We were all silent for some time. At length Justus, whose emotions were yet as summer clouds, inquired of his grandfather, "And your other comrades in the Thuringian Forest affair?"
"Of the Jena students I heard no more till many years afterward. It was in November, 1813; Napoleon was retreating from the nation-fight at Leipsic. The battle of Hanau, too, had been fought. A wounded French officer asked hospitality of me here. Of course, I granted it, and he remained more than two months with me; for, though not for several days after his arrival, I discovered that he was the French student who, with Richter and the Pole, had joined our party at Gotha. He had returned to France about a year after our fatal adventure, had entered the army, and had been fighting almost ever since. When he left me, he was sent to Mainz, a prisoner on parole; but, at the Restoration in his own country, he was allowed to return. On the return of Napoleon from Elba, he however once more took up arms for his old master, and, with the many other victims of one man's ambition, and the, alas! too prevalent thirst for military glory common among his countrymen, he was killed at Waterloo. When will such things cease? When—"
"And Richter?" asked Justus, nipping in the bud the dreaded moralizing.
"Richter was killed in a duel—"
"And Macdonald?"
"Don't interrupt me, my boy; fill our glasses instead. Richter was killed in a duel; so the Frenchman told me. I also heard of the fate of the Pole through him. It was a strange and melancholy one. He, too, had gone to France, and entered the army, serving zealously and with distinction. In 1807, being then with the division that was advancing on the Vistula, he obtained leave to visit his father, whom he had not seen for years, but whom he hoped to find in the paternal mansion, situated in a wild part of the country, but not very far from the route which his corps was taking. He was, however, surprised by the night, as he was still riding through a forest of firs which seemed interminable. He therefore put up at a small roadside inn, which presented itself just as he reached the limits of the wood. Here the Frenchman's account of the matter became rather obscure, indeed, his friend the Pole had never told him very exactly all the circumstances. Suffice it that there were two ladies in the inn—a mother and daughter—two Polish ladies, who were hurrying to meet the husband of one of them, a colonel in Jerome Bonaparte's army. They were in a great state of alarm, the conduct of the people about the place having roused their suspicions. At their request, the Pole took up his quarters in a room from which their chamber entered, so that no one could reach them without passing by him. The room he thus occupied was on the first floor, and at the top of a staircase, from which access was obtained by a trap-door. This trap the officer shut, and fastened by a wooden bolt belonging to it. Then, telling the ladies to fear nothing, he placed his sword and pistols on a table beside him, and resolved to keep good watch. About midnight, he heard steps on the staircase. No answer was returned to the challenge he immediately made; on the contrary, some one tried to force the trap. The officer observing a hole two or three inches square in it, passed the muzzle of one of his pistols through it, and fired. There was the sound of a body rolling down the staircase. But the attempt was soon after renewed; this time, however, differently. A hand appeared through the hole, and grasped the bolt. The bolt was even half withdrawn, when the Pole, at a single blow, severed the hand from the body it belonged to. There followed groans and horrid imprecations; but nothing more took place that night. In the morning, a squadron of French cavalry arrived, and the ladies were placed in safety. Not a single person was found in the inn. The officer continued his way to his father's house. One thing, however, had much struck him; the hand he had cut off was very small, delicate, and white; moreover, one of the fingers wore a ring of considerable value. This ring he took possession of, with a strange, uncomfortable feeling of coming evil, which increased as he went on. Arrived at his father's house, he was told that his parent was ill, and in bed. He was, however, soon introduced to his presence. The old man was evidently suffering great pain; but he conversed with his son for some time, with tolerable composure. Suddenly, however, by a convulsive movement, he threw off the bedclothes, and the officer, to his horror, saw that his father's right hand was wanting. 'It was then you! and this is your ring!' he cried, in an agony of conflicting passions, as, throwing the jewel on the floor, he rushed out of the house, mounted his horse, and rode off at full speed. A few weeks afterward, he sought and found his death amid the bloody snows of Prussian Eylau."
"Poor fellow!" said Justus. "And Macdonald?"
"Of Macdonald's fate," said the pastor, gravely, "I know nothing. When I returned to Göttingen, after visiting Anna and her mother, he was gone. He had left his rooms the previous day with a stranger, an elderly man, dressed in gray. And he never returned. I made every inquiry all round Göttingen, but could get no tidings of him, no one on any road had seen him or his companion pass. In short, I never saw or heard any thing more of him. His books and things were sold some two or three months after; I bought every thing I thought he cared for, in order some day to restore them to him. But he has never appeared to claim them, and so I have them still. His sword hangs between Laurenberg's and mine, in my study. But come, the dew is falling, let us go in. Justus, my boy, be kind enough to carry in my chair for me. Trinchen will come out for the rest of the things."
So ended the worthy pastor's story.