“I have been told,” began the Colonel, “that about four months ago a soldier on furlough—his name is George Huber—was brought here for court-martial.”
The judge put his hand to his brow, as if to reflect.
“Yes, yes, George Huber!—a case of manslaughter.”
“I wish to have the trial brought to a speedy end.”
“Easy enough,” the other one said, evidently quite relieved. “It is a very ordinary story. We let the man run the gantlet a few times, and the matter is settled.”
“My dear sir,” answered the Colonel, “that would be a very superficial and arbitrary mode of procedure. And I am most anxious to see this case handled with the greatest care. Allow me to remark—with all respect for your judicial knowledge and experience—that there are very exceptional circumstances involved in this case; I have convinced myself of that.” The Colonel drew his eyebrows close together at these words; the judge knew what that meant, bowed in silence and departed. He went straightway to his office, and, as he did not lack ability and quick insight, had the matter soon sifted, examined the witnesses, Tertschka among them, and the court-martial pronounced the following sentence: George Huber, soldier on furlough, of the Twelfth Regiment, is guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to one year of hard labor. Considering that there were extenuating circumstances, also that his conduct during the time of service in the army has been irreproachable, the long term of imprisonment while awaiting trial is considered punishment enough.
The young judge’s face flushed a little; but it flushed even more when he took the sentence to the Colonel for approval, and the Colonel, after reading the paper, said with a smile: “Now and then even negligence of duty may bring about good results.”
Two days later the Colonel sent for George and Tertschka. He looked at them long and silently, asked a few questions, and advised them to stay in town for the present. He would see that they found work enough to earn a living; later on they would hear from him again. After they had gone, the Colonel again walked up and down the room, as he had done the day before, clicking his spurs together from time to time. Strange thoughts were passing through his mind. Many years ago he had been deeply in love with a beautiful, fair woman, and had been very unhappy. Not that the lady rejected his love—such a disappointment his proud, young heart could have overcome—but he had been cruelly deceived in his most sacred feelings; and that had filled him with a lasting bitterness and an unnatural contempt for the whole sex, a contempt which he very plainly liked to show. He was anxious for the world to know that he did not believe in love, and now, after so long and passionately upholding this opinion in opposition to a gentle voice in his inmost heart, these two poor, half-starved people were proving to him the real existence of love, love in all its depths, devotion and tenderness, in its holiness and strength!
Over there, where the grizzly railroad tracks wind in and out along the banks of the rushing Mur, past green meadows and fertile fields, not far from the Castle of Ehrenhausen, which looks down from its wooded height on the town of the same name, stands a lonely little house, belonging to one of the watchmen of the railway. Back of the house is a small piece of land, planted with corn and vegetables, while in front there is a little flower garden, where mallows and sunflowers bloom, fenced in by a hedge of beans. In this house, whose peaceful charm delights all travelers, George and Tertschka have been living now as man and wife for more than fifteen years. It is scarcely necessary to say that the stern colonel assisted in settling them there. The couple look little older than they did when we first met them. Though dividing the duties of a very responsible service, they still find time and opportunity to take care of their little piece of land, of a goat, and several chickens, and to bring up two flaxen-haired children, latecomers, but very welcome, who sprout up merrily behind the bean hedge. Sometimes they have a quiet hour to themselves, when they sit down, hand in hand, on the bench before the door, and, looking out toward the setting sun, remember gladly the day when they first met on the heights of the Semmering. Again they live through the sorrows and joys of the past to the moment, the terrible moment, when a cruel fate seemed to be crushing them forever, which yet has led them at last to this peace and happiness. And if across the path of their memories a dark shadow still lingers, they call their children, that come nestling so close to their hearts and look out with their big eyes so innocently into the world as if there were never a strange and changeable fate pursuing man from generation to generation as long as he finds breath on this old earth.