“What?”
“Ah! what a blessed fortune! Escaped from the bloody Spaniard, afar from the inhospitable land of the Floridian, to see once more these sweet waters and the well-known places.”
“What waters? What places?”
“Do you know them not—our own Seine and the cottage, Alphonse? Ha! ha! there they are! I knew they would come forth. Old Ulrich leads them; and Bertha is there, and brings little Etienne by the hand. And, ah! ha! ha! Joy, mother, we are come again!”
“He dreams! he dreams! If thus he dies, with such a dream, there can be no pain in it. Let him dream! let him dream!”
And Alphonse D’Erlach hastened to kindle the flames, and he tore from his own body the garment to warm his dying brother; and he clasped his hands convulsively as he listened to the faint and broken words that fell from his lips, subsiding at last into,
“Mother, we are come!”
And then he lay speechless. The younger brother turned away, and looked yearningly to the mountains.
“If I can only reach yon castle, he should be saved. It is not so far! but this valley to cross—but that low range of rocks to overcome. It shall be done. I will but cover him warmly with leaves and throw fresh brands upon the fire, and before night I shall return with help.”
And he did as he said. He threw fresh brands upon the fire; he wrapped the senseless form of his brother in leaves and moss; and, stooping down, grasped his hand and printed a long, last kiss upon his lips. The eyes of the dying man opened, but they were fixed and glassy. But Alphonse saw not the look. His own eyes were upon the castellated mountain. He sped away, feebly but eagerly, and as he descended into the valley, he looked back ever and anon; and as he looked, his voice, almost in whispers, would repeat the words—“Keep in heart, brother. I will bring you help;” and thus he sped from the scene.