[THE CRISIS].
Langensalza had grown very quiet after its days of storm and excitement. The Hanoverian army was disbanded, and had returned home. The Prussian troops had advanced upon other enemies in the south and west, and the little town was now as placid and still as it had been for long years before, until Fate chose it for the theatre of so bloody a struggle.
But although the streets were as quiet and monotonous as ever in the hot sunshine of midsummer, within the houses a quiet life went on of inexhaustible love and mercy, that love and mercy which the tempest of war always calls forth so abundantly, and which is so lovely a witness of the eternal and indestructible connection between man's heart and the God of unconquerable love, of inexhaustible compassion.
Many of the severely wounded Prussians and Hanoverians could not be moved, and numerous hospitals were formed. All the private houses had received the poor sacrifices of war, and from Prussia and Hanover, besides the sisters of mercy and deaconesses, numerous relatives of the wounded had arrived, to undertake the care of those they loved.
When the sun was setting, and the twilight brought the coolness of evening, many women and girls in dark, simple dresses, with grave faces, walked silently through the streets, hastily breathing in a little fresh air, to obtain strength to continue their work of loving self-sacrifice; and the looks of the inhabitants followed them with quiet sympathy, as they sat before their doors after their day's work was over, talking in whispers about one group after another as it passed.
Madame von Wendenstein, with her daughter and Helena, had been most kindly received into old Lohmeier's house, Margaret preparing two rooms in the well-to-do burgher house with every possible comfort, whilst the candidate found a lodging in a neighbouring hotel.
Trembling with anxiety, Madame von Wendenstein approached her son's bed, repressing by a powerful effort the convulsive sobs that threatened to choke her. The young lieutenant lay rigid and quiet, his low, regular breathing the only sign of life.
The mother took his hand, bent over him, and gently breathed a kiss upon his brow; and under the magnetic influence of a mother's kiss, the young man slowly opened his eyes, and gazed around with a vacant look. But then a happy ray of recognition animated the senseless eyes, a smile came to his lips, and the mother felt an almost imperceptible pressure on her fingers.
The old lady sank on her knees beside the bed, laid her head on her son's hand, and, in silent unspoken prayer, besought God to preserve this life, dearer to her than her own.
The two young girls stood behind Madame von Wendenstein. Helena's large burning eyes were fixed on the image of the man, now so weak and fragile, who had left her so fresh and strong. His sister concealed her tears with her handkerchief; but Helena's eyes were dry and bright, her pale features composed and motionless. She stood with folded hands, and her lips trembled slightly.