She hangs upon his neck,
In falt'ring tones the lovely fair
At last essays to speak;
"And wilt thou, then, thy true love leave
For ever?"--thus the fair
Began, when, overcome by grief,
Her words are lost in air.
Schubart.
Albert was sitting in his room, in the forenoon of the day after the ball, thoughtful and dejected. He had paid a visit to his friend Breitenstein, from whom he heard little that was consoling to his hopes. A council of war had been assembled early in the morning, and war was irrevocably decided upon. Twelve pages were despatched through the Goecklinger gate to convey the declarations of defiance of the Duke of Bavaria, the nobility, and assembled states, to the Würtembergers at Blaubeuren. This news was speedily spread from mouth to mouth through the streets, and joy at the prospect of marching at last into the field, was visibly depicted on every countenance. To one alone was the announcement a terrible blow. Grief drove him from the circle of the joyous multitude, who adjourned to the wine shops, to celebrate, by loud carousal, the birthday of the war, and to cast lots for the booty of anticipated victory. Ah! his lot was already cast! A bloody field of battle was spread between him and his beloved; she was lost to him for a length of time, perhaps for ever.
Hurried steps ascending the staircase, roused him out of his melancholy mood. His friend the scribe put his head in at the door, crying out, "Good luck, my boy! the dance is about to commence in good earnest. Have you heard the news? war is announced, and our messengers have been despatched an hour ago, with the declaration to the enemy."