They were just in front of a rude cross, sculptured on the face of the rock. The two men knelt, and fervently prayed aloud, each in turn, for some minutes. Hofer rose, looking comforted.
"I'm all the better for that," said Speckbacher, heartily.
"How can it be otherwise, brother? God has bidden us cast our care upon Him; it is our own fault if we do it not."
They proceeded on their way.
"I wonder if Chastelar ever kneels down and prays as we have just done," said Speckbacher presently.
"There's no saying, brother; I should hope he does. There seems to me to be little praying in camps. Men touch their hats as they pass a picture or a crucifix—that is pretty nearly all; outwardly, at least, which is all we can judge from. But sure I am, that those who prayed often—from the heart, look you,—would not take God's holy name in vain."
"How the French curse and swear, Hofer! and yet they say, many of them, there's no God. They laugh at us for praying for success, because they say they have it without."
"Pity, brother, they have not something better to laugh about. Ah, God does give his foes success sometimes, and deprive his children of it; but not because He does not hear and answer prayer. He never permits their success, and our defeat, save for our good. Why now, has He not said He will try us seven times in the fire? First, may be, He tests our courage; well, we prove to have it: then our love; well, we have some, though it were to be wished we had more. Then, our faith; very little is found. Into the fire we must go. By and by, our unfaithfulness is somewhat purged away. Well, but then, may be, he tries our submission; finds it very poor. Into the fire with us! After that, our patience. Oh, perhaps a great, thick scum boils up to the top of the pot, and shows how far from perfection we are yet. Instead of setting us aside to cool, he stirs up the fire hotter and hotter, never minding our boiling and bubbling, so long as we don't boil over. Well, supposing fused metal had the feelings of a man, just fancy its state! At last the scum parts! the pure, bright silver appears!—he stoops over it, sees in it his own face,—takes us to heaven!"
"Oh me! I don't believe I could stand all that!" cried Speckbacher, turning pale. "You might, but I couldn't!"
"God only knows our hearts," replied the Sandwirth. "You and I may lie stark and stiff before another night; but what then? we shall be with Him."