"What do you think of doing, Bitter?" enquired Bubna after a long and painful pause.
"At all events I shall remain to-night in the city," replied Gabriel, "to-morrow we shall hear, what sort of a plan Frederick's council has hatched, and I shall guide myself accordingly.... It is settled that our Mannsfield shall continue the war, even if Frederick concludes a peace. Whatever happens, I intend to share Mannsfield's fate."
"You are no Bohemian, Bitter! you are free.... but I, I, ... I love not Frederick, I esteem him not:--but the diet has elected him: if he is obliged to leave Prague a fugitive, I must go with him, I cannot act otherwise. Only when he has obtained a secure retreat, shall I join Mannsfield--therefore Bitter, farewell!"
Gabriel pressed Bubna's hand, but suddenly the old soldier threw his arms passionately round Gabriel's neck and kissed him repeatedly with impetuosity. "You saved my life at the skirmish of Netolitz," he said, "I have never thanked you for doing it. I always believed that I should some day repay the old debt. But our paths divide--Bitter! we are approaching a period, insecure, and prolific of disorder: ... The immediate future may bring death to us, I do not know whether we shall ever meet again. Bitter! I feel as if I shall never see thee more.... I thank thee.... farewell!"
Bubna tore himself away by a violent effort, his rough powerful voice shook, large tears flowed slowly over his powder-blackened face. Without leaving Gabriel time to reply, he spurred off in the direction of the Hradschin. But once more he halted and making a signal with his hand, cried, "farewell, Bitter, for ever!"
Gabriel could make no answer from emotion, and was obliged almost to cling to his horse's neck to prevent rocking in his seat.--That strange flutter within him of a sad presentiment of death, when Schlemmersdorf called him to the field, had disappeared in the heat of the fight, but was again powerfully excited when he had stood in single combat against the awful Pappenheim. For a moment he had given himself up as lost beyond redemption. But he had conquered, he had returned without a wound, safe and sound to Prague: it seemed to him as though he had risen superior to destiny. A bold violent feeling of self-confidence in his strength attained to its highest pitch, and spite of bitter discontent for the lost battle, he still smiled within himself at the childish terrors to which he had given way. But Bubna's leave-taking, the gloomy presentiment, which the aged, gallant veteran steeled in many a battle had undoubtedly given voice to, and which Gabriel had involuntarily referred to himself, had once again violently shaken him. In swift course, as though to leave his gloomy thoughts behind, he spurred over the bridge into the Altstadt, and first held rein in the Marienplatz before his residence. His devoted armourer was waiting for him impatiently at the gate.
"Thank God, gracious Sir, you live; you are not wounded.... The battle is lost, is it not?"
Gabriel hurried, without heeding the armourer's words up the steps and beckoned him to follow. Gabriel threw himself into an arm chair, the armourer stood straight as a taper before him, expecting his orders.
"Martin!" began the General after a long reflection; "you have always been faithful to me, from my heart I thank you for it--you must do me one more service, perhaps the last. This night will decide the fate of Prague, of the whole country. I do not doubt that Frederick will follow the whispered suggestions of his council, will fly; ... in that case the ensuing morning must not find me in Prague.... I dare not fall alive into the hands of the Imperialists...."
"Only, gracious Sir, fly," interposed Martin, rubbing the back of his hand across his moist eyes; "don't lose a moment!"