"Citizens of Breslau!" he cried, in great anguish, pale with grief and horror—"citizens of Breslau, think of your honor; think of the many tears which the eyes of your noble queen have already shed for Magdeburg; remember that your king relies on you and on your love, and that his gratitude toward you will be boundless if you remain faithful now—faithful unto death! Think of the great king who fought seven long years for you, and whose glory still reflects a golden lustre on the whole of Silesia. Do not join the timid and cowardly. Stand by me. Let us go together to the city hall—let us demand the petition that we may tear it to atoms; then go to the governor and tell him that he must not capitulate, but resist till—"
"Till we die of hunger?" cried a harsh voice, and a tall, broad-shouldered man elbowed himself through the crowd and walked up to the count. "Count Pückler," he said, menacingly, "if you continue talking about resistance, and other nonsense of that kind, you are a miserable demagogue, and the assassin of those who believe your high-sounding words.—Listen to me, citizens of Breslau. I am secretary of the commission of provisions, and do you know whither I have been ordered to go? To the municipal authorities! I am taking to them a list of what is still on hand. There are in Breslau at the present time only twenty thousand pounds of meat, and the bakers and brewers have no fuel left. If we do not open our gates to the French, death by starvation will await us after to-morrow. Therefore, let all those who do not wish to die of hunger hasten to the city hall and sign the petition that will be deposited there."
At this moment a strange, hissing noise resounded through the air; a glowing ball rushed along and penetrated the roof of a house, from which flames immediately burst forth. A second and a third followed and set fire to several houses on the market-place.
"The bombardment is recommencing!" howled the multitude. "They are firing red-hot shot again. Come, come to the city hall! Let us sign the petition." They hastened off like game pursued by a hunter; fear lent wings to their feet, and anxiety rendered the weak strong, and enabled the lame to walk.
Count Pückler was left alone. For a moment he leaned pale and exhausted against the wall of the house; large drops of perspiration covered his brow; his cheeks were livid, his lips were quivering, and he gazed at the city hall, the steps of which the crowd were ascending at that moment. "They are going to sign my death-warrant," he muttered, in a low voice. He descended from the curb-stone, and, drawing himself to his full height, walked slowly down the street. The bullets were whistling around him and dropping at his side. He quietly walked on. He reached the house in which he was sojourning, and ascended the stairs slowly and with dilated eyes, like a somnambulist. He reached the first landing, and had turned already to the second staircase. All at once invisible influences seemed to stop his progress; his face commenced quivering, his eyes sparkled, and turned with an expression of unutterable grief to the door which he was about to pass. "I must see her once more," he muttered; "possibly she may follow me." He pulled the bell vehemently, and a footman opened the door. "Is my betrothed at home?"
"Yes, count; the young countess is in her room; her parents are in the parlor. Shall I announce you?"
"No, I will go to her without being announced." Passing the footman and hastening down the corridor, he rapped at the last door. Without waiting, he opened it and entered.
A joyful cry was heard—a young lady as lovely as a rose ran toward him with open arms. "Have you come at last, dearest? Have you really been restored to me? Oh, how I have been longing for you all the morning—how my heart trembled for you! With what an agony of fear every ball passing over our house filled me, for any one of them might have struck you! But now I have you back. I shall detain you here, and not let you go any more. You shall be like a caged bird. Would that my heart were the cage in which I could keep you!" She laid her head, smiling and blushing, on his breast while uttering these words; in the ardor of her own joy she had not noticed how pale, listless, and sad he was. When she raised her bright eyes to him, her smile vanished. "What ails you, my beloved?" she asked, anxiously. "What is the calamity that I see written on your face?"
He took her head between his hands and looked long and mournfully at her. "Camilla," he said, in a low, husky voice—"Camilla, will you die with me?"
"Die!" she asked aghast, disengaging her head from his hands. "Why should we die, Frederick?"