I dare not suffer myself to be withdrawn, even for a moment, to that glorious struggle—one of the noblest that ever a nation carried on to victory. My task is rather within that darkened room in the little hut, where, with fast-ebbing life, Hans Jörgle lay.
The wild cheers and echoing songs of the marching peasants awoke him from his sleep, which, if troubled by pangs of pain, had still lasted for some hours. He smiled, and made a gesture as if for silence, that he might hear the glorious sounds more plainly, and then lay in a calm, peaceful reverie, for a considerable time.
The Vorsteher had, with considerable difficulty, persuaded the poor widow to leave the bedside for a moment, while he asked Hans a question.
The wretched mother was borne, almost fainting, away; and the old man sat in her place, but, subdued by the anguish of the scene, unable to speak. At last, while the tears ran down his aged cheeks, he kissed the child’s hand, and said,—
“Thou wilt leave us soon, Hans!”
Hans gave a smile of sad, but beautiful meaning, while his upturned eyes seemed to intimate his hope and his faith.
“True, Hans—thy reward is ready for thee!”
He paused a second, and then went on:—
“But even here, my child, in our own poor village, let thy devotion be a treasure, to be handed down in memory to our children, that they may know how one like themselves—more helpless, too—could serve his Vaterland. Say, Hans Jörgle, will it make thy last moments happier to think that our gratitude will raise a monument to thee in the Dorf, with thy father’s name, who fell at Elchingen, above thine own? The villagers have bid me ask thee this.”
“My mother—my poor mother!” murmured Hans.