He had now been absent several months, and his father had not heard from him. But the news of the lately lost battle had reached the village, and it was said that the Prince Royal of Brunswick, in whose corps Charles Henry was, had been defeated. The old shepherd remembered this as he sat in the meadow this bright summer morning. His thoughts were with his distant son, and when he raised his eyes to heaven it was not to admire its dazzling blue, or its immeasurable depth, but to pray to the Almighty to spare his son. The peaceful tranquillity of Nature alarmed the old man—she speaks alone to those who have an ear attuned to her voice—she says nothing to those who listen with a divided heart. Buschman could endure it no longer; he arose and started toward the village. He longed to see some human being—to encounter some look of love—to receive sympathy from some one who understood his grief, who suffered as he did, and who did not wear the eternal smile that Nature wore.
He went to the village, therefore, and left the care of his flock to
Phylax. It comforted his heart as he passed through the principal street
of Brunen and received kind greetings from every hut he passed. He
felt consoled and almost happy when here and there the peasants hurried
toward him as he passed their huts, and begged him to come in and join
them at their simple mid-day meal, and were quite hurt when he refused
because his own dinner was prepared for him at home. These men loved
him—they pitied his loneliness—they told him of their own cares, their
own fears—and as he endeavored to console and encourage them, he felt
his strength increase—he was more hopeful, more able to bear whatever
God might send.
“We must be united in love,” said Buschman; “we will help each
other to bear the sorrows that may come upon us. To-morrow is Sunday; in
the morning we will go to the house of God, and after we have whispered
to Him the prayers which He alone must hear, we will assemble together
under the linden-tree in the square and talk of the old times and those
who have left us. Do you not remember that it was under the linden-tree
we heard of the first victory that our king gained in this fearful
war? It was there that Anna Sophia Detzloff read the news to us, and we
rejoiced over the battle of Losovitz, And I also rejoiced and thanked
God, although the victory had cost me the lives of two of my sons. But
they perished as heroes. I could glory in such a death; and Anna Sophia
read their praises from the paper. Ah, if Anna lived, I would at least
have a daughter.”
He could speak no more, emotion arrested the words on his lips; he bowed to his friends and passed on to his lonely hut. His little table was spread, and the young girl who served him, and who slept in his hut at night, was just placing a dish of steaming potatoes before his plate. The old man sat down to his solitary meal; he ate only to sustain his body; his thoughts were far away; he took no pleasure in his food. In the middle of his meal he started up; a shadow had fallen across the window, and two loving, well-known eyes had seemed to look in on him. Buschman, as if paralyzed with delight, let fall his spoon and looked toward the door. Yes, the bolt moved, the door opened, and there stood the tall figure of a Prussian soldier.
The old man uttered a cry and extended his arms. “Oh, my son, my beloved son, do I indeed see you once more?”
“Yes, father, I am here; and God willing, we will never again be parted.” And Charles Henry hastened to the outstretched arms of his father, and kissing him tenderly, pressed him to his heart.
“The thought of you, dear father, has led me here,” he said; “but for you I would not have returned to Brunen; I should have wandered forth into the world—the world which is so much greater and more beautiful than I ever dreamed. But your dear old eyes were before me; I heard your loved voice, which called to me, and I returned to you.”
“God be praised!” said his father, folding his hands, and raising his eyes gratefully toward heaven. “Oh how kind and merciful is God, to give me back my last, my only son, the support of my old age, the delight of my eyes! You will not leave me again. This is not merely a leave of absence; you have obtained your release, the war is ended, the king has declared peace.”
The eyes of the old man were dimmed with tears; he did not perceive how Charles Henry trembled, and that a deep flush mounted to his brow.
“No, father,” he said, with downcast eyes, “I will never leave you again. We have all returned home. It will be bright and gay once more in the village, and the work will go forward, for there is a great difference between a dozen old men and as many young ones. It was most needful for us to return. The corn is ripe, and should have been already gathered. We must go to work. To-morrow shall be a happy day for the village; the whole neighborhood shall perceive that the twelve young men of Brunen have returned. We met a violinist on the way, and we engaged him for to-morrow. He must play for us under the linden tree, and our fathers and mothers, and sisters and sweethearts must join us, and we will dance and sing and make merry.”
“What a coincidence!” said the old shepherd, with a bright smile. “We had already decided that we would meet together tomorrow under the linden. We wished to sit there and mourn together over our lost sons. To sing and dance is much better, and perhaps the old grayheads will join you.”