Hans worked hard all night and into the next morning, and then, feeling the need of food and finding none in overcrowded Jena, with an "Auf wiedersehen" to his comrades, he departed for the farmhouse.
Frau Schmelze stood in the doorway.
"Morning, Hans!" she called. "Come in, come in, here is coffee!"
Bustling about, she prepared him a meal in the living room.
On the sofa lay a man in Prussian uniform.
"He staggered in last night," she explained. "His hand was cut and bleeding. I bound it up for him and he fell asleep there, though, goodness knows, it was dangerous enough with the French tearing by every moment!" She poured out coffee. "Ach Himmel, Hans!" she cried, "but war is dreadful! All night the cannon and the screaming."
Then suddenly she turned on him, glancing at his tumbled hair and face stained and dirty.
"Hans," she said, "have you been all night in Jena?"
The old man nodded.
Frau Schmelze frowned in disapproval.
"Cousin," she said, "are you sure about Annchen? All night there were soldiers that way. It would be dreadful if she were alone with the little ones, nicht wahr? We thought you were there."
"Alone?" Hans put down his coffee cup in surprise. "I sent her word to go to her father-in-law's."
The truth was, he had forgotten everything but the battle.
"Why should she, cousin, have stayed on in the Forest House?"
Frau Schmelze was silent; it was not her business to remind Hans Lange that he had a daughter exactly like him.
"So," she answered after a moment, "so. Perhaps you know best, but——"
Then she went to the soldier whom the talking had awakened. In her hand was a cup of the good, steaming hot coffee.
"Ah," said the man, "a thousand thanks!" and he drained the cup, smacking his thin lips as he finished.
"It makes a man over." And rising stiffly he tottered to the table and sank in a chair beside Hans. "You have news of the battle, my friend?"
Hans nodded.
"Napoleon is in Jena," he answered shortly.
"And the army?"
Hans snapped his fingers.
"Gone like a bubble," he said. Then he told of the night and the flying of the soldiers, of the crossing and recrossing of lines, of the racing of the riderless horses, and the entrance of Napoleon into Jena.
The soldier's head sank low; he left his second cup of coffee untasted.
"No one can stand against the French Emperor," he said.
"Ach, nein," agreed Frau Schmelze.
"Perhaps the English," volunteered Hans, cutting huge mouthfuls of bread and grey sausage.
The Prussian flushed and his lip curled.
"The good God helping me," he said, "here is one Prussian who will never give up his fighting until they sign peace, or death steps in."
"Bravo!" cried Herr Schmelze, coming in at the door. "If there were more who felt that way, Jena this morning would not be Napoleon's. The Fatherland is full of indifference, nicht wahr?"
"The Germans are asleep," said the soldier, "the whole nation is dreaming."
Herr Schmelze smiled drily.
"There was something loud enough to wake them, yesterday, nicht wahr?" And he looked at the other two and laughed sarcastically.
As for Hans, he moved uneasily.
"That a man must grow too old to fight," he said. Then he offered to show the soldier the way towards Erfurt, where the remainder of the army was gathering.
Frau Schmelze put down her work and whispered in the ear of her husband. He nodded.
"Hans," he said, "you had better go to the Forest House. Annchen——"
"Ja wohl, Otto." The old man rose resolutely. "We go that way, you know, and when I show our friend here the way, I'll go down and take the news to old Weyland."
Then off he started with the soldier, plunging into talk of the King of Prussia and Napoleon.
Frau Schmelze shook her head.
"I hope, Otto," she said, "that nothing has happened."
The farmer looked serious.
"I thought, of course, Hans had gone home, or I should have sent Ulrich."
"Hans?" A look expressed Frau Schmelze's opinion of Frederick the Great's old soldier, and she returned to her labours.
"A good man is our King, there is no better," the soldier meanwhile was saying. "He and our good Angel, the Queen, have the love of all their people. He is upright, and saving, and truly religious, but, ach Himmel, if he were only not so uncertain! Nobody, not even Stein, steady himself as a rock, can make him know what he wants to do and at once to do it. 'To-morrow,' he says, 'let us wait.' It is always so, nicht? Now, take this war. He delayed and delayed, letting Napoleon insult him over and over. The army grew feeble from want of exercise, and our generals too old for service. Blücher is the only one worth counting. Then, too," he continued, "Frederick William the Second is unlucky. Look at his wretched boyhood. He was born unlucky. And now he has made a mistake about this war, nicht wahr? For eight years when our neighbours needed us he wouldn't fight, and now when we are at it ourselves there is no one to help us."
"The Russians," put in Hans, "the Czar Alexander is our ally. Did you not hear how he and our King—I am a Prussian, you know—swore an oath of friendship at midnight at the tomb of Frederick the Great, the Queen being witness?"
The soldier nodded.
"Ja, ja," he said, "if Russia will help," he spread out his hand, "that will be entirely another affair. But who knows? That little Emperor of the French may twist any number of Czars round his finger, but hark!" He listened eagerly. "What was that? A child?"
There was a sound as of a baby wailing wretchedly. Hans looked uneasy. Could it be that his Anna—but, no—he had sent her word, and certainly she had obeyed him. It was only some peasant with her baby. Presently they left the wood and before them stood the little grey Forest House with its red roof and garden.
Hans started and called out an exclamation. Pine needles were scattered everywhere as if feet, running, had disturbed the forest carpet. The garden gate stood open. A rosebush, broken, had fallen across the path. On the path, too, were dark drops which made both men shudder. The chickens, not yet freed from their night quarters, clucked impatiently, unmilked cows bellowed in pain, and Schneider and Schnip, the dogs, howled long and mournfully. And yet, in spite of the noise, the place seemed wrapped in a quiet most horrible.
"Mein Gott!" The soldier looked at Hans, who, gazing steadily before him, pushed open the unlatched door of the hall.
A cold little nose touched his hand as he entered. It was "Little Brother," Bettina's pet fawn, whose eyes seemed to speak most mournfully.
The hall was that of a Forest House, its walls ornamented with antlers of deer, guns and sticks on the racks, and, in the corner against one wall, a highly carved oak press, and, opposite, Frau Weyland's spinning wheel. But Hans and the soldier took no note of furniture, for a stream, a dark stream, was flowing from one door to the other, its source being the living room.
"Gott im Himmel!" cried the soldier. "It is blood!" Then he pushed open the door, Hans and the little fawn following.
There was the room as Hans knew it, with its sofa, its square table, its geraniums in the windows, its tall white porcelain stove, and its one picture of the Herr Jesus blessing the children.
A candle, smoking dismally about the socket, filled the room with a horrid odour. On the table stood the remains of supper, half eaten. But the two men looked at none of these things, nor took note of the little quivering fawn, whose eyes seemed to long to explain the whole story.
It was at the floor both gazed in horror.
"May the good God have pity," said the soldier softly.
Before them lay three bodies, the first in the uniform of a French soldier, the second, the young Prussian officer Hans had seen flying, and the third——
Hans fell on his knees and took his daughter's golden head in his arms.
"Annchen!" he cried, "Annchen! Speak to me, my Annchen!"
But Frau Weyland was never again to laugh at his forgetfulness, never again to smile her "Ja, ja, dear father!" never to tease him about his battles.
The story was easy to read; the position of the bodies told it. The Prussian had fled to the Forest House for refuge, the Frenchman had fired from the doorway, Frau Weyland, hastily rising, had received one bullet.
As for the Frenchman, a sword thrust had finished him. Doubtless he had received it in the battle and he had bled while running. At all events, it was a loss of blood which had killed him.
Old Hans was almost crazy. With his daughter's head on his knees, he kept begging God to forgive him.
"She was all I had," he told the soldier, "and I thought she was with her husband's father. Herr Jesus, forgive me, forgive me."
Then, presently, as is the habit of certain people, he found comfort in blaming someone else. He flew into a wild fury against Napoleon; he cursed him; he cried out vengeance against him, and he swore that as long as he had a drop of blood in his veins he would struggle to overthrow him. The soldier paid no heed. With his unhurt hand he had been feeling the heart of the young Prussian.
"Get water, old man," he interrupted. "Quick! Quick! The Herr Lieutenant still lives!"
Hans, laying down the head of his daughter, drew from his pocket a flask.
"It is brandy," he said. "They gave it to me for the wounded in Jena."
The soldier poured some drops down the officer's throat. He ordered Hans to fling open doors and windows and they made the poor fellow more comfortable.
Then they covered the dead with sheets from the sleeping room beds.
"Ach Himmel!" cried Hans suddenly. "The children!"
He ran into the garden. Above the noise of the animals sounded the distant wail of a babe. Following the sound, Hans came upon Bettina, little Hans, and baby August.
They had hidden in the forest, Bettina holding the baby wrapped in her mother's shawl.
"Grandfather, oh, grandfather," and she burst into sobs, "he cries so, I can't stop him."
"Mother, I want mother!" screamed little Hans, while the baby's wails were incessant.
Bearing August in his arms, Hans and Bettina at his side, the old man appeared again in the kitchen of the farmhouse.
"Gott im Himmel!" cried Frau Schmelze, wringing her hands and weeping. "I knew it! I knew it! You need not tell me. Conrad, husband! Ulrich! Come! Quick! It is Anna! Our dear, dear Anna!"
As for Hans, he went on like a madman, railing at Napoleon and blaming the French. Only Bettina could quiet him.
No, he would not stay there with the children. He would return to the Forest House where he had left the soldier.
So the farmer went with him, and Ulrich fetched Kaspar's father.
Hans insisted that he would nurse the wounded Prussian.
"Let him alone," said the soldier, who announced that he must march on towards Erfurt. "It will take his mind off his trouble."
"The children will stay here for the present," insisted Frau Schmelze when Hans reappeared that evening.
He nodded.
"Ja wohl, Lotte," he said, and then he railed so at Napoleon that she was sure his grief had crazed him.
She kept her thoughts to herself until that night, when she and her husband lay under their featherbeds. Then she expressed the opinion she had been suppressing all day.
"It's all very well laying everything on Napoleon," she said. "He is a monster, an upstart, a villain, but Hans should have gone home to poor Anna. She should have obeyed and gone to Weyland's, you say? That is just like you, Otto, taking up for Hans Lange because he is a man, but Anna, poor woman, was not much given to obeying her father; you know that, husband, as well as I do, nicht? She was Hans, all over, doing what she pleased and obeying no one." Then the good woman, who truly had loved her cousin, wet her pillow with tears.
The farmer grieved, also. Why not? He, too, had liked Anna, and there were those little children, but he was a man and his thoughts were on the battle. He had learned at Jena that Napoleon was that evening to enter Weimar. Who knew what would happen?
The Duke was the ally of the King of Prussia, and Napoleon was not likely to forget it.
"Our poor country," and he sighed, remembering his meadows and how the soldiers had tramped over them.
He was sinking to sleep when Ulrich returned from Jena, where he had gone after supper.
"Father! Mother!" he called. "Wake up! Wake up! There is news of a battle at Auerstädt!"
The farmer pulled back the bed curtains and sprang from his bed.
"A battle at Auerstädt! Impossible!"
But Ulrich nodded, having hurried until he was quite breathless.
"Ja, ja, father," he panted, "the whole Prussian army is annihilated! They fought at Auerstädt at exactly the same time the battle took place at Jena."
"Ach Himmel, Ulrich, I cannot believe it!" cried the farmer, his face red with excitement.
"Ja wohl, father," Ulrich insisted. "Davoust led the French, the King of Prussia the Germans. They fought all day and neither the King nor the Emperor heard the cannons of the other."
"There has never been such a thing in the history of the world, Ulrich. Two battles at once, here in Thuringia. Impossible!"
But Ulrich knew what he was talking about.
"Ja wohl, father," he said, "I heard it in Jena. All the generals are dead or wounded. The King is no one knows where. Horses were twice shot from under him, and they say he fought like a hero. Napoleon's soldiers are ordered to capture the Queen, and Davoust is pursuing towards Erfurt. Down in Jena they say Napoleon will march at once on Berlin."
Frau Schmelze's voice came from between the bed curtains.
"War is terrible," she said. "Ach Gott, but it is awful!"
"Ja wohl, mother," agreed Ulrich. "All is lost, everything, and Napoleon is our master!" Then he told how the sky was red toward Weimar and how he had heard the Duchess had refused to fly and had taken scores of people into the castle.
Then he lowered his voice, which trembled.
"Mother," he said, "I have bad news for Hans Lange. Kaspar was among those who died, to-day, in the hospital in Jena. They brought him in after Hans had left them."
And so, behind the white horse of the Emperor, Death marched into Thuringia.
Poor Bettina!
Napoleon had robbed her of her father and mother, and the old Barbarossa still slept on in his cave, the ravens cawing and circling.
The wounded soldier lay unconscious for many days in the Forest House. Hans nursed him carefully. He took care of Bettina, too, whom he refused to leave with Frau Schmelze, and Minna Schneiderwint came to milk the cows and do the cooking. Later they must find a new home, but the Herr Forester Leo had been glad, for the present, for Hans to keep on with Kaspar's duties.
Bettina spent much time by the sick officer. At first, she had been afraid of him lying there in a stupor, but presently she grew used to the quiet and liked to sit near his bed while her grandfather was in the forest, singing away to her doll and never minding the sick man. One day she was putting her dolly to sleep with a pretty song her godmother had taught her:
"Joseph, lieber Joseph mein,Hilf mir weig'n mein Kindlein.Eia!""Joseph, dear Joseph mine,Help me rock my little child,Eia!"
"Joseph, lieber Joseph mein,Hilf mir weig'n mein Kindlein.Eia!"
"Joseph, dear Joseph mine,Help me rock my little child,Eia!"
she sang. The Germans say that it is the song the Virgin Mary sang when she rocked the little Jesus in Bethlehem, and so Bettina loved it.
"My sister sings that," said a voice from the bed, a weak voice like a child's.
Bettina gave a great start and then smiled when she saw it was the soldier.
"My dolly is named Anna," she said, and she ran to the bed to show him.
"God be praised," said Hans, when he came in and found them talking.
The soldier would hear the news. Hans told him everything, but not all at once, for it was not wise for him to have too much excitement.
Jena was lost. So was Auerstädt. Both great battles had been fought in one day, neither party hearing the cannon of the other. Retreating, the armies had crossed each other, and never had Europe seen such turmoil and confusion. As for the Prussian army, it had vanished. The young soldier could not believe it. A few weeks before he had marched with that brilliant army, singing songs, and certain of victory.
"And the Emperor?" his face flushed with hatred.
Then Hans told him how, on the day after Jena, Napoleon had marched into Weimar.
"Our good Duchess had remained," he said, "all the day of Jena, and the next morning she opened her doors to Weimar families and any English strangers. There was nothing to eat, and all Her Highness had was a cake of chocolate she found hid beneath a cushion. Towards evening of the day of the battles—I have been told, sir, it was awful!—the French rushed in, pursuing the Prussians. It was terrible. The soldiers slew each other in the streets, the pavements ran blood, the French fell on the wine and beer, and, not knowing what they did, they set fire to the houses near the castle, and the French officers quartered themselves on the Duchess. She alone, sir, remained calm. We have heard how she waited that second evening at the head of the stairs for Napoleon. When he arrived she advanced to meet him, greeting him with politeness. 'Who are you?' he cried, like a peasant."
"The upstart!" muttered the young lieutenant.
"'I am the Duchess of Weimar,' our lady told him," continued Hans, his voice thrilling with pride at Her Highness's bravery. "'I pity you,' said Napoleon, 'for I must crush your husband. Where is he?' 'At his post of duty,' our Duchess, sir, told him. She is a brave lady, sir, and it's a pity, a dreadful pity, that many of our soldiers are not like her. Pardon me, sir, but the doings of our army have been dreadful."
Then he told all the rest he had been told: how Count Philip de Segur had come in the dawn to report to Napoleon all the events of the night, and when he had told him that they had failed in their attempt to capture the Queen of Prussia, Napoleon had said: "Ah, that would have been well done, for she has caused the war."
"That is false," cried the lieutenant, his face flushing. "Our Queen was in Pyrmont for her illness caused by the death of little Prince Ferdinand, and it was decided upon before her return. How dare Napoleon——"
"The Emperor of the French dares anything," and Hans shrugged his old shoulders. He had heard, too, but he had no idea how true it was, that Napoleon had written the Empress Josephine, who was then in Paris, that it would have pleased him much had he captured Queen Louisa.
"And why?" asked the soldier, "why should the Emperor hate so gentle a lady?"
Hans shook his head.
"One is good, the other is bad. From the beginning of things, sir, the pastors tell us in church, there's been war between good and evil, nicht wahr?"
The soldier nodded.
"I suppose so," he said.
Then he heard the rest about the Duchess of Weimar.
The Emperor of the French could not praise her enough.
Next morning he had breakfasted with her. "Madame," he asked, "how could your husband be so mad as to make war upon me?" "My husband," said the Duchess, "has been in the service of the King of Prussia for more than thirty years, and, certainly, it was not at the moment when the King had so formidable an enemy as your Majesty that the Duke could abandon him."
The Emperor was so pleased with her brave answer that his manner changed at once. His tone became respectful and he made her a bow. "Madame," he said, "you are the most sensible woman whom I ever have known. You have saved your husband. I pardon him, but entirely on your account. As for him, he is a good-for-nothing."
Then he talked much more with the Duchess, and at her request ordered all the disorder to be stopped in the town, and everywhere that he went he praised her conduct.
"And we have one comfort," Hans told the soldier. "The Duke, our Duke, Herr Lieutenant, alone remained firm, the Prince of Orange standing with him. They, sir, made an orderly retreat to Erfurt, but," he shrugged his broad shoulders, "their bravery counted as nothing."
Hans was a different man since the death of his daughter. He had but one thought, and that was hatred of the French and of Napoleon. When he walked now, his head hung low. He had no longer cheery words for the people he met with, but a gruff good-day and then no more speaking.
Only to the soldier was he talkative. There was something about the pleasant-faced lieutenant which brought back the old Hans; each day the young fellow grew dearer. Still, even he felt that Hans had his secrets. He came and went in strange ways, and often after nightfall.
One morning, when the frost was white on the grass and the leaves of the low shrubs were touched with silver, the old man started out as usual. There were still French at Jena, though Napoleon with the army had marched away towards Berlin. Bettina was with the soldier, who was up now, and hoped soon to try and join the army.
He and the little girl were great friends. He had told her how that he had three sisters, the oldest, very pretty and named Marianne, and the other two, Ilse and Elsa, were twins, round, jolly and so alike there was no telling them apart unless they spoke, when you knew Ilse because of the shape of one tooth. He had three brothers, Wolfgang, Otto, and little Carl.
"And our home, dear little Bettina, is called the Stork's Nest," he told her, "because my father is Professor von Stork, and the real stork has brought my mother so many babies."
Bettina was delighted at this and asked many questions about Marianne, who was so pretty, and read so many books, and Ilse and Elsa, who were always in mischief, fooling everybody about which was which and trying to do everything that their brothers did.
But the one of this family in whom Bettina took the most interest was little Carl, who had such red cheeks, almost white hair, and blue eyes like saucers.
The reason of this was a story the soldier told her.
One day, he said, his mother was taking her nap after dinner. Before she shut her door she told little Carl, who then was six, to go and stay with his big sister, Marianne. But Marianne was reading a famous book by the great poet, Goethe, called "The Sorrows of Werther," and she told Carl to run away and let her alone.
He did run away, and so far that not a soul could find him.
All the home was in the wildest confusion, Madame von Stork wringing her hands, scolding Marianne, and telling her that it was all her fault, because she would read books, write letters and poems; Mademoiselle Pauline, a young French girl who lived with them, searching everywhere and assuring his mother that Marianne was perfectly useless since she had been to Frankfort-on-Main, formed a friendship with Bettina Brentano and taken to adoring Goethe; the boys racing everywhere; and the good, calm father trying to quiet everybody.
At last Ilse and Elsa had screamed that Carl was coming, and in he walked with the prettiest story you can think of.
He had run away to the Thiergarten, a great, fine park in Berlin, and there had found some boys who had asked him to play horse.
One had reins and quickly harnessed Carl for his steed.
Then off he had pranced, up and down the avenues, until, with a snap, pop had gone the reins.
"A run-away! A run-away!" called the boys, as off had run Carl.
Faster came the drivers and faster ran the horse until, bump, he landed with his head right into a lady.
"You naughty child—you——" began one voice, an old one, when a second—it belonged to the lady who had been bumped—interrupted:
"Please, dear friend, be quiet. Let him alone. Boys will be wild," and she smiled at her companion, a bright-eyed old lady with white hair.
Then she asked Carl his name, told him she had heard of his father, and then she patted one round cheek, kissed him on the other, and said, "Run away, little son, and carry a beautiful greeting to your parents."
"And who was she?" cried Bettina, when the lieutenant first told her.
"Guess," said the soldier, smiling mischievously.
Bettina shook her little head.
"The Queen," said the Herr Lieutenant, and then roared when he saw how surprised Bettina was.
She and her friend, the Countess von Voss, had been walking in the park like any other ladies, and Carl had run into her.
Bettina wanted to know everything.
Was Carl scolded for running off? Was he proud? And how had his mother liked it?
His mother certainly had been much pleased at such an honour to Carl, and, as for the little rascal, he could talk of nothing else, but most certainly he was scolded.
"But nothing did him the least good until his sister Marianne had told him that Pauline would write a little letter in French to Bonaparte, and if he ran away again the Emperor would come and get him."
Bettina shuddered. She could quite believe that Carl never had run away again.
"He is a great boy now," said the Herr Lieutenant. "This happened two years ago."
"I have seen the Queen, too," confided Bettina, and she told him all about the day at the inn, and about Napoleon, and her mother, whom she missed so. Night after night she wept herself to sleep under her feather bed, poor little Bettina.
"Oh, dear Herr Lieutenant," she said, "why did not the ravens wake the Kaiser Barbarossa?"
"Perhaps they will some day," he answered, smiling.
"Do you think, gracious Herr Lieutenant," she asked on the day when Hans had departed so secretly, "that the wicked Emperor will get the dear, lovely Queen?"
The soldier shook his head.
"No, no, little Bettina, the good God must save her, for she is so good and kind to everybody."
Then Bettina came quite close to him, her doll in her arms. Her little dress was no longer bright red. Frau Schmelze and her grandmother had made her one of black.
"Herr Lieutenant," she began.
"Ja, little Bettina."
"I saw a raven to-day."
The young officer laughed.
"So," he said, "so?"
"I think, gracious Herr Lieutenant," and Bettina smiled, "I will run out to the garden, and if I see a raven now, I will give him a message to Barbarossa. He did not wake for my mother," her lips quivered, "but then, Herr Lieutenant, there was no time to send him a message. If I see a raven now, I will call out loud and off he will fly to the cave of Barbarossa."
"Put some salt on his tail, Bettina," said the Herr Lieutenant, "then he will sit quite still and listen until he knows the message."
Bettina trotted off and begged salt of Minna Schneiderwint. Then she ran into the frosty garden to watch for the raven.
At the gate she saw French soldiers. Without a word in they marched and came forth again with the Herr Lieutenant in the midst of them.
"Adieu, dear Bettina, adieu," he cried. "I am a prisoner. Tell your grandfather and thank him for his goodness."
"Auf wiedersehen," Bettina flew to him, her face all alarm.
But the soldier shook his head.
"Adieu, dear Bettina, adieu, I am not likely again to see you or your grandfather." Then he put his well arm about her and kissed her.
"Come, come," cried the soldiers, and off they marched into the forest along the path away from Jena.
Bettina ran into the house, her little body shaken with sobs.
Everybody she loved the wicked Emperor took away, her mother, her father, and now the Herr Lieutenant. Oh, if she only had a wand as in the fairy tales, she would change him into a great black stone, or some cruel animal.
In came Minna Schneiderwint, wringing her hands and sobbing, "The dear, gracious Herr Lieutenant! What will Herr Lange say when he hears of it? Ach Gott! Ach Gott! What a monster is Napoleon!"
Hans, returning, found Bettina still weeping.
"Liebchen," he said, after he had heard the story, "we, too, are going on a journey." Then he told her to say nothing to Minna Schneiderwint, but to help make up a bundle to travel with.
Not a soul, he said, must know a word of their going.
Bettina did as he told her, though the tears came to her eyes when she heard that she was not to say good-bye to Hans, or the baby, or her godmother, Frau Schmelze, or Wilhelm.
Her grandfather Weyland she did not mind not seeing, but she would like to kiss her grandmother.
"Nein, nein," said old Hans, "it is all a great secret."
"And when shall we come back, dear grandfather?" Bettina felt, indeed, as if Napoleon was her enemy, for now she was to lose everybody but her grandfather.
"When the Emperor is conquered," said old Hans, and his brow darkened, "we shall come back to Thuringia."
Then he took off Bettina's dress, and between the lining and the material of the waist he placed a letter.
"Tell no one," he said, "or I shall punish you."
Then, when Minna Schneiderwint had gone home in the afternoon, he fed all the animals, locked the door, and wrapped the key in paper.
"Come, Bettina," he said, and off they started, the old man with his gloomy face, the bundle on his back, a stick in his hand, Bettina in her black clothes and carrying some sausage and bread for supper.
On the road they came upon four boys at play.
"Walter!" Hans called, "come here."
One left the game and listened.
"Take this package for me to Herr Leo," said Hans, "and can you remember a message?" he looked at the boy sharply.
"Ja, Herr Lange, naturally," and Walter looked indignant. He was twelve or thirteen.
"Tell him, and all who ask you, that I have gone on a journey. Bettina, here, goes with me. We will come back when the Emperor is conquered. And, see here, Walter——"
"Ja, ja, Herr Lange."
The old man gave him some money.
"Here is your pay. See that you earn it."
The boy nodded.
"And, Walter——"
"Ja wohl, Herr Lange."
"I shall not mind if you finish your game before you go to the Herr Forester."
The boy laughed.
"Do you mean it?"
Hans nodded.
"Thank you, Herr Lange," and Walter, pocketing the coin, went back to his game.
"Auf wiedersehen, Herr Lange, auf wiedersehen, Bettina, and pleasant travel."
"Auf wiedersehen," said Hans.
"Auf wiedersehen," said Bettina.
Then, breaking away, the little girl ran back, her eyes full of tears.
"Walter, dear Walter," she cried, "please, will you not take my love to my little brothers? And, Walter, please, will you not ask my dear godmother Schmelze in Jena to take a wreath to my dear mother's grave at Christmas? Please, Walter, please?"
"Ja wohl, dear Bettina, ja wohl," and the young boy patted her on the shoulder.
"And greet Willy Schmidt, and Tante Lottchen Schmelze, and, auf wiedersehen, dear Walter, and thank you."
Then she ran after old Hans, waiting impatiently. They started towards Erfurt, but, as soon as they could, Hans changed their direction.
"Where are we going, dear grandfather?" asked Bettina, surprised.
The old man hesitated.
"Would you like, Liebchen, to see the Queen again?"
Bettina's eyes glowed.
"Then say nothing to anybody, and try and keep from being tired, and perhaps we may help save the Queen from Napoleon."
"And the Herr Lieutenant, dear grandfather?"
But Hans shook his head, his face saddening.
"Nein, nein, dear child," he said, "we will not see our soldier," and he muttered something against Napoleon.
Poor little Bettina!
It would be nice to see the lovely Queen, but she knew the Herr Lieutenant, and he told her stories. Her lips began to quiver.
The old man, noticing it, held her hand closer in his.
"Nein, nein, do not cry, Liebchen," he said, "we may see the Herr Lieutenant. Who can tell? Soldiers are everywhere."
Then he taught her a story to tell if any questioned them. She had lost her parents and her grandfather was taking her to an aunt in Prussia. Their home had been burned after Jena and they had nothing to live upon. Of her little brothers, or her grandparents Weyland, she was to say nothing.
It was well the old man had been in haste to tell her these things, for even that evening they were stopped by French soldiers, who searched Hans's pockets and even his clothes, and questioned both him and Bettina.
"Nonsense," said one man when they discovered nothing, "this is not the man we want. This one speaks true. Look at his eyes. And who burdens himself with a child when out on such business?"
The others looked uncertain, one with keen black eyes and firm mouth biting his nails while he considered.
"The man answers the description." The first man looked dubious.
"Use your sense," said a third man. "The child——"
All eyes turned on Bettina.
"You have lost your father and mother?" She felt the keen black eyes reading her through and through.
At the sound of these names and at the thought that she would never again see them, her lips quivered and her eyes filled.
The man stopped quickly.
"Let them pass," he said with a shrug. "Only a fool would choose such a messenger," and he glanced with contempt at Hans, who certainly had answered stupidly, quite like a peasant, saying he knew no French, and begging them to speak in German.
"God be praised, child," he cried, when they were safe through the lines, "you have saved me. The first danger is passed." And he bent down and kissed her.
"Shall we save the Queen, grandfather?"
"Who knows?" answered Hans. Then he charged her that she must never mention that it was to her they were going. He did not tell Bettina that had the letter in her dress been found they would have shot him without discussion, and so she gazed at him in wonder when, "God be praised! God be praised!" he said over and over.
A wagon was waiting at an inn where presently they stopped. It was all very queer and puzzled Bettina, for the driver said, "The Angel," and her grandfather said, "God bless her," and without more words he lifted her in and told her to lie down on the straw and go to sleep.
They drove the whole night and it was morning when her grandfather waked her and gave her some black bread and sausage. Then they alighted and trudged all day through the forest paths, keeping off the main roads, and as they walked Bettina saw the deer in great herds coming to the open places to feed on the hay which the foresters had tied about the pine trees for their dinners, and once she saw great, gleaming, yellow eyes in some bushes.
It was only a huge black cat, but Bettina was sure that it was Waterlinde, the mother of all the witches in Germany, and who, on Walpurgis night, leads the dance on the Brocken Mountain.
"Wait, grandfather, wait!" she cried. Then she ran back to the cat.
"Waterlinde! Waterlinde!" she called, "please ride on your broomstick and get Napoleon!"
The cat raised its tail, which grew monstrous from its anger.
"Hiss!" it said, "Hiss!" Then fled into the bushes.
But Bettina was joyful.
"It will get the Emperor," she said. "It promised. Oh, grandfather, how happy I am! Waterlinde will get Napoleon!"
Bettina was tired, indeed, when one day before noon they drew near a great city on the banks of the Elbe, its splendid cathedral rising against the sky, the snow falling and melting on its strong walls and fortifications.
When Hans saw the colour of the flags flying over this city, he cried out in horror.
"Gott im Himmel!" he exclaimed, "but the French have taken Magdeburg!"
In all Prussia there was no stronger fortress. On it had rested the whole hope of the country.
For a few moments Hans felt quite stunned. Then, taking Bettina's hand, he turned into a path leading to a red-roofed farmhouse standing in the fields some distance from the walls of Magdeburg.
All along the way they had heard of defeats and misfortunes. Like the houses of cards children build, all the strongholds and forts of Prussia had fallen at the mere breath of Napoleon.
But Magdeburg!
"Ach Gott," Hans cried, "but I cannot, nien, I cannot believe it."
As for Bettina, she was so tired that her feet moved without her any longer feeling them.
"Poor child!" cried the farmer's wife, when Hans begged for admission. "Come in! come in!" And she refused to answer a question of Hans until she had fed Bettina on warm milk and tucked her to rest under a huge feather bed. Then, giving Hans a chair, she went for her husband.
He was busy in his barn, hiding all the corn from the French in a hole he had dug beneath its floor, and covered with fire wood. His wife's steps startled him, and his keen, money-loving face appeared at the door.
"It is I, Herman; Magda," she called, and then told him of Hans and Bettina.
"He seems half crazy to me, Herman, the old man. I've put the child to bed. She's half dead from walking. He says they've come from Jena, where the mother and father were killed after the battle. It's an awful story. He's taking the child to an aunt in East Prussia."
The farmer made no movement to go into the kitchen.
"He can pay for everything, Herman."
His face brightened.
"Ach ja," he said, "but that is different. A moment, dear Magda, and I shall be with you."
Following her to the kitchen, he seated himself opposite Hans, pulling a table between them.
"Beer, Magda!" he commanded, and she set bottle and glasses on the table.
"Ja wohl, friend," he said, "Magdeburg is Napoleon's."
Then he filled the glasses, and, clinking with Hans, proposed the downfall of the Emperor.
"Three times, a thousand times over," said Hans, and he begged for the news.
"The King's hope was in Magdeburg. Ja wohl," said the farmer. His voice was loud and he roared instead of talking. "And why not? What fortress in Europe is stronger? There were twenty-four thousand soldiers here; Kleist was in command, and both the King and Queen stopped here in their flight to implore the garrison to be true to Prussia. And then," his face darkened, and he paused for a sip of his beer, "the French Marshal Ney appeared and shot a few projectiles and the Magdeburgers took to tears and appeared before Kleist, begging him to surrender and spare them the horrors of a siege."
"The cowards!" Hans struck the table with his fist.
The farmer sipped his beer, quite unexcited.
"Why fight when one must, in the end, be conquered?" He set down his glass. "They gave up the keys without a breach in the wall, or a single cannon being taken; twelve thousand troops under arms, six hundred pieces of cannon, a pontoon complete, immense magazines of all sorts, and only an equal force without the walls," roared on the farmer.
"Cowards!" And Hans thumped again.
"We are conquered, man," said the farmer, "and the good God knows this war is expensive."
Then he told Hans that he had heard that the King of Prussia had written a letter to Napoleon from Sondershausen, where he had fled after the defeat at Auerstädt.
"And the answer?" Hans' hand, holding his beer glass, trembled with eagerness.
The farmer, shrugging his shoulders, thrust out his under lip in a queer way he had.
"There has been none that I know of," he roared. Then he refilled their glasses, his eyes gleaming as the beer foamed.
Hans thought that he cared much more for this same beer than for his country's troubles, since he drank it with such pleasure while roaring how Napoleon, with a splendid procession, had entered Berlin. He had heard that the Berliners sat at their windows weeping. Napoleon had ransacked all the palaces and was stealing and sending to Paris all the art treasures of the Berliners. Only at Potsdam had he shown reverence. The Prussians had fled so hastily that they had left the cordon of the Black Eagle, the scarf and sword of Frederick the Great on the tomb in the garrison church.
When Napoleon saw them his eyes fired.
"Gentlemen," and he turned to the officers who accompanied him, "this is one of the greatest commanders of whom history has made mention." Then he traced an "N" on the tomb in the dust.
"If he were alive now I would not stand here," he said.
And because of his respect for the great Frederick he saved Potsdam from all annoyance from the war.
What else had happened the farmer did not know, only that the brave Blücher, with tears streaming down his cheeks, had been forced to surrender Lübeck.
As for the King, the farmer had heard that he had gone to Custrin; but he also had heard that Custrin was among the forts which had surrendered. At all events, the beer being now at an end, he had no more time to talk, but arose to return to his barn.
Hans asked him to let Bettina remain until in the afternoon, when he would return for her. Then off he departed also.
The farmer's wife touched her head.
"Grief has crazed him," she said to herself. "It is cruel to drag that child about this country."
Bettina ate a nice warm dinner with the farmer and his wife, and then was put back to bed again.
"A queer little thing," said the wife to her husband. "Poor little lamb!" The tears filled her eyes. "She thinks old Frederick Barbarossa will come from his cave to save us!"
The farmer laughed and told his wife what to charge Hans, for he might not see him again.
It was in the late afternoon when the old man returned.
"We must be off at once," he announced.
The farmer's wife protested.
"The little one," and she set her lips hard, "is too tired."
But Hans was positive.
"We must go, my good woman, and at once," he announced again, and most positively.
Poor little Bettina did not want to go. The farmer's wife had been as kind to her as her mother; but her grandfather took no notice.
"Come, Liebling," he said, "say good-bye and thank the good Frau, and quickly, for we must be starting."
"Auf wiedersehen," said Bettina shyly. She hoped that some time she might see this good Frau Magda again.
Then Hans paid the bill, and off they went and trudged on their way until, late that evening, they came to an inn, where Hans announced they would remain until morning.
Bettina went to bed, but Hans returned to the big room where the men sat, and presently, just as Bettina was dreaming a fine dream about Willy Schmidt and her brothers in Thuringia, he returned with great news and awoke her.
The Emperor, he announced, had offered terms of peace to Prussia. All the troops, not wounded or prisoners, must be drawn up in northeast Prussia; the great cities of the kingdom, including Dantzic and Breslau, must be surrendered; all the Russians marching to the aid of Prussia must be sent back, and the King of Prussia must join with Napoleon in war on his friend, Alexander of Russia, should Napoleon command it.
"I am beaten," answered the poor, good King; "my kingdom is taken from me, but never will I save myself by fighting against a friend. Let the war go on."
Hans' face glowed as he told Bettina this answer.
The little girl was happy to see her grandfather smiling again, but she was too sleepy to understand what he was talking about, and so, when his voice ceased, she went back to her dreams and the old man poured over maps until midnight.
Next day they marched on, keeping out of the way of the army, eating at the farmhouses and hiding often in the forests. Soldiers sometimes stopped them. More than once they searched Hans, but when they questioned Bettina and saw the tears which always came when she heard of Jena they let them pass on.
Once Hans persuaded the driver of a carriage to take them a part of their journey. The carriage belonged to a great person and the man had a passport, and Hans and Bettina could pass as servants.
"For the sake of the child, ja," said the driver. But it may have been for the sake of Hans' gold, which he readily gave him. It was queer that a wild-looking old man, wandering about the country, had gold, but in war times people do not ask too many questions.
It was when in this carriage that Bettina was sure she saw again the Herr Lieutenant.
It was at a place where the driver showed his papers.
At the window of a house surrounded by soldiers a man was gazing gloomily from the window.
Behind him were other faces, and one, Bettina declared, was that of her dear Herr Lieutenant.
"And he knew me, dear grandfather; I know that he did, only he could not dream that his Bettina was here in Prussia, could he?"
"Indeed, no," said her grandfather, and then went to sleep. It was not often that he had such a soft bed as the carriage cushions, and he meant to make the most of it. And so they came to Custrin.
"Now," said Hans, his face full of joy, "we shall see the King!"
But, alas!
Certainly, the King had been there; the Queen, also.
An old peasant woman outside the walls, whom Hans questioned, knew all about it.
The King had come first and gone straight to a house in the Market.
"It is a sad event that brings me here," he had said. And then, later, had come the Queen. "They were here some time," said the old woman. "Her Majesty, wrapped in a travelling cloak, used to walk on the walls and try to put some courage into the soldiers. Foolish work," she added; "you might as well try to fill broken bottles; all she put in their hearts went out at their heels, and Custrin surrendered without fighting."
The King and Queen, she said, were at Graudenz, on the Vistula.
"We will follow," announced Hans.
Poor little Bettina! Would the journey never end?
Her grandfather set out at once. Travel now had become very dangerous. The French were everywhere, and often they must answer questions. They heard how Napoleon had stolen and sent to Paris the splendid statue of "Victory," the pride of Berlin; how he had read all the Queen's letters to the King, which he had found in the palace, and of awful things he had written of Her Majesty.
"He seems to hate her, poor lady," said Hans; "but why, no one can say."
At Graudenz there were the French also. The King and the Queen and the court had been there, certainly, but one day in had rushed citizens, crying "The French! the French!" And pell-mell over the bridge had come Prussians, pursued by French cavalry.
Bang! Up went the bridge, blown to atoms by the citizens. But the French were not to be stopped; and on had fled the King, Queen, and the Court of Prussia.
So Bettina and her grandfather trudged on to Marienwerder.
Never had they seen a place so muddy and dirty. The King and Queen had stayed there ten days. The landlord showed them the room they had lived in, and Bettina, listening, heard how they had eaten, dressed, and slept in one room, and that not a fine one.
"And our poor King," a woman told Hans, "had to take long walks if the Queen wished to dress, or the servants lay the table."
The Maids of Honour had been forced to sleep in a tiny, dirty closet, and the five gentlemen of the flying court in one room, with beds for two and straw on the floor for the others.
"And they changed about," said the landlady. "There was an Englishman, Mr. Jackson, with them, who was pleasant about everything. But our Queen! She is an angel!"
"On every hand someone had good to tell of her; how sweet she was, how patient, how she cheered the whole party and only laughed when she went up to her knees in mud, and declared that she was not thirsty when they could get no wine and the water was not fit to be drunk by anybody."
On one of the windows of the inn the landlady showed Hans some words the Queen had cut there with a diamond.
The old man repeated them to Bettina. The great poet, Goethe, had composed them: