

It was an icy winter night, as at that time at Rodeck, and, as then, the horizon was lit up by a dark reddish glow; but no aurora beamed here in gorgeous beauty; the glow which flared here in the north bore witness of battles fought all around; it had its origin in burning villages and farms; the awful signs of the flame of war, which were reflected in the skies.

A lonely sentinel stood here with gun on shoulder--Hartmut von Falkenried.

His eyes hung on the flaming horizon, the dark ma.s.ses of cloud shone there blood-red, and from time to time a shower of fiery sparks burst from the seething smoke which rested over the earth.

Glow and flame there; ice and night here! The cold, which had been intense already during the day, now grew to the breath of ice, in which all life seemed to become stark, and which chilled the lonely sentinel to the very marrow.

Although he was not the only one who had to do this hard duty, his comrades had not been spoiled by years of life in the Orient and the balmy air of Sicily. Hartmut had not lived through a northern winter since his boyhood; this cold grew disastrous to him, for it seemed to change the blood in his veins into ice.

Slowly the deadly sleepiness, which is not sleep, crept upon him; it made the limbs heavy as lead, and drooped the eyelids forcibly. He who was so terribly threatened, struggled against it with all his will-power; he tried to collect himself and move about; he succeeded for a moment, but exhaustion again approached, the end of which he knew.

Was it not even to be granted him to fall by a bullet?

Hartmut's glance turned to the half-destroyed house of G.o.d, as if beseeching help; but what were church and altar to him? He had cast faith from him long ago; only night with death stared him in the face, and life would have given him so much when the atonement should have been completed--possession of his love, the fame of a poet, and perhaps even reconciliation with his father.