When I reached Wiemar I quitted the diligence, resolved to make the remainder of the journey on foot; for thus I should both economize the little means I possessed, and escape many of the questionings and inquiries to which as a traveller by public conveyance I was exposed. Knapsack on shoulder, then, and staff in hand, I plodded onward, and although frequently coming up with others on their way homeward, I avoided all companionship with those whom I could no longer think of as comrades.
The two tides of population which met upon that great highway told the whole history of war. Here came the young soldiers, fresh enrolled in the conscription, glowing with ardor, and bounding with life and buoyancy, and mingling their village songs with warlike chants. There, footsore and weary, with tattered uniform and weather-beaten look, toiled along the tired veteran, turning as he went a glance of compassionate contempt on those whose wild vivas burst forth in greeting. As for me, I could neither partake of the high hopes of the one, nor sympathize with the war-worn nature of the other. Disappointment, bitter disappointment, in every cherished expectation, had thrown a chill over me, and I wanted even the energy to become reckless. In this state, I did not dare to face the future, but in moody despondency reflected on the past. Was this the destiny Marie de Meudon predicted for me? was the ever-present thought of my mind. Is it thus I should appear before her?
A hundred times came the thought to join the new levies as a soldier, to carry a musket in the ranks. But then came back in all its force the memory of the distrust and suspicion my services had met with: the conviction hourly became clearer to me, that I fought not for liberty, but despotism; that it was not freedom, but slavery, in whose cause I shed my blood.
To avoid meeting with the detachments which each day occupied the road, I turned from the chaussée on passing Eisenach, and took a forest path that led through Murbach to Fulda. My path led through the Creutz Mountains,—a wild and unfrequented tract of country, where few cottages were to be seen, and scarcely a village existed. Vast forests of dark pines, or bleak and barren mountains, stretched away on either side; a few patches of miserable tillage here and there met the view; but the scene was one of saddening influence, and harmonized but too nearly with my own despondency.
To reach a place of shelter for the night, I was more than once obliged to walk twelve leagues during the day, and had thus to set out before daylight. This exertion, however, brought its own reward: the stimulant of labor, the necessity of a task, gradually allayed the mental irritation I suffered under; a healthier and more manly tone of thinking succeeded to my former regrets; and with a heart elevated, if not cheered, I continued my way.
The third day of my toilsome journey was drawing to a close. A mass of heavy and lowering clouds, dark and thunder-charged, slowly moved along the sky; and a low, moaning sound, that seemed to sigh along the ground, boded the approach of a storm. I was still three leagues from my halting-place, and began to deliberate within myself whether the dense pine-wood, which came down to the side of the road, might not afford a safer refuge from the hurricane than the chances of reaching a house before it broke forth.
The shepherds who frequented these dreary tracts often erected little huts of bark as a shelter against the cold and severity of the wintry days, and to find out one of these now was my great endeavor. Scarcely had I formed the resolve, when I perceived a small path opening into the wood, at the entrance to which a piece of board nailed against the trunk of a tree, gave tidings that such a place of security was not far distant. These signs of forest life I had learned in my wanderings, and now strode forward with renewed vigor.
The path led gradually upwards, along the mountain-side, which soon became so encumbered with brushwood that I had much difficulty in pushing my way, and at last began to doubt whether I might not have wandered from the track. The darkness was now complete; night had fallen, and a heavy crashing rain poured down upon the tree-tops, but could not penetrate through their tangled shelter. The wind, too, swept in loud gusts above, and the long threatened storm began. A loud, deafening roar, like that of the sea itself, arose, as the leafy branches bent before the blast, or snapped with sudden shock beneath the hurricane; clap after clap of thunder resounded, and then the rain descended in torrents,—the heavy drops at last, trickling from leaf to leaf, reaching me as I stood. Once more I pushed forward, and had not gone many paces when the red glare of a fire caught my eye. Steadfastly fastening my gaze upon the flame, I hurried on, and at length perceived with ecstasy that the light issued from the window of a small hovel, such as I have already mentioned. To gain the entrance of the hut I was obliged to pass the window, and could not resist the temptation to give a glance at the interior, whose cheerful blaze betokened habitation.
It was not without surprise that, instead of the figure of a shepherd reposing beside his fire, I beheld that of an old man, whose dress bespoke the priest, kneeling in deep devotion at the foot of a small crucifix attached to the wall. Not all the wild sounds of the raging storm seemed to turn his attention from the object of his worship; his eyes were closed, but the head thrown backwards showed his face upturned, when the lips moved rapidly in prayer. Never had I beheld so perfect a picture of intense devotional feeling; every line in his marked countenance indicated the tension of a mind filled with one engrossing thought, while his tremulous hands, clasped before him, shook with the tremor of strong emotion.
What a contrast to the loud warring of the elements, that peaceful figure, raised above earth and its troubles, in the spirit of his holy communing! how deeply touching the calm serenity of his holy brow, with the rolling crash of falling branches, and the deep baying of the storm! I did not dare to interrupt him; and when I did approach the door it was with silent step and noiseless gesture. As I stood, the old priest—for now I saw that he was such—concluded his prayer, and detaching his crucifix from the wall, he kissed it reverently, and placed it in his bosom; then, rising slowly from his knees, he turned towards me. A slight start of surprise, as quickly followed by a smile of kindly greeting, escaped him, while he said in French,—