"He is peaceable," said she to Karl, hoping for confirmation from him. "Surely he would never expose himself to such fearful risk."
But Karl shook his head. "There is no trusting to that. If things in the town are as people say, Mr. Anton will not be the last to take a hand in them. He will not think of himself."
"No, that he will not," cried Lenore, wringing her hands.
So the day passed. Karl sternly insisted upon keeping all the servants together, he himself shouldering his carbine, not knowing why, and saddling a horse to tie it up again in the stable. At evening the landlord came running to the castle, accompanied by a servant from the distillery. As soon as he saw the young lady, the good-natured man called out, "Here are tidings, dreadful tidings, of Mr. Wohlfart."
Lenore ran forward, and the servant began to give a confused report of the horrors of the day in Rosmin. He had seen the Poles and Germans about to fire at each other in the market-place, and Anton was marching at the head of the latter.
"I knew that," cried Karl, proudly.
The servant went on to say that he had run off just as all the Poles had taken aim at the gentleman. Whether he were alive or dead, he could not exactly say, owing to his terror at the time, but he fully believed that the gentleman must be dead.
Lenore leaned against the wall, Karl tore his hair in distraction. "Saddle the pony," said Lenore, in a smothered voice.
"You are not thinking of going yourself at night through the wood all the way to the town?" cried Karl.
The brave girl hurried toward the stable without answering him; Karl barred the way. "You must not. The baroness would die with anxiety about you, and what could you do among those raging men yonder?"