"Now, dear father, I must tell you of Lieutenant von Wendenstein, with whom I must remain, for he is badly wounded, and I cannot leave him here alone. I found him on the battle-field and thought he was dead, but, thank God, it was not so bad as that; and the doctor has extracted the ball, and says he will live if he only has strength to hold out through the fever. I am with him at the brewer Lohmeier's, a good man though he is a Prussian, and the lieutenant is well cared for. My host sends off this letter for me through an acquaintance in the field post. Go at once to the president and tell him all, and have no anxiety about me for I am all right.
"Your son,
"Fritz.
"Written the 28th July, 1866."
The pastor was silent.
The president came up to his wife, put his arm round her shoulders, kissed her grey hair, and said,--
"He lives! my God, I thank thee!"
"And now I may go to him?" asked Madame von Wendenstein.
"And I?" cried her daughter.
"Yes," said the old gentleman, "and I wish I could go with you, but I should be of no use there."