The Serapion Brethren, Vol. II

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

There were only a few Guerillas left, and they were fighting with the courage of despair. With a cry of "Valenzia," Edgar rushed into the thickest mass of the enemy, and with the death-announcing roar of thirsting tigers the Guerillas dashed after him, planted their daggers in the breasts of the foemen, and felled them with the butts of their muskets. Well-directed bullets hit them in their headlong flight. These were the Valenzia men who had overtaken General Moncey's Cuirassiers in their march, dashed upon their flank, cut them down before they gathered how they were situated, and retired into their lurking-places masters of the arms and horses.

All this was over and done when Edgar heard a piercing scream from the densest part of the thicket. He made haste to the spot, and found a little man struggling with a Frenchman, and holding the bridle of the mule he was in charge of in his teeth. Just as Edgar came on the scene the Frenchman struck down the little man with a dagger, which he seemed to have taken from him, and was trying to drive the mule further into the thicket. Edgar gave a loud shout; the Frenchman fired at him, missed him, and Edgar ran him through with his bayonet. The little fellow was whimpering. Edgar raised him up, undid with some difficulty the bridle, which he had been convulsively biting, and noticed for the first time as he was helping him on to the mule that there was a shrouded form upon it already clinging to the creature's neck with its arms, and softly lamenting. Behind this girl, for such, judging by her voice, was the shrouded form, Edgar deposited the little wounded man, took the mule by the bridle, and thus made his way back to the little Place d'Armes, where, as no more of the enemy was visible, Isidor Mirr and his men had again taken up their positions.

The little man, who had fainted from loss of blood, though his wounds did not seem to be dangerous, and the girl, were lifted from the mule. At this moment Don Rafaele in a state of the most wild excitement darted forward with cries of "My child, my sweet child!" and was in the act to clasp the young creature, who did not seem to be more than about eight or ten in years, in his arms, when, suddenly seeing the bright torchlight shining on Edgar's face, he threw himself at his feet, crying, "Oh Don Edgar, Don Edgar! this knee has never bent to mortal man till now; but you are no mortal--you are an angel of light sent to save me from deadly anxiety and inconsolable despair! Oh, Don Edgar, fiendish mistrust was deeply rooted in my bosom, ever brooding upon evil. It was an undertaking deserving the bitterest execration to plan the destruction of one such as you with your true heart all honour and valour---to devote you to a shameful death. Strike me down, Don Edgar--execute a bloody vengeance upon me, vile wretch that I am! Never can you forgive what I have done."

Edgar, fully conscious that he had done nothing more than his duty and honour demanded of him, was pained by Don Rafaele's behaviour, and tried by all means to calm and silence him, at length with difficulty succeeding.

Don Rafaele said Colonel la Combe had been greatly distressed at Edgar's disappearance, and suspecting foul play, he had been on the point of ransacking the house and having him, Don Rafaele, arrested. This was why it had been necessary for him to escape, and it had been entirely owing to the Franciscan's help that he had been able to bring away his daughter, his servant, and many things which he required. Meanwhile the wounded servant and Don Rafaele's daughter had been taken on some distance in advance, whilst Don Rafaele, too old to share in the exploits of the Guerillas, was to follow them. At his sorrowful parting with Edgar he gave him a certain talisman, which brought him deliverance in many a serious danger.

Here Euchar ended his story, which had been listened to by the company with the keenest interest.

The Poet, who had got over his coughing fit and returned to the room, expressed the opinion that in Edgar's Spanish adventures there was fine material for a tragedy, all that he thought wanting being a due spice of love-making and an effective finale, such as a striking case of insanity, a good apoplexy, or something of the kind.

"Oh, yes, love," said a young lady blushing at her own temerity. "The only thing your delightful story wanted was some charmingly interesting love affair!"

"Dear Lady," said Euchar laughing, "I was not telling you the story of a novel, but the adventures of my friend Edgar. His life amongst the wild Spanish mountains was unfortunately poor in experiences of that kind."

"I have a strong belief," said Victorine in a low tone, "that I know this same Edgar, who has remained in poverty, because he has despised the most precious of gifts."