"He is dead," said the doctor, after a brief examination. "Poor Fritz! poor Fritz! it will break his mother's heart. Where did this happen, my man?"
"In the village yonder," Max replied. "He was conveying an order to our colonel to retire."
Then with a choking feeling in his throat he made his way, accompanied by Bertram, to the wood.
"That was a very near thing for you," said the latter, as they hurried along. "Oh, why won't you declare yourself and take up the position which is yours by right?"
"Not yet, not yet," said Max, shaking his head. "Fate will decide everything for me in good time. I intend to leave it to her."
Fate very nearly decided it for him on three occasions during the next few hours. Once his helmet was knocked off by a bullet, once he was only saved by the butt of his rifle, which he had lowered to reload, while on the third occasion he was giving water to a wounded man, who had fallen beside him, when a bullet shattered the bottle he held in his hand.
Next morning it was rumoured in the camp that I, Prince Paul, had returned to Pannonia, that the Republic was no more, and that the Ramonyi dynasty had come to its own again. Later in the day the news was officially communicated to the troops, and with his comrades, ragged, tattered, weary, half-starved, and altogether forlorn, Max swore allegiance to himself. A more grotesque situation could scarcely be imagined.
"Prince Paul is declared Regent for his brother," said a grey-haired sergeant, as they ate their frugal supper by the camp fire. "I wonder where the king is?"
I have often conjectured what he would have said had he known that the missing man was at that moment seated beside him.
Strange though it may seem, from the very moment of the return of our family to Pannonia, a change took place in the war. Success after success crowned our efforts, in consequence of which our troops took heart, until, at last, instead of carrying on the strife in our own country, on the twenty-second day of October we, for the first time, crossed the borders, driving the enemy before us. Little by little, but with a sureness and steadiness there could be no mistaking or denying, Groplau was working out the plan he had long since formed in his mind. With what sort of good fortune it was attended all those who have followed the history of the war will be familiar. They will recall how fifty thousand troops, by culpable negligence on the part of the enemy's leaders, were divided into two portions and were prevented from uniting again; how the Count von Leckstein, by a swift flank movement, cut off their retreat, thus compelling them to take refuge in the city of Zaarfburg. No success could have been more complete, no movement more thoroughly prepared, or more admirably carried out. Contesting every inch of the way, fighting with the fury that was the outcome of despair, for they must have known that they were lost, hemmed in on every side, they at length entered the gates of the same city as that into which Rudolf the Brave had once brought a victorious army and more than two thousand prisoners. Still working with the same mathematical precision, Groplau's army took up its position on the plain that surrounded it, and there and then the siege commenced. Winter came and found the garrison still holding out. It was, however, as impossible for them to escape as it was for us to get in. Their vigilance was only equalled by our own. In other parts of the country the war was proceeding with varying success; here, however, save for the continual artillery duel, there was little or no fighting. The suspense, to say nothing of the inactivity, was wearying in the extreme, until, at last, every one felt convinced that something must be done to relieve it.