"Six horses and an outrider," said M. von Schiaden.
"What!" exclaimed Katharine, in dismay. "Six horses! How extravagant in times so wretched as these, when the king himself would be glad to have two horses to his carriage, and—"
"Silence!" interrupted the high-chamberlain in great excitement.
"You are right, my dear woman," said the countess, smiling. "The king will certainly be glad to have two horses left, especially if they always draw him in the right way. But it was no wanton arrogance on our part to take so many horses; we did so only on account of the bad roads, and in order to travel as rapidly as possible."
"Well, the horses can stand in the cow-stable and the wood-shed," said Katharine. "Go, Martha, light the lanterns, and show the coachman to the stable, and the gentleman to the hay-loft. I will make the bed for the ladies." And, drawing back the blue-striped linen curtains covering the large old family-bed, she muttered to herself: "It is very lucky that my old man has not come home; otherwise I should really be at a loss where to place my high-born guests."
Half an hour afterward tranquillity again reigned in the cottage. The horses, the servants, and the high-chamberlain, had been conducted to their quarters in the cow-stable, wood-shed, and hay-loft. Katharine and Martha had withdrawn to the servant-girl's small chamber, and on the lower floor, which served, at the same time, as a kitchen, hall, and sitting-room, a couch had been prepared for the two ladies. But the young Countess von Truchsess could not be prevailed upon to occupy one-half. She placed the cane chair against the high bedstead, and, sitting on it as on a tabouret at the foot of a throne, she supported her head on the cushions of the bed, over which the crimson satin blanket, lined with fur, that the ladies had wrapped around their feet in the carriage, had been spread. The Countess von Hohenzieritz was reposing on this, her noble form still wrapped in the fur robe, falling down to her feet in ample folds; her head was leaning back on the cushions, and the crimson of the blanket contrasted strikingly with her white cheeks and light-brown hair. She had clasped her small, slender hands on her lap; her large eyes looked upward in devotion, and her lips uttered fervent words, which no one heard and understood but He to whom they were addressed.
The fire on the hearth, to which large logs of wood had been added, continued blazing merrily; at times, when the wind came down the chimney violently, the flames rose high, and the beautiful figure in the miserable room was illuminated by the red light as by a halo. Her countenance was as pale and peaceful as that of the blessed dead, and yet an ardent vitality was beaming in her unclosed eyes. On the wretched bed in the peasant's cottage she was dreaming of her former happiness—of the magnificent days which she had seen, and which, she believed, would never return. But she did not bewail her departed glory, and her menaced welfare caused her no regret.
"Preserve to me, merciful God! the love of my husband," she whispered; "let my children grow great in name and in soul. Oh, if I could purchase happiness for them by sacrificing my life, I would gladly let my heart's blood ebb away drop by drop—if by my death I could restore to my husband his former power, how cheerfully I would die! O my God, save and protect Prussia: but if such should not be Thy will, teach us how to fall and die with her in an honorable manner! Preserve us from disgrace and despondency; teach us how to bear great disasters with dignified resignation, and grant that we may never be so faint-hearted as to sink beneath petty calamities!"
She paused, and looked upward with radiant eyes; just then the storm outside was howling with awful violence, and made the cottage tremble. "Such a storm without, and peace within! Let it always be so, my God," she whispered, gently pressing her hand against her breast. "O peace, sweet peace, when will it descend to us from heaven!" Gradually the words died away on her lips; her eyelids drooped. Heaven sent to her the brother of peace—sleep—that it might comfort her weary eyes and invigorate her after the troubles and exertions of the previous day. The storm continued all night long, but the beautiful sleeper heard it only as a lullaby hushing her to sweet repose.
At daybreak there was a stir in the cottage. Katharine came to rekindle the extinct fire, and the two ladies rose, chilled and shuddering, to prepare for their journey. The travelling-coach, drawn by the six horses, rolled up to the door, and High-chamberlain von Schladen rapped timidly and begged leave to enter. The countess bade him come in, and replied with a sweet smile to his inquiries as to her night's rest. "I have slept," she said, "and feel sufficiently invigorated now to continue the journey."