A Hero of the Pen

Atkins' words had proved true. Now that Henry's uncontrollable nature had burst its barriers, it knew no limits. But it broke forth into no wild fury; the head of the American remained clear and cool. While seeking revenge against the hated rival, he must care for his own safety, and he had assured it. Every one knew that the mountains were unsafe, and the German officer found dead in the morning would be supposed to have fallen by the bullet of a French sharpshooter: such things often happen in war, people would say; why had the foolhardy man ventured alone, by night, into the mountains? The guards, who held every avenue would declare that they had let no one pass, and Alison would not be supposed to have left the circuit of the park.

Discovery was impossible, and consciousness augmented Alison's cool, determined composure. He was disturbed by no moral barriers by no ideal scruples of conscience. He had offered his enemy combat on equal terms, and had stood ready to peril his own life. The rival would not consent; well then, let him suffer the consequences!

The situation could not have been better chosen; Henry stood in the shadow of the cliff, at the foot of the fir-tree and quite concealed by its branches. Right below led the mountain-road and the foot-path. He commanded both with eye and weapon. No human being coming in the direction of S. could escape him, and Henry's revolver was one that never missed its aim; his skill in shooting had always been the admiration of his associates.

He waited, his eyes fixed upon the opening of the road where Fernow must appear; all his powers of mind concentrated in this breathless spying and listening; what happened near him or behind him did not concern him; he did not hear the low, mysterious mutterings up in the firs.

Deep solitude in the mountains! Only now and then resounds the cry of a bird of prey sweeping over the forest in its slow, ponderous flight, and then vanishing in the darkness. Now and then a gust of wind sweeps over the rocky wall, swaying the tree-tops to and fro. Now the shrubs flutter and nod in the moonlight, now the boughs of the fir-tree rustle softly but uncannily as if wailing or lamenting.

There, at last! At the winding of the road, looms up a dusky form and approaches slowly but with steady tread. Alison recognizes Fernow's gait and bearing; now he recognizes his features also. He has already reached the rocky plateau, and is about to enter the path gradually winding upward, Alison raises his revolver.

Then, all at once, come shots from another direction. From out the thicket of firs on the opposite side of the mountain, rush strange forms, and throw themselves in the German's path. He springs aside, firing at the same moment, but the enemy, conscious of superior strength, retreats only for an instant.

Walter is driven against the cliff, and in a moment, he is surrounded on all sides.

Henry stands motionless, the loaded weapon in his hand, and glances upon the tragic spectacle at his feet; Walter still stands upright, leaning against the cliff, but the blood already trickles over his forehead, and he defends himself only with his sword. It is evident that the enemy wish to overpower him living; not a single one makes further use of his musket; as he is protected in the rear they attack him at the front and side; the next moment all will be over.

Henry sees this; he sees also that the horrible deed will be spared him; he need not take this life, it is in any event doomed, for Walter will not yield. Six against one! At this thought a wild, glowing sensation of shame darts through the American's breast: he would have committed the murder with a steady hand, but to look on passively and see it consummated before his eyes, that he cannot do. There is a fearful momentary struggle, and Henry's noble nature breaks forcibly through hatred and fury, and bears him irresistibly on to help, to rescue.

One shot, and the hindmost of the French sharpshooters lies upon the ground; a second, and the one next him falls also. Confounded, the others pause; they leave Walter, and in their withdrawal give only a better mark for Henry. For the third time! The Frenchmen gaze in horror up the height whence come these solitary, spirit-like balls, every one of which with deadly certainty fells its victim; and as the man they have attacked now rouses himself, and makes use of his sword, the other three take flight. A last shot from the American hisses past them, and the half-audible oath with which one of them lets fall his weapon and gripes at his shoulder, while at a still more rapid pace, he dashes on after his comrades, proves that this last ball has not missed its aim. They all vanish in the fir-shadows on the other side of the path whence they came.

While Walter stands there breathless, he all at once feels himself seized by the arm, and drawn away. "Fly!" whispered a voice in his ear; "they must not suspect there are only two of us."

He followed mechanically; in a few moments they were in the secure shadow of the cliff and the fir boughs. The rescued man leaned against the trunk of the tree, pale, bleeding, half unconscious, and his rescuer stood near him, grim and silent, but breathing heavily, as if freed from an oppressive burden.

For the present they were safe; from here they could remark every approach of the enemy. They had really had to do with only a few patrols; the Frenchmen did not think of returning; no further trace of them appeared.

"Mr. Alison–is it you!"

"Are you wounded?" asked Alison curtly.

Walter passed his hand to his forehead. "It is of no account!" he said. "One of the first balls must have grazed my forehead. It is nothing!"

Instead of answering, Alison drew forth his handkerchief and reached it to him. He looked on silently while Fernow bound it around his forehead whence the blood trickled down drop by drop; but he did not make the slightest effort to help him.

With his own handkerchief, Walter wiped the blood from his face, then he approached his rescuer, and silently offered him his hand. Alison drew back.

"Mr. Alison," said Walter in a voice thrilled by the deepest emotion, "they did you bitter wrong this evening, and it was your own countryman that calumniated you. I had more confidence in you than he."

Morosely and coldly, Alison repelled the proffered hand. "Be on your guard with your confidences, Lieutenant Fernow!" he said roughly. "You came within a hair's-breadth of being deceived."

"You have rescued me, rescued me at the peril of your own life. The French fusileers might have discovered you, and seized you. From the manner in which we met two hours ago, I had not expected this. I relied upon your honor, not upon your help! You must not now repel my thanks; in spite of all that lies between us, they come from my full heart, and you will also–"

"Be silent!" interrupted Alison with savage fury, "I wish no thanks; you owe thanks to me least of all!"

Walter drew back and gazed at him in astonishment. Alison's behavior was enigmatical to him.

"Thanks!" repeated Alison, with annihilating scorn. "Well, I cannot dissemble, and before you extol me as your magnanimous preserver, you shall know the truth. I stood there not to protect you, but to kill you! Do not recoil from me in this way, Lieutenant Fernow! I was in bloody earnest; my revolver was loaded for you; one step more, and I should have shot yon down. You must thank that attack; that saved you, that alone. When I saw six men falling upon one,–then I took your part."

A deep, momentary silence followed these words. Walter stood there calm, and gazed steadily and gravely at his rival; then he stepped up to him, and again offered his hand.

"I thank you, Mr. Alison," he said; "I thank you even for that confession. Your heart speaks better than your lips, and in spite of all, we can no longer be enemies."

Alison laughed bitterly. "We cannot? You seem to forget that we are not of one origin. According to your German sentimentality, we ought now to fall into each other's arms, and swear eternal friendship. I am constituted otherwise; if I hate, I hate until my last breath; and I hate you, Lieutenant Fernow, because you have robbed me of the one dearest to me in the whole world. Do not believe that I release you from your promise to meet me at the end of the war, or that I will then spare you; do not believe that Jane Forest can ever belong to you. I hold you fast to your word, and to your oath, and if she is to die of this love for you, she shall still be my wife!"

Walter's eyes fell, and an expression of unendurable agony lay upon his face.

"I did not think of that," he said softly, "I only wished to thank you; but you are right, Mr. Alison; we two are differently constituted, we shall never understand each other.–Farewell,–I must go on!"

"You must go on?" asked Alison in astonishment. "Not further into the mountain! You must have seen how unsafe it is; the French sharpshooters are everywhere."

"I know it. Their main body lies an hour's distance from here. But I must force my way through, if it is possible."

The American stared at him in consternation. "Alone? Wounded? Has this attack not shown you the impossibility of such a step?"

"This very attack gives me courage. It came from below; the French patrols avoid the mountain-road; my way is clear."

"Hardly! You rush on to your destruction, Lieutenant Fernow."

"Well, then," replied Walter, while the old melancholy smile flitted over his face, "another meeting will be spared me, and to you, murder in a duel; for after what has just happened, I will never draw a weapon against you.–But one thing more, Mr. Alison. I do not know how you came past the guard, and I will not ask you; but I demand your word of honor not to follow me further, and to go back immediately by the path on which you came. I am forced to demand this. Do not refuse it."

Alison gazed at him morosely. "I have nothing more to seek in the mountains," he said; "I will go back immediately."

"I thank you, and now–farewell!"

Walter turned away and vanished in the shrubbery.

Alison gazed after him.

"There he goes, right into the midst of the enemy, with that calmness and those eyes before which mine almost fell. Oh, this German!"–he clinched his hands in savage fury. "I can force her to be my wife, but her heart will never forget him; it cannot,–I understand that!"

On the evening of the next day, Captain Schwarz with his battalion, which Lieutenant Fernow had now joined, entered S. It had been almost a whole day upon the march, as it had taken the by-road through E., but it brought welcome news. The very next morning, the colonel and his staff, with the rest of the regiment from L. re-enforced and instructed to fall on the enemy if he still obstructed the pass, went to join the other detachments in S. The regiment had been recalled from its post, and had at the same time received orders to march on to Paris.

CHAPTER XXX.

Waiting

The winter had passed. More than six months lay between that eventful autumn night, and the spring day which now poured its sunny magnificence over B. Six months, full of snow and ice, full of new sieges and new triumphs. Now the bloody strife had ended. Overthrown in his last, despairing struggles, exhausted, driven back into the very heart of the country, the enemy at last confessed itself beaten. The last war for the Rhine had been fought; henceforth, new boundaries were to guard the ancient river and the land through which it flowed.

In the Rhine-country the first thunderbolt of war had fallen; here the people had most feared and trembled, most fervently prayed; because here the danger had been most imminent; and it was the Rhineland that was to be first greeted as saviour and conqueror. The trembling hope that had a little while ago followed the departing soldiers, was now changed into shouts of exultation and plans of victory.

The old city of Bonn did not remain behind in the joy of victory, in the festal-splendors that lighted up every town and hamlet. Here, too, banners waved from roofs and towers; windows and doors were garlanded, and a gay, triumphant life ruled over all. The house of Doctor Stephen, which had usually been the first to celebrate a victory, belonged this time to the number of those which, bare and garlandless, with closed doors and drawn blinds, gave token that its inmates were called to lament the fallen. The death of his nephew, and respect for the surviving sister, had this restraint upon the doctor and his wife; but all proper sorrow for Frederic and all fitting respect for Jane, could not hinder the doctor from preparing a private festal reception for his Professor on the morning of his return; and although the house showed no outward adorning, he and his wife had secretly intruded into the professor's apartments, and passed a whole afternoon in decorating them.

At this moment the doctor stood at the top of a huge ladder, in a hard tussle with the obstinate end of a festoon which would not yield to the windings required to form the initials which were to be displayed over the door of the professor's study. The Frau Doctorin stood at the foot of the ladder and indulged in some rather merciless criticisms as to the artistic capabilities of her wedded lord; now the spray was too high for her, now too low, now she would shove it to the right, now to the left; at last she declared that the initials were crooked. The doctor rearranged, perspired and growled alternately; but at last he lost all patience.

"You cannot judge rightly down below there, child!" he said angrily "Just go back to the door and look at it from there. The general impression is the great thing to be considered, not strict accordance with mathematical lines!"

The Frau Doctorin, obediently stepped back, but just at that moment when she stood leaning against the door, the better to enjoy that all-important general impression, the door was opened from the outside, and the unexpected visitor, with an outcry of terror and compassion, grasped the old lady who had almost fallen into his arms.