On the bed to the right lay Rosenbusch, covered over with a thin blanket, the upper part of his body propped up into a half-sitting posture by pillows, holding a sketchbook on his knees and busily engaged in drawing.
Except that his face was somewhat paler, he showed no traces of the hardships he had suffered; but on the contrary, his bright eyes beamed from under a red fez as merrily, and he looked as fresh as he lay there in his loose jacket, with his carefully-tended beard, as though he had made his toilet for the express purpose of receiving visits.
"I could have told you so!" he cried to his friends, as they entered (the reader who sat behind the screen was silent in an instant)--"the first visit of the saviours of the fatherland, on this day of triumph, is to the invalid's paradise. God greet you, noble souls! You find us here as well provided for as if we were in the lap of Abraham; art, poetry, and love, make our life beautiful, and the fare is ample; though, unfortunately, we are on invalids' diet. No, you mustn't look at what I am scribbling. Or rather, for all I care, you may look at the thing as much as you like. A Rosenbusch, seconda maniera, or terza rather, if I count in my classical period, my parting of Hector and Iphigenia à la David. Now, as you see, we are splashing about in realism of the most modern sort--Father Wouverman will turn in his grave, but I can't help that. And, after all, this pack of Turcos and Zouaves are by no means to be despised. Magnificent contrasts of color, set off by the vineyard scenery, and our own blue devils over there--like a thunder-cloud. By Jove! it won't look bad, will it? Do you know what the secret of modern battle-painting is, the clew to the riddle, to find which I had first to have a hole shot in my thigh? The episode, my dear fellow, nothing but the episode. Grouping in masses, tricks of tactics--nonsense, a map would do just as well for that purpose. But to condense in an episode the prevailing character of a whole battle--that is the point. Those old fellows had an easy time of it, for in those days a great, murderous battle was nothing but a handful of episodes. Well, every man must accommodate himself to the length of his blanket."
"Tours is long enough to keep you warm, old comrade-in-arms," replied Schnetz, examining the ingenious sketch with great pleasure. "But how goes it with your bodily progress?"
"Thanks. Fairly. In six or eight weeks I hope to prove myself quite a lively dancer at my own wedding. I only wish," he added, in a lower voice, with a slight movement of the head toward the other bed--"that our friend over opposite had such bright prospects--"
"Herr von Schnetz!" they now heard Elfinger's sonorous voice say from behind the screen--"You seem to have completely forgotten that there are other people living on the other side of the mountain. Whom have you brought with you? To judge from the step it is our brave baron. Won't the gentlemen be so kind as to do a poor blind man the honor? You will find some one else here who will be very glad to welcome my old friends again."
At the first sound of these cheerful words, which moved him painfully, Schnetz had stepped behind the screen and seized the hands the sick man gropingly held out to him. Felix, too, approached. Elfinger could not raise his head from the pillow on account of the ice compress that was laid across both eyes, but the pale, finely-formed face beneath it lit up with such a joyful smile, that the two friends were so moved they could hardly stammer out the necessary words of greeting.
A slim young figure had risen from the chair at the head of the bed to make room for the gentlemen. She still held in her hand the book from which she had been reading, and her delicate face blushed when Schnetz turned and cordially pressed her hand.
"I need not introduce you to one another," said Elfinger. "Baron Felix, too, will probably recollect my little Fanny, from having met her at that memorable boating party. In those days we two were not so well acquainted with one another as we are now, for, as you know, 'it must be dark for Friedland's stars to shine.' I still had one eye too many. It is only since I have been left quite in the darkness that she has clearly seen that her heavenly bridegroom would not be angry with her for being unfaithful to him in order to light a poor blind cripple through life. Isn't it so, sweetheart?"
"Don't boast in such a godless way," they heard Rosenbusch call out, "as if it were on your account, pour tes beaux yeux, as messieurs our hereditary enemies say, that she became converted and joined our society. Nonsense! Fräulein Fanny, it is simply because you have to do penance for your faithless sister, and redeem the honor of the Munich women."