Frederic did not answer, but he kept his clear-blue eyes fixed immovably on his master's face; at this moment, with a gift of introspection wonderfully enhanced, he saw that Fernow's glance did not accord with his words; he saw separation in it, and all subordination, all the military usage which for months long he had conscientiously observed, suddenly vanished; he saw before him only his professor whom he had so often nursed in illness, whom he had watched and guarded as a mother guards her child, who to him had been the one goal, the one object of life. He sobbed aloud, and a stream of tears gushed from his eyes.
"Herr Professor," he cried piteously, "would to God I could be shot down instead of you! A calamity is to happen to-night; I know it. One of us will certainly fall."
Walter smiled sadly and gently; he felt who this one would be; but the touching devotion of his servant in his parting hour, asserted its right. He now forgot all else, but not those long nights of illness during which Frederic had sat at his bedside, with a fidelity and self-renunciation he could never repay and never forget, and--in such a moment all arbitrary barriers fall, all chasms are bridged over--the officer threw his arms around his servant's neck and then warmly and affectionately pressed his hand. "Good-night, Frederic," he said softly, "Good-by! Whatever may happen to me, your future is provided for. Doctor Stephen has the requisite papers in his hands. And now--" he hastily drew himself up "now let me go, it must be!"
Frederic obeyed. He hesitatingly let go the hand which he had held in both of his, and stepped back. Once again Walter waved him an adieu, and then hurried from the room. With bowed head, the poor fellow stole to a window. He saw enveloped in its military cloak the tall figure which, clearly defined in the moonlight, strode over the terrace; he heard the step grow fainter and fainter in the distance, until its last echo died away. Regretful tears gushed anew from his eyes; with incontestable certainty, he felt that he had seen his master for the last time.
[CHAPTER XXV.]
To the Rescue.
"Rouse up, Jane! Do not again refuse to see me, it is a matter of the greatest importance, and I must speak with you!"
With these words, Mr. Atkins knocked violently at the door of Jane's chamber, and compelled an entrance. The bolt was shoved back, and the door opened. A light also burned here. Jane was fully dressed, and a glance at the bed showed that it had not yet been disturbed. She evidently had not thought of sleeping. She advanced to meet him with mournful questioning in her face; her eyes were weak and inflamed from inward excitement, but they bore no traces of tears. Jane did not know that weeping which so often is the woman's only and supremest consolation; she had forgotten it in her childhood. That sobbing into which she had once broke out at the death-bed of her father, when for the moment her strength had utterly given way, had come over her, wild and passionate, like a convulsion, but tearless. Her rigid, iron nature knew not even the outward signs of weakness; she bore all sorrow as she had seen her father bear it; like a man.
Atkins allowed her no time to utter the question that trembled on her lips. "It is about a danger," he said hastily. "I thought to delay it, to avert it, but it proves greater than I had believed. My power is at an end; you must now interpose."
"What danger?" asked Jane, apprehensive and breathless. "Of what do you speak?"