LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VI, Issue 621, 15 June 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

STRONGER THAN LOVE.

Chapter x,

( Continued.)

Waldemar, though this was unknown even to his father, had enrolled himself a member of one of the secret societies then so widelyspread over Germany, while Eugene Delapierre, a lieutenant in an Imperial regiment, had innoculated his sister with that enthusiastic admiration the soldiers entertained for Napoleon, as well as with a fervent love for France. The young, however, seldom absorb themselves in politics; and, notwithstanding this difference, the days passed happily away, and hour by hour their hearts were drawn more closely together. The marriage was not to take place till the following year, as Lucienne was only seventeen, and it seemed advisable that Waldemar should be inducted in his father’s lucrative business before taking upon himself the duties of a Benedict. Waldemar’s leave of absence extended to the time when cold winds and falling leaves would warn the Delapierre family to return to their comfortable residence in Paris. A sunny month still remained to intensify the love between the betrothed, and the warm friendship that existed between the future brothers-in-law. But the happiest. time must come to an end. The first tears of real grief that Lucienue had ever shed fell from her eyes as she watched the carriage that conveyed her lover away. * In one year,’ he had whispered, as he folded her in a parting embrace; and she, blushing like a rose, had avowed that she too would count the months till they met again. Chapter ii. One little year ! Who can say what events it may bring forth ? I Who can calculate what changes may come with the changing seasons ? In 1812 France and Prussia were allies ; but as early as March, 1813, war had been declared between them. Various successes and defeats attended the conflicting armies, till the battle of Leipsic turned the tide of victory in favor of the Germans. How could the German youth refuse to draw the sword for their country’s freedom ? Who refuse to enrol himself under her banner at her call ? Not Waldemar Steinthal. Carried away by the ardent hope for the liberation of Germany, he had rushed to take part in the struggle, perhaps scarcely prepared at the moment for the personal less that must ensue.

The sun was setting, lurid through the smoke that hung over the battle-field of Leipsic, on the evening of the 17th of October. The roar of the guns had ceased. The silence was dreadful after the deafening clamour of the fight, for it was the silence of death. Thousands of brave men, who in the morning had advanced to the c mhat full of ardour and hope, lay stretched cold and lifeless on the plain. That day victory had declared for Germany, and with victory the yoke that had pressed on the beloved Fatherland was broken for ever. The French Empire had cast itself against the strong

German heart, and been broken like a hollowearthen vessel against a rock. So had the Roman armies been driven backbyAiminius. So had the burning eloquence of Luther destroyed the supremacy of the Pope ; so shall a people conquer who, to use the words of Korner, think no sacrifice too great for that first of mortal blessings, their * country’s freedom.’ In a corner of thej battle-field near the Elster, and within sight of the town of Leipsic, a group of young men had bivouacked. By the black tunic with red facings, and the oilskin cap, might be recognised the remnant of Lutzow’s brave band of volunteers. Several of their number were missing since the morning; two or three of those now gathered round the camp fire were wounded. In spite of the success of their arms they were silent and sad—partly from physical exhaustion after the three days’ struggle, partly from the blank left in their ranks, speaking to them of loss amidst the general gain. ‘ Cheer up, comrades,’ exclaimed a junker, whom frequent duels and bursehen exploits had rendered familiar with danger, and on whose reckless temperament the horrors by which he was surrounded made litttle impression, ‘ H ere is wine, Bacchus be thanked. Drink, comrades, and quench the smell of powder in glorious nectar.’ ‘Give some here quick, Heinrich,’ said Waldemar Steinthal. ‘Max is faint from his wound.’

‘ Not a drop, till you are ready to pledge me in a cup to Blucher, the old backsword !’ Heinrich replied, ‘ Give it here,’ said Waldemar,’ once more. *We will drink to Blucher with all our hearts. That’s a good fellow. Now, Max, drink.’ . > As he spoke, he held a flask to the lips of a youth lying on his cloak besides him. After Max had tasted the wine, he strove to raise himself on his elbow.

‘lt is nothing,’ he said, sinking down again. ‘ Only a cut about the head. Lieschen will think none the-worse of me for a scar.' And a smile stele over his pallid face. ‘ Another cup,' cried Heinrich. *To the memory of Queen Louise, the good angeL’ Again the cups clinked. Several rose to their feet, while they reverently mentioned the name of the woman so much beloved. ‘ One also to the memory of our comrade, Karl Theodor,' exclaimed another of the volunteers.

‘To Korner !’ shouted the band. Heinrich Bergholt struck up the well-known strain, * Das Schwert,’ and soon the wild chorus, * Hurrah, hurrah I’ rang through the battlefield.

A handsome, blue-eyed youth, scarcely more than a boy, at this moment joined the circle, and throwing down an empty pail, sank on the ground, covering hia face with his hands.

‘Be silent, Heinrich,’ he cried, after a few minutes, lifting his head and dashing the tears from his eyes.- *ls this a time for singing ? But you would siiig in Gehenna, I believe, some of you.’ ‘ What is the matter, Ludwig ? Where is the water?’ asked Heinrich, ceasing his song. ‘Gone !’ returned Ludwig. ‘I had to go far up. the river, all about here, and all the ponds, are bloodstained. If you had but seen the sights I have 1 The poor dying wretches screaming for water. How do I know whether they were French or Germans ? They were human beings, I suppose. What could I do but give them what I had ?’ ‘ Here comes Wolstang with his pail full, fortunately for us, thou soft-hearted boy,’ said Heinrich. * Who would have thought thou wouldst have used thy bayonet as thou didst to-day ? Have some wine, and a truce to thy tears. Was der Henker I’ As Bergholt made this exclamation, he started back with an expression of alarm that caused a laugh, as a large black retriever cleared the circle with a leap, and dashed on to where Waldemar was Jialf

sitting, half reclining. The dog darted upon him with a cry almost human in its expression of joy, licking his hands and face. Then, changing his tone to a whine, ha pulled at his coat, and showed by his action that he desired Steinthal to follow him.

* Good heavens, it is Gros Noir ! ’ Waldemar exclaimed. ‘ Eugene must be here. Heinrich, Julius, Fritz, come with me.’ He started up, taking the cloak on which he had been lying over his arm. ‘Not you, Ludwig, you have had enough, my lad. Bring a torch with you ; it has become as dark as the jaws of death.’ The dog, finding that his appeal had been understood, ran on before, bounding over the incumbrances by the way. The men followed more slowly over the ground. At last the dog stopped, and raising his head uttered a howl that made the listeners’ blood run cold.

Steinthal seized the torch from his comrade’s hand, and stooped down over a heap of slain. There, as he had foreboded, lay the brother of his once-promised bride— Eugene Delapierre. A few drops of wine from the flask they had brought with them were poured between the rigid lips, and then carefully the four youths raised the dying man. They placed him in Waldemar’s cloak, and, each taking a corner, they gently bore him in this improvised litter to their camp fire, Gros Noir following close behind. With aching heart, Steinthal endeavored to restore his friend to consciousness; his tears falling fast the while over the wellknown face, on which the seal of death was already set. But it seemed to be Gros Noir licking his master’s cold face that at last recalled for a moment the fast ebbing tide of life. Eugene opened his eyes, and on seeing Waldemar smiled faintly. * Brother,’ he murmured, endeavouring to hold out his hand.

Waldemar clasped it, his strong breast heaving with the emotions and recollections that word had called forth, Eugene made a sign for Waldemar to raise him. With feeble hand he pointed to his breast.

‘ Take it,’ he gasped. ‘ Her portrait letters—she loved yon, though she broke off with you. She will know I died—for France f

These words were the last effort of expiring nature. A few struggling sighs, and Eugene Delapierre lay dead in Waldemar’a arms.

Waldemar covered the form of his friend with the cloak on which he had been laid, and leaving Gros Noir stretched beside the body, retired to a little distance, where, his face buried in his hands, he gave himself up to grief. Not long, however, was he left to the indulgence of his sorrow. Suddenly the bugles sounded to horse, —the French were retreating under cover of the night. The events of that memorable retreat are matters of history. On the night of the 19th Waldemar Steinthal slept in his father’s house. 1 To be continued ,]