"One cannot choose one's own Gethsemane. One must take it as it comes, whether to the sound of the last trump on the Day of Judgment, ringing through the hearts of all the generations of men, or in deep and world-forgotten loneliness and secrecy, whither human eye shall never penetrate, any more than it penetrates into the nethermost depths of the sea.
"And this is my silent Gethsemane!"
The moon had sunk behind the hills, and the cool morning breeze came floating along. Bertram was about to close the window when he heard from afar a short, sharp sound, soon succeeded by other similar sounds, succeeding each other so swiftly that the echo could clearly continue the scattered noises and reverberate them as thunder. And now shrill, long-drawn trumpet-blasts were heard, mingling with the beat of the drum.
Bertram quickly turned to the sleeper, who was not, for his sake, to neglect his military duties. But already Kurt had staggered up from his sofa-corner, his eyes wide open, though still veiled by slumber, and his arms stretched out, clutching the air, as though in search of some weapon.
"I--I--not you! I will fight him! Give me the pistol!"
Bertram touched his shoulder.
"They are sounding the assembly in the village!"
"Oh! I thought ..."
He brushed his hand across his eyes.
"I have been asleep! Pardon me. How good you are! You have been watching for me. Is it long since ...?" and he pointed to the window.