Quisisana, or Rest at Last Part 18

The village-mayor had expounded this situation to the farmers, and he ought to know. He had been only three days ago to see his brother-in-law, who was employed in the War-Office branch at Erfurt. He had himself served in the French war as sergeant, and in that capacity he had, during the fighting about Orleans, been in command of a company, every officer of which was dead or _hors de combat_. And as almost half his auditory consisted of men who had served in the army, and who only required to draw upon the ample treasury of their experiences and reminiscences, in order to confirm or contradict the a.s.sertions of their chief, there had been no lack of eager discussion in the village inn. But from the very beginning the opposition had not been strong, and ultimately it was almost completely silenced. The whole village now stood like one man on the side of the attacking party, and the 99th was only spoken of as "Our Regiment." Their arrival was looked forward to with the utmost impatience, as though they were bringing relief and release from some yoke long borne.

My Lady's urgent appeal to give "Our Regiment" a brilliant reception, and to let nothing be wanting, had met with the readier a response, since she had not only, with customary liberality, taken upon herself the cost of any "extraordinaria," to use the expression of the village-mayor, but in the case of the poorer inhabitants in whose houses accommodation and larder were not of the best, had specially promised to pay for anything and everything, and had actually freely distributed money beforehand. The mansion-house was moreover setting the village a capital example. The long winding road up to the house was transformed into a _via triumphalis_ with towering poles, from which fluttered the German and Thuringian flags, with garlands of fir-branches stretching from pole to pole all the way up the hill, up to the richly-decorated portals which opened upon the equally decked-out great courtyard. And at night a ball in the mansion-house, and fireworks on the village-common in front of the lowest flight of the terrace-steps, with blue-lights and what not!--No wonder that the young barbarians of the village, down to the tiniest lads and la.s.ses, were only kept from breaking out into frantic disorder by being employed, for days beforehand, in lending a hand in the preparation of all these glories.

And yet, much to Hildegard's dismay, it seemed doubtful whether everything would be ready in time. Her own attention was fully absorbed indoors by the preparations for banquet and ball; and now, at the last moment, the Baron had to go to town on business that brooked no delay, and she had to entrust the supreme command of the department of the exterior to new hands: fortunately Herr von Busche, the young gentleman from the Forests and Woods' Office, was willing to take the Baron's place.

But yesterday Hildegard would, under no circ.u.mstances, have allowed the Baron to go, for then his star was still in the ascendant, whilst now it was sinking rapidly. For the Princess he no longer existed, after she had given her judgment upon him last night; she had not observed his entry into the breakfast room, had not returned his bow, just as though the not inconsiderable s.p.a.ce filled by his presence had been vacant. And the Grand Duke had a certain antipathy to this man; and even his father's old friend, the influential Court-marshal, did not dare to stand up for him energetically. No one seemed to favour him at Court, except Princess Amelia, whose caprices, it was notorious, were frequently as changing as the phases of the moon. And then that ugly Monaco story! It was, of course, not possible that Lotter could be the man--gracious goodness, no! Nor had Alexandra said so! But--one ought not to have an awkward likeness to people who figure so unpleasantly in the memory of distinguished visitors; and then--and this made the matter peculiarly unpleasant for Hildegard--she was aware that the Baron, even if he was no gambler, was very fond of high play. Up to last night this had been one of his gentlemanly foibles, now it was a wicked pa.s.sion which he who was wooing Erna had no right to indulge in!

It was nearly eleven o'clock when the Baron went to find Otto, to ask for a carriage to take him to town, and to tell him at the same time the drift of the disagreeable news which he had received from home. A younger brother, in the army of course, had contracted debts, and was on the point of being cas.h.i.+ered if those debts--in the contracting of which there would seem to have been some discreditable element or other--were not forthwith paid. His relatives, poor people every one of them, were incapable of helping the young man; as a last refuge they had applied to him, the elder brother, who, though not likely to be himself possessed of the necessary means, might yet probably be able to obtain the money on loan from the wealthy friends with whom he was on such good terms. Could Otto help him in an embarra.s.sment that was weighing more heavily upon him than any one of his own making had ever done? It was not a big sum which he required--a mere miserable three thousand thalers!

Otto was quite distressed. His stock of cash was exhausted by the incessant demands that Hildegard had made upon him during the last few days, and to-morrow he would have to redeem that mortgage of five thousand thalers which he had mentioned to Bertram, without as yet knowing where to lay his hands on the money. The moment, of which Bertram had said that it would very surely come, was at hand, had, in fact, virtually come already; the terrible moment when he must discover his situation to his wife. And yet his wife could parry the first thrust for him. He had in the course of years given her, on different occasions, considerable sums of money as special donations, and all this was invested in excellent securities, though she was for ever spending the interest beforehand. He loathed the idea of claiming back a portion of the money from her, and he had vowed that he would not do so, come what might. But still a man will do for a friend what he would not have the courage to do for himself; and so he told the Baron that, being for the moment unable to oblige him himself, he would ask Hildegard to do so, and he felt sure that she would willingly render this small service to her _protege_. The Baron hesitated for a moment, but opined that one could not discuss such things with women; he would find help some other way. He then begged Otto to make his excuses to the ladies--who were not to be found, and promised to return, if not for dinner, at the latest before the beginning of the ball; managed to see Lydia, and so drove off.

Otto would have liked nothing better than to have gone with him. The ground beneath him seemed to be on fire. To-day the all-important debate in Parliament was coming off. If the vote was in his favour, he really might, without being too sanguine, expect his factories to rise so greatly in value as to enable him, after all, to weather the threatening storm. But, with an adverse vote, he knew he was ruined, and he kept repeating this to himself, unless he would take the extreme step of requesting Bertram's a.s.sistance. Bertram certainly would not refuse it, but, as a.s.suredly, he could not ask for it, considering the awkward relations now subsisting between his wife and his friend.

After considerable hesitation, Hildegard had the day before yesterday communicated to him her suspicions that no one but Bertram was standing in the way of the alliance upon which she had set her heart. She wisely refrained from mentioning the impure source from which she had drawn her suspicions--though it was not of a suspicion that she spoke to her husband, but of a fact. Poor Otto naturally had to express the utmost horror, though at heart he was anything but dissatisfied. He would certainly have liked Erna to have a younger husband, but he himself loved and admired the friend of his youth sincerely, and if Erna loved him in her own way, why she had always had a taste of her own; he had never comprehended her; she would herself know best how it stood with her heart; and then if Bertram, as friend, would gladly have helped him, as son-in-law he would very surely have done so, and in that case, he too would get over the shrinking which he felt now. But it was not to be. Hildegard would never sanction it, and yet, how strange, just as he was returning to the house after seeing the Baron off, here was Hildegard coming to explain that she had been absolutely mistaken about Bertram, that Bertram was completely innocent, that she had to crave his forgiveness for much, and that she would be truly disconsolate if Bertram were to go away after all, as she concluded from some hints of Konski's. Would Otto please go up to him at once and make sure of his staying? She would do so herself, but she really had not a moment to spare, for, he could judge for himself, the Princess did not leave her alone for a minute.

Otto knew not whether to rejoice or to grieve over the new turn of events. He had, suffered intensely from the tension between his wife and his friend; and that things were right once more and better than ever, was of course very nice and pleasant. But with Hildegard's a.s.surance that Bertram was not thinking of marrying Erna, there vanished the last ray of hope that help in his need would come from that quarter. Moreover, he said to himself that Bertram would never dream of going without speaking once more, for the last time, of his money difficulties and repeating the previous offer; and Otto was afraid of himself, afraid he might be weak enough to close with the offer. So he promised Hildegard that he would at once go to Bertram and try every means in his power to induce him to stay, but he did not go.

There really seemed no need for all this hurry. Bertram could not leave without asking for a carriage too. And that had not yet been done.

Perhaps it would not be done at all, and in that case, why needlessly bring such terrible excitement on one's self? And again, Herr von Busche was sure not to get on with the decoration of the portals unless he went to help him. Hildegard had been saying all along that the old Gothic structure, being the termination of the _via triumphalis_, must also be the chief point of splendour. Hildegard should be really pleased.

And five minutes later Otto was waging furious war with Herr Von Busche, who wanted the flag of the country to float from the left-hand balcony, whilst Hildegard had given express orders that it should float from the right-hand one.

Hildegard had meanwhile hurried to rejoin the Princess; she had not exaggerated,--Alexandra really would scarce leave her for a moment. She was bent upon knowing how, on such an occasion, things were managed in a German household. She could not, she said, form any idea of it, because in Russia all these things were left to the steward and other officials, and the hostess, like her guests, was simply among the spectators. It would be such a pleasure to her to be allowed to peep behind the scenes for once; if Hildegard was really fond of her, if ever so little, she should not deny her the treat. Hildegard did not find it too difficult to overcome the first shyness which she felt at such an odd request being made. The arrangements about her kitchens, pantries, and store-rooms were as splendid and in as grand a style as in any princely palace, quite in keeping with the colossal preparations for the entertainment; she could modestly accept the many exclamations of amazement and admiration which the young Princess indulged in lavishly, as a fit and proper tribute. But mere idle admiration did not satisfy Alexandra; she insisted upon lending a helping hand, and pus.h.i.+ng back her rich lace sleeves from her fair white arms, she seized a big wooden spoon, and, to the delight of all the servants employed about the kitchen, she set to work stirring up a pudding. With all this exuberance of good-humour she was so charmingly amiable, so utterly free from all affectation, and the wildest nonsense she indulged in suited her so quaintly and funnily, that Hildegard was positively enchanted, and called upon Lydia in pa.s.sing, to study in the appearance and demeanour of the Princess the mighty difference which existed between a really gifted woman and one who merely affected to be clever, and who thereby only provoked the scornful laughter of really clever people.

These cruel words were the first she had addressed to Lydia since last night.

It was impossible for the Baron to fall so suddenly into dire disgrace without involving Lydia in his fall; nay, in Hildegard's eyes she was, if possible, the guiltier of the two. Had she not been incessantly singing the Baron's praises, giving the most glowing testimony to him, been scarcely able to paint the great position he enjoyed at Court in sufficiently bright colours; and all this, of course, solely to beguile her unsuspecting hostess and to deceive her in reference to her own intentions as to Bertram. Serve her right, the story-teller, if she was completely foiled in her intentions! And now, as though the measure of her iniquity had not been already abundantly full, she must actually bring these terrible charges against poor innocent Bertram; must needs, to confirm and apparently substantiate these charges, commit a theft, and make her--a mother--an accomplice, forcing that miserable letter upon her, which, as it turned out now, had been nothing more than the harmless enough effusion of a somewhat overstrained imagination that the child had indulged in--well, well, the time would come when she could show the intriguing old maid this long list of offences; meanwhile, silent contempt should be her well-deserved, only far too lenient, chastis.e.m.e.nt.

Now, it is true she had broken through her contemptuous silence, but poor Lydia knew her friend quite well enough to be aware of the evil plight into which she had fallen. And had she been still able to have any doubt on the subject, the reproaches with which the Baron had overwhelmed her would certainly have enlightened her. Last night, even, he had ventilated his bad humour by all sorts of bitter and scornful utterances; but to-day, when he had sought Lydia in the garden after his conversation with Otto, and before he hurried off to town, his wrath knew no bounds. This, then, he sneered, was his boasted firm position in the house! A casual adventuress could come and deprive him in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, of the good graces of the mother--in those of her daughter he had long since ceased to believe anyhow--rob him of the father's friends.h.i.+p, and expose him to a treatment no commercial traveller would put up with! And he would not put up with it, not he; Lydia might be sure--quite sure of that! He would prove it to the miserable toady and sycophant who changed her friends as readily as her gloves; to the poor henpecked husband, the miser who could not even spare a few dirty thousands to a friend in need of help; he would prove to them that a Lotter-Vippach was not to be insulted with impunity. And, above all, that conceited amorous old pedant should suffer for it, for he, of course, had set the whole train going against him! If Lydia,--if the others, could not or would not see, he kept his eyes open, and was not to be taken in; he knew what was what, and ... but they should see. And to-night, to the sorrow and annoyance of his so-called friends, who would wish him far enough, he would make a point of turning up in good time. Would Fraulein Lydia be gracious enough to reserve the first Lancers for her obedient servant?

So, with a mocking bow, he had hurried away, leaving Lydia in sorrow and terror. But the terror was greater than the sorrow. She had never seen the Baron like this, never dreamed that he could be like this.

What if he carried out his threats! His eyes had been bloodshot and had a gla.s.sy kind of stare; and then his laugh had been awful; and he was a great strong man, a.s.suredly in physical strength ever so much the superior of poor delicate Bertram. What if the Baron were to-night to bring about a scene, have recourse to actual violence! What will men not do in rage and despair!

Her old love for Bertram, which after all she had felt in her own way, and which long ago she had sacrificed to her vanity and worldliness, was stirring again. Lydia felt it, and was enraptured. True, she had been lying and cheating to reach a certain goal that pure calculation had fixed. Still, she was a better woman than she had thought herself.

She had thought that she was following the dictates of her reason only, and lo! she had unconsciously remained faithful to her own heart. She knew it now, at the moment when a serious danger was threatening the loved one. And, curiously, although during the last few days she had positively given up all hope of regaining the loved one, and had in envy and anger seen him in the bonds of affection for a fair young rival--an affection which, moreover, was warmly reciprocated; yet she suddenly began to doubt the justice of her observations; the old dreams were coming back and a.s.serted that they were a reality, and that everything else was but a chimera. All, all would yet come right.

Falsehood and hypocrisy had been powerless; truth and love, however, would be omnipotent!

Then she began to rehea.r.s.e in her mind that unfortunate letter which she had purloined in order to gain a clear insight into Erna's sentiments, now endeavouring to give the gentlest interpretation to every word that referred to Bertram; she remembered, too, the pa.s.sage which seemed to refer to a former love affair of Erna's. But she and Hildegard, eager only to discover what they most, or rather what they only, feared, namely, an attachment to Bertram, had added no weight to the brief allusion in question. Some childish "dancing-lesson fondness," Hildegard had said, and she had a.s.sented to it, partly to guard against the possibility of the reproach that she, in her responsible position as Erna's educator and second mother, had overlooked or actually allowed any serious attachment on her part.

"Betrayed"--that surely was plain enough, and made many things clear, even though in itself it was hard to understand, was, in fact, all but absolutely incomprehensible. Such a charming creature as Erna no one is likely to betray, no one at least who is in possession of his five senses, as young gentlemen generally are. If the thing was anything more than a pa.s.sing fancy--and that one had to a.s.sume, considering how averse from anything frivolous Erna was--then her easily-wounded pride must have brought the rupture about, and it might yet be healed; and if it were healed, would turn the child from her caprice for Bertram, would set Bertram free again, if indeed he had allowed himself to be captivated by Erna's unconcealed admiration for him, set him free for herself, his first, his true, his only love!

With fancies like these, Lydia, now banished from the favour and the presence of Hildegard, was wandering along the garden-terraces, now dissolved in tears and lamenting her bitter lot, now smiling complacently and congratulating herself upon a happiness which was all the more precious the longer she had been compelled to wait for it. If she were now to meet Erna, if she could have an explanation with her, become reconciled to her, prove to her in very truth how well she meant by her! She was in the very mood for this, and here was Erna coming along! The shrinking which she often felt in the presence of the proud and self-willed girl was making itself perceptible again, but one swift glance showed her that Erna had been weeping quite recently, and that she could risk it now.

Erna had been weeping quite recently, and so indeed she had done ever since last night, whenever she felt sure that no one was looking upon her despair. For the gentle creature was in despair. All through the long sleepless night she had seemed to hear Agatha's whispered question, "What will you do if it comes out that Kurt is innocent?" She had seemed to hear it like the voice of a warning angel, and neither head nor heart had been able to reply anything but, again and again: "In that case I have betrayed him, and I have made him unhappy." Could he be innocent? She had struggled so long against the belief in Kurt's guilt, and had only accepted it when he declared that he could not explain his relations to the Russian lady; no, not even to her, from whom, for the sake of their love, he was to expect entire confidence; for confidence was the very soul and at the same time the touchstone of love. Alas, she knew yet another and a more terrible touchstone, and that was the jealousy which she had cherished in secret towards the unknown lady, and which had blazed up brightly when yesterday she beheld her, the hated temptress, in the splendour of her youth, beauty, and grace. In vain did she struggle against the charm which the lady seemed to radiate; in vain did she declare everything about her to be unreal, except her diamonds perhaps; with every furtive glance at her rival she felt herself more and more fascinated, allured, beguiled, and, in equal measure, conquered, and at last crushed.

It was a terrible state which wrapped her poor fluttering heart in absolute night, and yet even then there was something like a faint glimmering of the star of hope. If Kurt had ever loved her--and he had--he had done so once--how could he love another woman, who, however charming and seductive, was yet in all things the very opposite of herself? Kurt, who had so often a.s.sured her that he hated all display and all vanity, that he loved her because there was nothing of display, nothing, of vanity about her, because she was his own rose, which, in its dewy freshness, he would not exchange for a world of brilliant exotics!

And his large brown eyes had shone down upon her so gravely and lovingly as he spoke, and his lips had trembled with genuine emotion--and had all this been naught but lies on the part of him whom she in her turn had loved, because he had appeared to her as a lofty and lordly image of truthfulness and fidelity?

It could not be.

But then, again, what had she done? What was she to do when the other one, that good and n.o.ble man, to whom--so Agatha said, and her own heart could not but confirm it--she had given such unequivocal proof of her affection, when he came into her presence and said: "I have come to take you at your word. Not all the Flavios in the world would have kept Hilarie from loving her uncle, had she been convinced that he truly loved her. And you know it: I love you!" What could she do, but, with Hilarie, say: "I am yours for ever"? He would not fall at her feet and exclaim: "You make me the happiest man beneath the sun," but she knew,--she knew that he would be happy!

Ah me!--why had she not obeyed the voice which called to her that first evening when she met him in the wood, and he laid his heart open to her: "Open thy heart to him too," the voice had said, "tell him all."

That would have been the time, the only right time. For the very next day she had read in his eyes what now made her so proud--so happy. So happy? Gracious heavens!

This was happiness, was it, that she now desired nothing better than death, swift death, to escape from the torments that tore her heart to pieces?

Did he divine nothing of these torments! Why had he not come to her last night? He might surely have spared her a minute--he had given the Princess a full hour. It was, perhaps, a relief, a sort of recreation, for him, seeing he had so long had to dispense with any intellectual conversation. Was she perchance the beautiful widow in the novelette who consoled the uncle for the loss of Hilarie? And had Hilarie already got to the point of wis.h.i.+ng and longing for such consolation for her uncle?

Her shamefaced gaze wandered up to Bertram's windows, under which she had arrived--not quite unintentionally. What if he were to appear above--signalling: "Wait, I am coming down!"

Like a startled fawn she flitted away to one of the terrace-walks, behind whose protecting wall she could not be seen from those windows of his, and burst into tears, as she became conscious of her cowardice.

Lydia appeared at the opposite entrance; she could not avoid Lydia now; she bent toward the espalier, to dry her eyes un.o.bserved, and lo! there was Lydia at her side, at her feet, clasping Erna's knees, pressing her face against Erna's robe, sobbing.

It was a theatrical display, such as Lydia employed on all possible occasions, suitable or otherwise; Erna knew that well enough. But she had not the courage to tear herself away; never a harsh or ironical expression came forth from her to-day; nay, she all but envied a human being that found such expression for its feelings, whatever they might be. She endeavoured to raise the kneeling lady.

"I must remain on my knees until you have pardoned me," murmured Lydia.

"I'll do anything you wish--but rise, rise, I entreat you!"

She had drawn Lydia up and away into a niche in the wall, thus gaining at least some shelter from the eyes of the servants, many of whom were still busy everywhere up and down the terraces with the preparations for the illumination. There was a stone bench with a stone table in front inside the niche. Lydia sank down upon the bench, laid her face, covered by her hands, against the edge of the table, and murmured her miserable confession of guilt in a voice which was scarcely audible, owing to her constant weeping and sobbing. She had, she whined out, found out by questioning the servants that the letter had not been sent, which Erna had on the morning in question written beneath the plantain tree, and which, she a.s.sumed, was certainly addressed to Agatha; and she had, moreover, learned from Agatha--who evidently suspected nothing--that she had received no letter just before her departure from home. Then, pa.s.sing through Erna's rooms, she had seen her blotting-book lying about, unlocked, as she had been astonished to notice. Then she had been unable to resist the temptation of trying if the letter was still there. The letter had been there--a sort of dizziness had come over her, and--

"I said to myself," she went on, "that you have no secrets from Agatha, that you were likely to have written to her what you felt towards Bertram, whether you loved him--I required to know it--my future, my happiness, my salvation--all, all depended upon that one question. Have pity on a poor wretched woman whom jealousy made a criminal--against her own child, too! for I have ever loved you as my own child, ever, and would gladly have sacrificed all for you, all, only not this--the trial was too much for my strength."

Then Lydia in her self-abas.e.m.e.nt and grief wept bitterly. Again Erna felt it strange that she did not spring up from her place beside the weeping old woman, did not leave her alone with her silliness and her lies; that she could listen to her exaggerated and sentimental twaddle without positive disgust. There was something stirring within her that she was frightened at herself--something almost like a wish that, this time, Lydia might not be lying.

Lydia noticed through the veil of tears in which she had wrapt herself that Erna was accepting her confession much more favourably than she had dared to hope. This gave her courage enough to pursue to the utmost the advantage thus already gained.

"I cannot and will not try to prove that I have been quite free from blame," she cried. "I have been vain and frivolous. I did yield to the temptation of becoming Countess of Finkenburg! Many more would have yielded who cannot retrace, like one of the family of von Aschhof, the long line of their ancestors to the time of the Crusaders, and who do not, as we do, have Moors' heads in their escutcheons! But vanity and frivolity alone did not make me do it. I was honestly convinced that this alliance with a poor lady of high lineage, who would bring him no other dower but her many claims and wants, could be nought but a hindrance to Bertram; that he might have made, and probably thereafter would make, a better and a more suitable choice if I released him from his engagement. Indeed, indeed; if I could but have divined how he would take it to heart, nothing in the world would have made me act as I did. And now I would give everything in the world to atone, as far as I still may, for what I did. Must it really be out of the question, dearest? Look here. He is about fifty years of age, and how long will it be before he is an old man? He is very delicate too. His servant tells me that he suffers from palpitation of the heart, and from insomnia, and that his Berlin doctor has enjoined upon him no end of precautions and care for these travels of his. Why then, he really needs some one who will nurse him and who will patiently bear with all his sickly caprices--all sick folk are capricious, don't you know? I know it but too well; I saw it in the case of my own uncle, the Minister of State, whom every one thought a very lamb in the way of kind, gentle equanimity, and who was so until one of his asthmatic attacks came upon him; and then never a living soul could bear to stay near him. Yes, yes, one must have gone through these things to know; and may G.o.d in His mercy keep you, my own dear, sweet, good child, from ever knowing it, from mourning away your sweet young life by the side of a broken-down man who has no pa.s.sion left, save his books and his politics. If his politics call him he must needs follow, and poor Konski must pack the trunks. Poor fellow, Konski! I spoke to him a little while ago; he'd like to stay and see all the fun that is coming now with these man[oe]vres here, and what not. Besides, I rather think he is in love with Aurora. But he says there is no help for it, and off they go to-morrow, his master and he. Perhaps it is right enough, for the Baron is furious with him, and I really know not what the Baron will do, unless you convince him that he has been mistaken, like the rest of us. Oh, that we had! My own sweet child, you would be restoring peace and happiness to us all, and I would never weary of kissing your dear hands, nay, the very hem of your garment!"

She covered Erna's hands and robe with kisses. Erna let her have her way, she paid no heed to what Lydia was saying and doing; there she sat gazing fixedly across the gardens and across the village on the mountain slope, where a portion of the high road was visible which led from the north across the hills to Rinstedt. Lydia, following the direction of Erna's gaze, saw what Erna saw--a great cloud of dust, with occasional flashes of bright arms, winding down the high road, and now there came, softened by the great distance but still distinctly audible, the sound of the drum; and below, at the entrance to the village, they fired a cannon as a signal that the regiment was coming up.

Erna started as though the shot had gone through her heart!

"For goodness sake, child, what ails you?" exclaimed Lydia, terrified on noticing the pallor of her cheek and her fixed rigid look.

And again she was terrified when Erna suddenly flung herself into her arms as seeking help from a threatening danger, and then with equal suddenness tore herself away, hurried up the walk and straightway vanished behind a projecting portion of the wall.

"What does it all mean?" Lydia asked herself.

As if in answer, there came across the garden, now more distinctly, the sound of the drum.

"Ah!" said Lydia, and a meaning smile flitted over her face. "It would not be impossible," she murmured, "and if it is the case, I'll find it out!"

She turned to enter the mansion house just as the big flag was being hoisted upon the turret as a salute to "Our Regiment," at the moment when the soldiers set foot upon the village road.

XVIII.