A Hero of the Pen

CHAPTER XXVII.
Treason

"Frederic!" She laid her hand on his arm, but Frederic turned suddenly away, and gazed intently in the opposite direction.

"What has happened! Let me go, Miss! There is danger in the grotto over yonder. Who is there? Answer!"

No answer came, but Frederic needed none; he knew enough already. The moonbeams falling obliquely at the entrance of the grotto, had revealed all to him; he had seen dark forms and gleaming weapons. In the moment of danger, Frederic's mental capabilities were not so under par as in common life. Instinct supplied him what he lacked in intelligence, and this always guided him aright.

He did not pause to reflect that his two comrades being much nearer the castle than he, could sooner give the alarm, that the most important thing was to know the direction whence the danger came; but he acted as if he had duly considered all this, and summoning the full strength of his powerful lungs, he cried in a voice that rang through the whole park:

"Treason! An attack! The enemy are here! They come from the grotto! Attention, soldiers!"

Then he fired his musket in that direction, and seizing Jane's arm, bore her along with him. The warning had reached the ear of his comrades, the cry again plainly echoed through the silent night, and this time it must have reached the castle. But the enemy remained no longer idle; further concealment was impossible. Half a dozen shots fell at the same time; Frederic paid no heed, but with a low cry of pain, Jane sank upon her knees.

"Forward, Miss, forward into the bushes!" he cried, and rushed on. Jane tried to follow, but her wounded foot forbade. She sank to the earth.

"Fly!" she moaned breathlessly. "Save yourself! I must remain behind!"

Frederic looked down at her, but he saw not now the white, beautiful face, which, would have plead mightily with any other man for her rescue; he thought only that here was a helpless, wounded woman, whom he must abandon if he sought to save himself. Before his soul, clear as the lightning's flash, gleamed only one remembrance: "Tell him that Miss Forest was the one dearest to me in the whole world! He is to guard her, if he must,–with his life!"

As if she had been a child, the gigantic man lifted her from the ground, and retreated with her in his arms. The conclusion and its execution were the work of a moment. The enemy did not follow these two; to leave that secure retreat would have been madness. But the man who had betrayed them was not to escape unpunished. Shot after shot came from the grotto, and our fugitives on this boundless grassy expanse, in the full glow of this bright moonlight, were a mark for every bullet. Frederic now required threefold time for a path he alone could have trodden in a few moments. Jane had twined her arms around his neck; but even here her resolution did not forsake her; she knew that every movement on her part would retard Frederic's steps, that perfect immobility would lighten his burden, and she lay quiet as the dead in his arms. Around both hissed the bullets, but the French shot badly to-night; not one hit. All at once Frederic shuddered convulsively, then he halted, and a hollow moan of agony broke from his lips.

"For God's sake, are you hit?" cried Jane, and sought to loose herself from his arms, but with iron strength, he held her fast. Then he went on again, but more slowly, more circumspectly than before, Jane heard the agonized convulsive heaving of his breast, she felt something hot and moist ripple down upon her hand now loosened from his neck; but still he went on. She gazed anxiously into his face, clearly defined in the bright moonbeams, and an involuntary terror came over her; she seemed to gaze into the face of her dead father. Frederic's heavy, unintellectual features at this moment had a truly frightful likeness to her own,–to those others the grave so long had hidden. It was this expression which had all at once ennobled and transfigured Frederic's face, and this similarity also betrayed his origin, more clearly than all other proofs; it was the grim determination, the hard, perverse inflexibility of the Forests, it was their stony defiance even of the impossible.

And he indeed had overcome it, the impossible; he bore her away over that grassy level and a stretch beyond into the alley, into the secure protection of the trees, and then only did he let her glide from his arms. Meantime, all had become excitement in the direction of the castle; voices rang out, words of command were heard; quick as lightning, the alarm signal echoed back from the village, and at the head of the soldiers quartered at the castle, Lieutenant Witte stormed up the avenue.

"Are they at the grotto?" he cried, recognizing Frederic by his uniform. "Come with us. Forward!"

He rushed on, the others after him; but Frederic did not join them, he did not go forward. For a moment more he stood upright, then he fell heavily to the earth.

With a cry of agony Jane sank down at his side; but over the leather bonds across the soldier's breast, flowed a deep-red tide–the brother had with his life-blood saved his sister!

CHAPTER XXVIII.
The Sacrifice of Blood

An hour had passed, the fight had proved shorter and less serious than had been apprehended. The enemy, proceeding from the forest and gathering in small numbers at the grotto, had intended to surprise the castle in which the German officers were quartered, and by capturing them to leave the force in the village without leaders, and an easy prey to the attack of their main body. Frederic's cry of alarm had broken up their plan of moving on in perfect silence to the castle, and the hand-to-hand fight in the grotto had been of short duration. A few French fusileers had fallen, half a dozen had been taken prisoners, and the others had fled in wild disorder to the forest. By this movement the secret way of egress had been discovered and guarded. A few of the Germans were more or less seriously wounded; none mortally but Frederic, who was to be the only sacrifice.

They had borne him to Jane's chamber and laid him on her bed. She sat at his side. She had represented her own wound as a very trifling one, which had certainly made flight impossible to her, but was not at all dangerous. Doctor Behrend bandaged the foot but avoided any further treatment, he saw that she was in no mood to heed so slight a wound.

Atkins stood at a window of the apartment and gazed in silence at the group. Jane had hastily told him all, and every trace of the old, mocking irony had vanished from his features; the deepest gravity alone spoke from them now. There lay the man they had so long and anxiously sought, for whose discovery his parent's wealth had been sacrificed, whom his sister had followed over the sea, through the whole Fatherland, even to this place. For weeks long he had been so near to them, and they had both so haughtily looked down upon him; they had wounded the poor fellow by their pride and scorn, they had derided his small abilities and his simple ways. There had fallen to his share none of those rich treasures of knowledge and culture which had been so lavished upon his sister; poor and ignorant, in wretched servitude, he had grown up, and had been thrown upon the cold charities of the world, this heir of countless thousands; and now, the hour that at last revealed the truth, that restored to him riches and a future–was to be but the hour of his death.

Doctor Behrend, to whom Atkins had briefly revealed all this, could give no hope. The wound was undeniably mortal; perhaps it might not have been, if Frederic, immediately upon receiving the ball, had taken refuge in the shrubbery. The terrible effort through which he had carried Jane that long distance, had proved fatal; an internal hemorrhage had ensued, and he had only a short time to live.

The wounded man had been lying in a deep swoon; he now moved, and opening his eyes, fixed them on the surgeon who stood at the foot of the bed.

"It is about over with me, Herr Doctor, is it not?" he asked languidly.

Doctor Behrend stepped nearer him, and exchanged a glance with Jane, whose eyes forbade his giving the true answer.

"Oh no, not so bad as that, Frederic; but you are severely wounded."

Frederic was perfectly conscious; he had seen the glance, and understood it. "You may as well tell me," he said, "I have no fear of death. My master!"–he turned entreatingly to Jane–"did you not say, Miss, that my master was in peril–that he would be lost?"

Jane buried her face in her hands. She was suffering a two-fold torture. The guard doubled, she herself incapable of taking a step forward; her dying brother before her, and perhaps at this very moment Walter had fallen. Her courage was at an end; she yielded to the impossible.

Frederic understood the wordless answer. "Then I do not want to live any longer!" he said calmly but decidedly. "I knew it when he took leave of me, and without him I could not endure life!"

Again he closed his eyes, and lay motionless as before. The physician approached Jane, and bent down to her with a low whisper.

"I can give you one consolation," he said. "The inevitable will happen calmly, almost painlessly. If you have anything to say to him–hasten!"

He left the room to look after the other wounded men, and, at a low word from Jane, Atkins withdrew into the adjoining chamber. The brother and sister were now alone.

She bent over him; his face had regained its wonted expression, only that it was now half lifeless and ghastly pale. He scarce appeared to suffer. The look that had glanced forth at the first mortal danger had vanished, and the family resemblance with it. Jane felt that she must set circumspectly about her task, lest the frail life-tenure be too suddenly riven, and she prepare for him a final anguish instead of a final joy. She had strength for the effort. There was in the whole world but one being who had power to rob Jane Forest of her self-control. Even at the death-bed of her brother, this self-mastery asserted its right. Her decision was made; this brother should not leave the world without the last kiss of his sister.

"Fritz!"

Again he opened his eyes, surprised at the strange appellation; but it seemed to be a tender, melancholy remembrance this name awakened in him, the name Jane had so feared she might hear from Walter's lips. She bent yet lower down to the dying man, and took gently his hand in hers.

"You have spoken to me of your childhood. Have you no remembrance at all of your parents–of the real parents, I mean?"

Frederic shook his head. "Only a little! I remember the great ship we were going to sail on over the water, and how my father let go my hand, and sent me to my mother; how all at once father and mother were both gone, and I stood alone in a narrow street among a crowd of people. I must have screamed loudly and wept bitterly, for I did not become quiet until Erdmann took me in his arms and carried me to his wife. That is all I know."

"And have you never since heard from your parents?"

"Never! They must have died over there in America, or they forgot me. No one has ever cared for me my whole life long–nobody but my master."

Jane clasped his hand more tightly. "Your parents did not forget you, Fritz; they sought for you, and bitterly enough mourned your loss for many years–they–would gladly have given all their riches to have their child once more; but he could not be found."

An anxious, troubled look passed over Frederic's face, he made a vain attempt to raise himself upright in the bed.

"Did you know my parents, Miss?" he asked; "did you ever meet them in America?"

"They are dead!" faltered Jane.

Frederic's head sank languidly back on the pillow.

"I thought so!" he murmured.

She bent close down to him, her breath swept his cheeks, and her voice sank to a whisper,

"When your mother went to the ship, she was not alone, she carried a little child in her arms. Do you remember that child?"

Around his lips vibrated a faint but happy smile. "Yes, my little sister, our Jennie! She must have been very little then, only a few weeks old, but I loved her so dearly!"

"And that sister"–for a moment Jane was silent, voice and strength failed her–"would it give you joy to see her? Shall I show her to you?"

Frederic gazed at her with a foreboding, expectant glance; her eyes, the tone of her voice had already revealed to him the truth.

"Miss Forest–you–?"

"My Fritz! My Brother!" broke out Jane passionately, and fell on her knees by the bedside. She did not heed the pain of her wound, she did not feel it at this instant.

But the effect of this revelation was quite other than she had dreamed. The passionate excitement she had feared, did not come; Frederic lay there calm as before, and gazed at her, but there was something like anxiety, like timidity in his glance; he softly withdrew his hand from hers and turned his head away.

"Fritz–!" cried Jane surprised and shocked. "Will you not look at your sister? Do you doubt my words?"

A peculiar emotion, half pain, half bitterness, flitted over his face.

"No, I am only thinking how well it is I am about to die. If I lived you would be so ashamed of me!"

Jane shuddered,–the reproach was just. When she first came to the Rhine, if she had been obliged to embrace Fernow's servant as her brother, she would have been terribly ashamed of him. What a series of conflicts and sorrows, what a fearful sacrifice at the last had been necessary, to wrest this pride from her heart, and create room there for this sentiment which now solely ruled her being, this mighty, irresistible voice of nature! She did not merely know, she felt that this was her brother who lay before her, the only one of her blood and name, the only one who belonged to her through the holy ties of family; and all the sins which in her imperious pride she had committed against him and others, were punished tenfold at this moment. Her brother himself, at the instant of their reunion, had retained but one remembrance of her; he shrank timidly from her embrace.

Frederic interpreted her silence falsely; he misunderstood even the expression of her face.

"It would be so!" he said calmly but without the least bitterness! "You were never friendly to me, and the very first time I saw you,–I had taken such pains with all those flowers and that nosegay; you wouldn't have a single one of them, and nothing in my whole life ever caused me so much sorrow as you gave me then."

He was silent; but these simple words, with touching, pathetic sorrow, accomplished what all these struggles and tortures, what all this agony and despair had not availed to wring from Jane Forest. A hot stream of tears gushed from her eyes, and she buried her face in the pillows. In loud, heart-rending sobs broke at last the rigid pride with which she had hitherto looked down upon all not her equals in intellect and position; broke the icy strong hardness of her nature, and with it, that masculine strength of will her father had awakened and fostered in her. She wept now as a woman weeps in hopeless anguish and despair, when she sees all waver and fall into nothingness around her. Jane Forest had not been one to be bent–she must be broken.

But these tears, the first since her childhood, had wrought mightily upon her brother's heart, and conquered his painful shyness of her. He saw that this sister was not ashamed of him now; that he had deeply wounded her by such a suspicion, and summoning his last remaining strength, he turned again to her.

"Jenny!" he said softly, and the old-love name fell half shyly, half tenderly from his lips. "Do not be angry with me, dear Jenny! It is all right, my sister. I have at least had one happiness. I have died to save you!"

He stretched out his arms to her, and the lips of the brother and sister met in their first kiss–it was also the last!

When the new day with its first pale beams smiled upon the earth, Forest's son was no longer among the living. Slowly Jane released her brother's lifeless form from her arms, and turned her face to the window. A cold, gray twilight reigned in the death-chamber; but outside, the Eastern heaven was all aglow; the morning, in blood-red beams, was breaking over the mountains.

What sacrifice had fallen there?

CHAPTER XXIX.
The Murderer and the Attack

A clear, balmy autumn night lay over vale and upland. The dark, sharply-defined outlines of the mountains stood in such bold relief against the unclouded sky, that every cleft as well as every jagged peak was visible. Higher up the forests dissolved in a sombre, formless mass, over which rested a fleecy mist like shimmering gauze, but at the mountain's base, every tree and shrub was as clearly defined as in the full light of day.

Upon a low, rocky plateau at the entrance of the defile, close by the foot of a giant fir-tree, stood Henry Alison. He had gained some distance upon his rival, and had found the path clear. Nothing of all the wild excitement that ruled there an hour later, now disturbed the silence. Insuperable obstacles often arise in the way of duty and rescue, while crime unrestrained, goes on its way, as if guarded by demoniac powers.

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.