"Yes—they hold it."
"And yet you came that way?"
"There was no choice; we only knew it last night, and I had no time for any other."
"That's a piece of heroism without parallel," said a high officer, who had just come up with a communication and heard the last words. "Man, how did you dare to run such a risk?"
Hartmut was silent; he raised his eyes slowly, and looked at his father. Now he was not afraid to meet those eyes, and in them he read that he was absolved.
But even the strength of him who has ventured all—and won, has its limits.
His father's face was the last he saw, then a bloody veil covered his eyes; he felt the blood again, hot and wet, running down his face, and all was night to him as he sank to the ground.
There was a roar and a shock which made the whole city quake and tremble. The citadel whose outline rose bold and clear toward the blue heavens seemed suddenly to be turned into a seething, glowing crater, vomiting flame. Within the bursting walls a very hell seemed to gape, as the shower of stones rose in the air only to sink again in the fiery hollow, and, as the gigantic wreck burned and blazed, it made one mighty pillar of fire reaching to the very heavens above—a vengeful, hideous flame of death.
The warning had not come a moment too soon. In spite of all precautions there had been some victims who lived in the immediate vicinity of the citadel and could not be reached, who were either blown to pieces or severely wounded; though in comparison with the fearful calamity which might have occurred and would have paralyzed all Germany, the loss was slight.
The General with his officers and all his troops were saved.