I ran off in search of the old and faithful servant, to whom I explained the state of affairs.
“The General has had an attack!” he exclaimed, with tears in his eyes, “and it is my fault!”
“How so?”
“I ought not to have allowed it—but I—I could not drive away the only son of the house.”
“Of course not, but keep your own counsel and make haste.”
And the old soldier started off at a speed I had thought him little capable of.
When I returned the General was in the same condition; Rudolf, leaning against a tree, was wringing his hands.
“That will do no good,” Francis said to him; “help me to carry him to his room; Leopold will give us a hand.”
“That’s not necessary—he is my father, and it is my place to carry him.”
In an instant he took up the old man with so much gentleness, and yet with such firmness of muscle, that you would have thought he carried a babe. He refused my assistance even up the staircase. He laid the old Baron on his bed, with his eyes still fixed, and quite unconscious.