On our way back to the house, my wife was several times obliged to sit down by the roadside. The sad events of this day had deeply affected her.
We were seated under an apple-tree, when my wife, taking me by the hand, said, "Yes, Henry, how full of blossoms that tree once was; but May-bugs and caterpillars and frost and hail have destroyed it. And thus it is with him, too."
She was not as demonstrative as I was; she could bear her sorrow silently; but the thought of Ernst did not leave her for a moment.
When we got back to the house she fell asleep in the armchair, and did not awaken until sunset, when Richard, whom we had not seen all day, returned.
He admitted that he had heard of Annette's bereavement, but had kept out in the woods to be out of the way, as he thought there were enough sympathizers without him, and that he could not have been of any service.
My wife looked at him with surprise.
Richard told us that during the rain-storm, which had been quite heavy in the woods, he had been with Rautenkron.
The gloomy man had spoken of Ernst with great interest, and had incidentally inquired in regard to Martella. He was quite enraged that he, who never read a newspaper and did not want to have anything to do with the world, was obliged to know of this war, as one of his assistants and a forest laborer had been conscripted. He felt quite convinced, too, that Prussia would be victorious.
For a long while there was no news from the seat of war, except reports of marching and countermarching.
After that, there came a letter from the Major, who lamented the death of the Captain, and wrote in terms of admiration of the noble and composed bearing of Annette.