XXIX.

"Go thou forth, And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm!" --ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

Thy name is my name, thy honor is my honor, thy life is my life; "whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me."

The solemn word was spoken, the union for time and eternity made. Wulf had taken Sibylla as his wife to their home. The brief betrothal had been followed by a quiet wedding. There was no wedding journey to distract the mind. From the church the young couple had gone directly to their home, where Theodora had met them. How different from what Sibylla had once imagined! To the young maiden a trip to Frankfort was not even good enough; there should at least be one to Italy, and thence toward the East, the cradle of all art!

But far more beautiful was it now in her quiet home; and most beautiful it was to sit by her husband's side, who was the dearest object on earth to her, receiving all from him, and giving him herself.

"How much my mother would have loved you!" said Wulf to his young bride. "You would have helped me to thank her for all she did. She rescued me as well by that heroic deed, at a time when mere words would have been unheeded."

Sibylla was very happy in these four walls. She is rich, indeed, who provides and cares for the man she loves. Wulf's profession called him frequently from home, and led him so much among the poor that he obtained the sobriquet of "The Poor-doctor." He heard this with pleasure, and observing how regardlessly the so-called common people were treated by his colleagues at times, his heart was uplifted.

Wulf cast no reflections upon his professional brethren; they must live so; but he made a vow to help and share what he had with all; neither to avoid place nor effort, neither inconvenience nor ingratitude, in order to fulfill his great mission.

He kept his promise, and Sibylla was his true helpmate. When the doctor prescribed a soup for the sick, he sent them to his wife; and if they needed a pillow for their straw pallet, it was safe to say Sibylla would provide it, always ready as she was with thread and needle in hand.

A physician has opportunities for knowing the resources and circumstances of many families, and stands in close relationship at their side. He can act and advise; and where Wulf opened a way, Sibylla furthered it with kind heart and friendly hand. Yes; the Herr-doctor had truly a Frau-doctor for a wife.

If he came home weary, his first glance met Sibylla sitting at the window, waiting for him with blushing cheeks; and the evening hours passed amid cozy companionship, more beautiful than any of which the young wife had ever dreamed. She resumed her old art; drew and painted, often more venturesomely than correctly, Wulf thought. They sang and played together: it had always been Sibylla's ideal for young married people to sing together.

But they were not always alone. The home-circle widened. To one and another Wulf had said: "Come to see us; we shall be glad to have you." "We will come, for we love to," was the frequent response, and the sociability which shaped itself in Dr. Ericksen's dwelling was only an extension of the home-circle.

Invitations which sprang from mere courtesy, and stood formally prepared all day with polished exteriors for every body--mere forms, such as one accepts with _ennui_--were never given, much less received. The friendly circle which gathered around Sibylla and her husband, in which Theodora was always an honored and welcome guest, afforded true refreshment for all participants.

Even more than this; for while the most interesting intellectual conversations were found, there were not wanting suggestions for all kinds of charities to do good. Wulf at one time related an especially needy case in his own practice, which awakened his friends' sympathies, and at another time opened ways for worthy beneficence in other directions.

"These gatherings bring much and cost little," said Sibylla, triumphantly. "O, how much time and money for costumes and table-service we expended once, from which nothing resulted but a heavy head and an empty heart!"

And yet there was a little rift in their happiness. It appeared very small, even immaterial. Only Sibylla observed it; and yet at times the thought arose whether this little rift might not widen and widen, until the music of both lives should grow mute.

Sibylla had, as we already know, recognized the fact that every thing which did not spring from the deepest spiritual source could not give solid hold and peace. When she only looked at her husband--when she learned to know his work more perfectly, his earnest efforts, his thoroughly excellent life, his noble self-sacrificing deeds (and this latter had been the last stone of oppression in her own experience)--how far above her he stood! how she could look up to the man she loved! "Whoever acts as he does," she thought, "must be more than a good, brave man; he must be a Christian." And when he attended Church service with her as often as possible; when he talked with undisguised admiration of his mother, and with deep emotion of the lovely pious Ingeborg, Sibylla felt not only her outward, but especially her inward life was secure in him.

"O God, let me not die, not die now," she prayed one night out of a joyful heart; "for I am too happy!" And yet she felt this truth deeply, that Wulf only tolerated from her the deepest question she presented. He assented, and she could not agree with him. She endeavored to cast the thought aside, but that did not bring peace. She wanted to have her beloved all in all, to share every thing with him, even this, and to ask the question herself in the simplest way.

They were walking out together. Wulf was deeply moved by the result of one of his cases; a patient had died, wholly unexpectedly to him, from an apparently simple headache.

"Was the death so unexpected to you?" asked Sibylla.

"To-day? Yes; I was not at all prepared for it. That serious results might happen in such cases I knew, and had consulted with another physician. It was an effusion of blood to the brain. I pity his poor wife and orphaned children."

"Did the man know he was about to die?"

"No; certainly not. Such information would only have done harm, and hastened the result."

"And yet if he had known the fact, it would have been good for his immortal soul."

"Dear Sibylla," exclaimed Wulf, straightening himself up, "if we regarded the souls of all our patients of more consequence than their bodies, who could be a physician?"

"Yet the soul is worth far more," rejoined Sibylla.

"Yes; but who knows that for a certainty?" sighed Wulf. "O child, I would not becloud you with mysteries; but if you knew how often science and faith stand diametrically in opposition! The heart might sometimes, it is true, accept as truth what the understanding must reject, but the fundamental maxims of science are so clear--even if not wholly satisfactory. What is the soul? The power to think? Animals also think; therefore we stand upon a certain equality with them."

"But does not the soul's power to rise mentally higher and higher make the difference?" argued Sibylla.

"Yes, indeed; for the thoughts of animals never make progress," replied Wulf; "and yet when one sees for the thousandth time (as in the calamity to-day) how one little drop of blood in the brain can render all thought impossible, must we not conclude that the brain is the sole organ of thought? I can not explain it to you--God be thanked, you would not understand it--but believe me, it is difficult for the heavy foot of man to keep away from the abyss, which a woman with her light tread scarcely touches upon."

There was a pause, when Sibylla resumed:

"But if every thing else ceases to exist, the soul of man is immortal. That is no hypothesis, but a truth which no science can controvert."

Wulf smiled--sadly, it seemed to his wife.

"Controvert? No; but science can and does clear away the theories of immortality, as well as others of the Bible, when they are not thoroughly uniform in their results. Some think the world itself will be further and further transformed, always becoming greater; that it is even now making incomprehensible strides, and will never be utterly destroyed. Others believe in the passing away of the world in which all will be swallowed up in eternal nothingness."

"O, the heathen thought so two hundred years ago," interrupted Sibylla. "If this is the product of modern science it has certainly not made any progress."

"Only with the difference," asserted Wulf, "that now science will prove what the ancients only dimly imagined. Still what is worth proving at all is worth proving thoroughly. The naturalist proves that in every movement of the human body a portion of mechanical strength passes away in heat, from which again only a part of this is transmuted back. If, then, the universe be left undisturbed by this flowing off in physical process, all energy must finally pass away into heat, and the possibility of any further change is cut off, and there will be a perfect cessation of every process of nature, and the universe will be condemned from that time forward to eternal rest: that is then the end."

"And a quiescent chaos to all eternity!" exclaimed Sibylla. "That would be the result: the beginning a quiescent chaos--the end a quiescent chaos. Why, then, resolve a world out of it? Why, then, this life, with its pains, its efforts, its desires, its aspirations? Why, then, the fear of death? Why did we not remain in chaos?"

"I have now an answer to such questions," replied Wulf. "It was to love you, Sibylla, to possess you, and to ease the pain of this poor life the one for the other. That is, indeed, worth living for."

"O no, no!" cried Sibylla; "that would be only a short, even though a generous, intoxication of the senses. Wulf, you do not believe what you say. Think of sweet Ingeborg's heaven, of her happiness. Was that a delusion?"

"If I had only heard of it I should have answered decidedly, yes; but as I witnessed it myself, I can not say so. Dear Sibylla, please keep your own thoughts. It makes me happier in every case than these dry discussions; besides, they are better. I can not help it, but I do not desire our friends, or especially one I love, to share my views."

"Dear Wulf, you are far, far better than your words. You are also nearer to God than you think. Then how can you act as you do? Your heart believes entirely different from your head. You have intrenched yourself to such an extent in certain opinions that you accept them without trying to harmonize them with your other views, and so the opposing factions in your head, being uncontroverted, do not observe that they do not mingle their elements. All this materialism which you have been expounding to me to-day is not you at all."

How gladly Wulf heard this sentiment from those lips! But "women must believe, and men must know," he thought to himself, resolving at the same time never again to attack Sibylla's faith.

The latter, when she sat alone in the evenings, reflected over the wonderful ways they had both been led. In this very way art had stood sharply opposed to Christianity, just as science and religion now were in conflict, to Wulf's mind. She could not close her eyes against it, and felt that his opposition must only be vanquished through the mighty power of the Holy Spirit. "But he is ten times better than I am, and he will soon conquer," she concluded. How little she dreamed what was about to occur!

It was on the fourteenth of July that Wulf entered her room at a very unusual hour and more animated than customary. "Do you know? have you heard," he exclaimed with enthusiasm, "that there will be war? It is now certain; there is no other redress."

For weeks war-clouds had been gathering in the political horizon. Now the dull, rolling thunder came from Ems, and indicated the outbreak of the storm. Wulf related the disturbance King William had experienced at Ems, and how he had defended himself. His eyes flashed; unconsciously he clenched his fingers. "I shall return soon; I have no more time," he said, as he hurried off.

Why did Sibylla turn so pale? Was she thinking of all the indescribable horrors that war has in its train? or did she, in imagination, already see the enemy's troops marching through the streets, relentlessly vindicating the conqueror's rights?

O no; nothing of these. Before her mind with unerring certainty was the thought, "Wulf goes with the king," and all other considerations vanished.

"Would I have it otherwise?" she asked herself. "Should I not reproach a young, sturdy man, with no other call to hinder, if he did not take the sword for his country's honor? Should I not do the same if I were in his place? Yes; and even if I could go with him and remain beside him I should fear no danger."

Sibylla's hot tears fell upon her sewing. Her happiness was so young, so new; she had lived so long without her beloved, had been too miserable without him, not to wish now to keep him with all her might. She murmured that God should permit this war, and yet the fealty of a German woman was aroused, and she felt that life without honor was no life. She struggled long with her emotions and finally said: "Ah well! I shall never be a hindrance in the path of glory to one I love better than myself. My entreaties and tears shall not restrain him; I will weep no more."

Wulf returned. He had not become any calmer. One could see he had under consideration an important event in his life. Yet every thing went on outwardly as usual, as though he possessed the deepest inward peace. The war news spread from lip to lip, and every heart arose against French usurpation.

"As yet every body continues his business; but how long will it be before all these lusty workmen will be converted into soldiers, and Berlin become a vast military hospital? We shall finally conquer, but we must be prepared for any thing," said Wulf, earnestly.

"When are you going?" asked Sibylla.

"Sibylla!" Wulf looked at his wife, but needed no explanation of her inquiry, which was blessedness at this critical moment.

"O, Sibylla!" he continued, "that I go, that I hazard my life, is nothing. But to give up our happiness together, so full, so unspeakably rich, is something; and yet I do it gladly. I would not die, but conquer. How could I remain here with you, and permit others to go forth to the battle? The French shall realize that we fight for our noblest possessions, for our king, our Fatherland, our honor, our wives!"

"Have you, then, already taken steps to this end?" said Sibylla.

"No, not yet; I felt I must consult you first. Besides, the declaration of war has not yet been promulgated. To-morrow the king comes to Berlin!"

Sibylla wept no longer; Wulf was beside her. But no sleep visited her eyelids that night. It was something different to rejoice over the heroic deeds of others, to admire valiant action with enthusiasm, from giving up now her dearest one--the only one she could call her own in all the world.

The next evening husband and wife were at the railroad depot, where the king was expected to arrive. No newspaper had announced his coming, but a multitude of people welcomed him. And when he came, so earnest, so anxious; when he looked upon his subjects, thoughts like these doubtless stirred his heart: "How much sacrifice this war will cost! Will there be one of this throng exempt? Will it not entail pain and misery upon all?" Then a loud "Huzza!" rent the air, and an enthusiasm rarely manifested was the people's answer to the king's mute question, with the cry: "King William, on to Paris! King William, on to Paris!"

It was a moment such as comes but once in a century. That was no ordinary "Huzza!" ready prepared for homage, but like a mighty stream which had been flowing peacefully, and now suddenly bursts through gigantic bulwarks, bringing ruin with its deafening roar and heaving foam, and which, knowing its power, goes its way unhindered.

Wulf and Sibylla returned home in a serious frame of mind. A deed had been accomplished this day which they had been permitted to witness. That great events should take place, which would form a part of the world's history, they both realized, and with them all Germany.

The following day the army was put in motion. Wulf had never served. When he had been drafted in the past an insignificantly lame foot had gladly been offered in defense, that he might not be interrupted in his medical career. Now all was changed. He desired to enter the service as a volunteer, and sword in hand defend the Father-land.

He applied to a military bureau, but there was no vacancy. Like an enkindled thought the king's proclamation fell upon the crowd. Enthusiastically, the young, the mature, and the gray-haired thronged the ranks. The university emptied itself. Who can write the college history, which ought to be perpetuated in pen of brass, of those who went forth from thence to the battle-field?

Tradesmen and artisans left their shops; for who would buy and sell when the noblest possessions were to be acquired? The laborer left his work; the artist hastened from his studio, the assessor from his office. Enthusiasm flamed high. With some it was a wonderful passion; in all the harmony was deep and true, while a righteous indignation permeated every German breast.

"_Lieb Vaterland, kannst ruhig sein, Fest steht und treu die Wacht am Rhein._"

The next morning Wulf was presented before an officer, well known to him. He shrugged his shoulder and said: "It is not possible. See the crowd; every one wants to be first."

But Wulf was not to be discouraged. He applied to another regiment, with the same result. "Well, then," he said, "if I can not go as a private soldier with naked weapons, I shall try to go as a physician." As such he was readily accepted. Every one felt it would be a bloody struggle and that many surgeons would be needed. To Wulf it seemed easier as a common soldier to meet the enemy, and to endure wounds; but it was really more beautiful and Christ-like to bind them up.

Sibylla was glad in the depths of her heart when she received this intelligence, as Wulf would not be placed in such immediate danger, although she was perfectly aware that he would not shrink from the most imminent risks in the performance of duty.

"O, can not I go with you? Can I not do something to help this great cause?" she sighed.

"You can, and you shall," replied her husband. "Women will have much to do at home. Let us each one serve in his place."

XXX

"The soul, secured in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; But thou shall flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amid the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. --ADDISON.

The world's history went its way in the midst of thunder-bolts. "Die Wacht am Rhein," no longer stood firm and true, but the Fatherland could afford to be restful. The wheels of war had transferred themselves to France; the people who instigated the war were now to suffer its nearest proximity. Germany breathed freely. Her brave army (concerning which an English journal asserted that every single man in the invasion was a Leonidas in overalls and spectacles), led by heroes, had bloody conflicts to undergo. No pen is needed to recall them; their history is engraven in the heart of Germany. We shall only follow Wulf on his difficult way.

Yes, it was difficult--frightfully difficult. The unalloyed misery which a battle evokes, baffles all description. The hardest heart must learn to bear it for the first time. There in the front the battle raged--officers riding hither and thither; the infantry in advance, with the first company on its knees; the second bowed down; the third standing upright, ready, with murderous fire, to obey their leader's command. For their protection, the artillery is led forward, gigantic cannon awaiting the signal to pour death and destruction upon the enemy. From the sides there is already the sound of clashing arms; in the center the strange snapping of the mitrailleuse; while all around is heard the dull roar of the cannon. Wulf stands in the rear, just behind the lines, watching with breathless interest the drama unfolding around him.

But he can not long follow the course of the strife, as the regiment to which he belongs now enters the action. A frightful crashing and firing, then thick powder-smoke, and a few moments later, wounded men fall backward. Wulf casts aside the field-glass, takes up his package of bandages. The first one to be relieved is a young soldier who has lost an arm; a second follows, a third, a fourth. He can no longer count them. Beneath a great tree he has established his quarters, and luminous for a long distance floats the white flag with its red cross, pointing out the spot where love and sympathy have found their way, even in the fearful misery of the battlefield. The combat has disappeared in the distance; the earth trembles with resounding shots uninterruptedly. All is covered with powder and smoke. Wulf only sees the ambulance-wagons approaching with the wounded and dying, to lay them in his vicinity; he hears only the terrible, agonizing groans and moans of the wounded--German and French, all bleeding, and needing succor. Then came the snorting of horses galloping from the front, wounded and riderless, followed by dragoons and lancers in confusion through a repulsed assault. Just before Wulf, a dragoon on horseback flew by; he sprang aside and caught the dying one, whose blood streamed over him. "Dead! all over! Gone!" he exclaims. "If it were so with all these poor fellows around me, much suffering might be escaped."

But, mayhap at home some Sibylla weeps for them?

Although Wulf is agitated by the thought, "Is it, indeed, all over, forever passed, or is there still another life?" another needs care, and he binds up wounds, calms and succors as well as he can. His orders are short and quick in the roar around, and, so far as possible, they are promptly obeyed. The wounded who have received attention are borne to the nearest house, or laid in wagons and carried farther. But the ranks did not become less; others were constantly brought forward to receive the murderous shots, and there seemed no end to the misery.

"Have we conquered?" asked a soldier, coming out of a deep swoon under Wulf's treatment. The latter looked up; he had forgotten the war and victory. But it is unmistakably the latter, and a messenger brings tidings of a splendid victory. He has scarcely time to rejoice, but he hears the "hurra!" which comes from the lips of the poor wounded one.

A strong man writhes in dreadful agony as Wulf endeavors to extract a bullet from his breast.

"We have conquered," Wulf says to him.

The warrior opens his eyes; a smile plays on his lips; he makes an effort to rise, and folds his hands, while he says clearly: "God be thanked, who has given us the victory, through Jesus Christ our Lord!" Then he swoons away; and is gone.

Is it "all over" with him? Returns the substance back to its source?

On, on! the bloody conflict must begin anew. Evening approaches. The field hospital must be stationed at the nearest village, where every house is a Lazaret.

Wulf is steeped to the elbows in gore. The amputating-table is cleansed, while all around lie heaps of the poor soldiers' members. While the wounded are being laid in wagons, Wulf kneels beside a poor creature; he would have him transported, but discerns that it is useless. He gives him a draught of wine, and as the dying one drinks he seizes Wulf's hand, and gasps, "O, if I had only been a Christian!" Wulf would administer words of comfort; but what shall he say? He is helpless. O, how chimerical seem all the results of his scientific investigations! "My mother always told me to pray," continued the poor fellow. Then he begged piteously, "Pray! pray!"

What should Wulf do? He would tear himself away; but the strong death-grasp restrains him, and the utterance:

"O, pray for me!"

Pray? To whom? The God whom Wulf has made his own for years is without hearing--and what shall he pray? "O, pray for me!" is repeated agonizingly.

Then he recalls an old, old prayer which his mother taught him when a child, and he repeats mechanically:

"Dear Lord, I would thee love, That I may go to heaven above."

It is "all over;" and if he had not been so wearied he would have despised such an utterance. There is no heaven, and he for whom he has just repeated this falsity--well, the machinery of life has stopped; the parts disintegrate, and it is "all over" with him: that is certain.

Expeditiously the school-house is converted into a hospital, and there Wulf establishes his head-quarters for the present. Alone, far away from other dwellings, the red-cross flag floats in the air, and soon the little place is filled with the wounded--friends and enemies.

A hospital--but void of all comforts. A little straw is spread upon the floor, and those needing attention are covered with their cloaks only. It had not been possible to provide food as yet, but a small quantity of wine is available. Messengers are hurried off for water and hospital supplies, and the fearful work begins anew. Many die during the night, and their bodies are immediately removed to make room for new occupants. Wulf's surgical knife and implements are used unremittingly. Constantly messages arrive for him to come to some other house; he would answer, "Soon! yes, soon!" but the pressing necessities around secure him to this spot.

Morning dawned when Wulf stepped forth. The sun arose in the east as clear and splendid as if it greeted only happy people and joyous harvesters. Anxiety and the harrowing scenes of the past hours had made Wulf almost faint; but the fresh air from without now revived him. The night lay in his memory like a confused, troubled dream. What an experience it had been! Through what mental struggles he had passed! "To be or not to be," was "the question" to him. Were these dead really eternally dead, or was there an everlasting life beyond? If he answered the latter affirmatively, he must accept as truth the conclusion of a revealed God. Could this be true, then also redemption through Jesus Christ were a confirmed fact. There was no intermediate view. Either his own opinions were correct and true, and it was man's highest aim here to attain a moral perfection in every thing, or God's Word was the truth, and man did not live simply for this world, but for eternal life.

Nonsense! nonsense! What need had man for God and immortality?

And yet there were thousands who had just now lost beautiful, young lives. If they must be ended, why this life at all, on which depends so much care and love? Had the love only beginning to strengthen, and the mind only begun to be cultivated, that a little piece of cold lead might destroy it forever? Infamous thought! A reconciliation between the hopes of all these hearts and their sudden extinction lay only in the idea of a continuation after death, a further, wider development in the certain confidence of an eternal life.

Was it this confidence which appeared in vision to the dying soldier when he exclaimed: "God be thanked, who has given us the victory, through Jesus Christ our Lord!"

But there was no time for Wulf to indulge in these subtile inquiries; he must attend anew to the suffering. And yet, amid all the strife and whir and din of battle, he had heard one of the field-deacons give comfort and blessing here and there amid the wounded and dying, and administer to them the hope of eternal life. This one phrase, "eternal life," with its consoling assurances, Wulf could not comprehend, and he marveled that a nursery tale, a bare idea, could exert such power among so many thousands of different people. But his work went on and on. The hard surgical instruments were devoid of feeling, and could endure the strain much longer; not so the man of flesh and blood--he was well-nigh exhausted. Wulf had worked thirty-six hours without food, only stimulated occasionally with a glass of wine, which merely undermined his nervous strength. A deacon said: "Doctor, go now; I have a bed ready for you. You can do no more."

Yes; Wulf could do no more. Without controversy he threw himself upon the couch, and closed his eyes; but he could not close his ears to the groans around him. Every thing in his mind was in chaos, and yet out of this chaos a feeling was liberated more dreadful than all else--the instinctive fear of an after life in preference to annihilation. No sleep visited his eyes, or laid her peaceful hand upon his troubled brain, where every thing whirled. Suddenly he heard a voice say quickly:

"Is there no doctor here?"

"What is wanted?" replied the deacon.

"Immediately have him come to N----, where there lies a whole church full of wounded, without a surgeon."

"He will come to-morrow, early," was the answer.

"For God's sake, why not at once?" was the entreaty.

"It is impossible," said the inexorable attendant.

Wulf had followed the conversation with breathless tension. He knew it had been promised that he would go. He would spring up, but tongue and limbs refuse their service. He lay in a severe cramp, and in spite of redoubled effort he was not master of a word or movement. When the messenger had gone the band was unloosed; he sprang up and declared he should ride at once to N----. The prudent deacon forcibly restrained him for a time; but he overcame all remonstrance at length, learned the way to N----, left requisite orders for those behind, and a few minutes later was in the saddle.

In the beginning all went well along the highway. Then the road led through a little wood, then over a field, as the most direct route. The cool, fresh air relieved Wulf's burning head, and although his pulse beat feverishly, he determined not to yield to approaching illness. Gradually his thoughts began to wander; he allowed the reins to fall, and forgot to guide the horse. It began to grow dark; but the faithful animal kept on the way. Now they were in the shade of the wood, and suddenly the horse shied before a large, white stone, which appeared unexpectedly. The lurch threw Wulf from the saddle, while the horse galloped on. Suddenly awakened, Wulf endeavored to rise, and succeeded with difficulty, as his foot had been injured by the fall. He felt the wet blood trickling through his stocking, but believed the wound to be trifling. Even if it retarded his progress he should find the way again, and he limped wearily on. On and on, but the way through the wood seemed endless; and yet at every turn he hoped to see beyond. He was undoubtedly on the wrong path, but if he should walk to the right he must get through, and soon either see a light or hear footsteps. He had scarcely left the roadway when the ground began to yield under his feet; and struggling to extricate himself from the morass, he only sank deeper and deeper. He reached out for some overhanging branch, but none was near, and even more the ground seemed to vanish. It was wet and cold, and the slimy plants around seemed to stretch out hands after the unfortunate one, as if to draw him to the depths. After many vain struggles, he finally realized that every exertion only robbed him of strength, and he determined to wait quietly until he might hear footsteps, and cry for help. But even more icy than the slippery plants lay the wild thoughts in his mind. He knew he was stricken with fever. Was it now physical weakness or mental anxiety over the end, which paralyzed this brave man? He had just witnessed dying men whose sufferings had been greater than his own, and whose consolation was the hope of eternal life. Did this hope give strength? What had rendered death so fearless to his mother and Ingeborg? Had it been this same assurance? Then there was no hope for him; for he thought: "Now I would die, and cease to be." But he did not wish his existence to end. His youthful strength, his will, the pleasure of life, rose up in contradiction; and then his thoughts centered upon Sibylla. No; he did not wish to die. He had not yet reached his goal; he was just beginning to succeed, to act. No; he did not wish to cease to be; and yet there was no help near. Could such a life as his end in the mire? Like the entrance of satanic malignity, the materialistic teaching of the origin of species came upon him; made of slime and returning to slime!

But his position became an agony. Would it not be better to close his eyes and die?

"To die--to sleep: To sleep! perchance to dream:--ay, there's the rub!"

These words of Hamlet ran through his brain like spirit forms. O, the fear of something after death--that "undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveler returns!" Was it this dread that stimulated Wulf to renewed effort, that impelled him to cry aloud for help? Ah! these cries were so weak from that debilitated frame, they reached no friendly ear.

It was perfectly still in the wood.

No! suddenly there came the tramp of many footsteps, and the sound of song in distance.

Wulf listened; it must be a passing regiment, singing on its way. His feeble cry would be inaudible amid that tramping of feet and full chorus. What did they sing?

"I once had a comrade, No better ever found;"

and here lay a comrade, with death hovering near, and they knew it not, but went on their way regardlessly. Wulf braced himself to call louder. In vain. But now the words reached him clearly.

"You can not give your hand, You're in eternal life; that blessed land, Comrade my own!"

"_Eternal life!_" O, how could he, in this condition of weakness, consider eternal life, when he had been unable to contemplate it in the full vigor of health? Should there take place within him some gigantic transformation, superinduced by a dire necessity? ETERNAL LIFE! Yes, there is eternal life. Horrible certainty! He would not perish here in this mire, eternally. He was sure that it would not be "all over" with him; but what then?

Should he go to his mother, to Ingeborg? No; he was not worthy of such a place; they had loved God. Should he see Sibylla there? God be thanked! No; Sibylla loved God; he had felt it, witnessed it, knew it.

Like furies these thoughts flew through Wulf's mind. Then followed the terrible feeling of wavering senses; the intellect of which he had been so proud was clouded by the dark pinions of delirium's eternal night. "O God, not that; only not that!" agonized his soul.

Where was God? Who was God, that he should help him? Was he the First Great Cause? the Eternal Essence? the Substance? A little star beamed mildly and friendly down upon him, and the sight gave him new courage. It burst the bonds from his soul; and now Wulf could pray, pray as a child to his Heavenly Father and loving Savior: "Give me life, eternal life! Help me; I would believe. Let me not die here, but live!"

He became calmer, but more and more exhausted. He closed his eyes to sleep and banish thought. Then he heard footsteps again. It was a patrol running and searching among the bushes. He had heard Wulf's feeble cry and hastened to him. Strong arms lifted him tenderly; he looked upon his rescuer gratefully, then became unconscious.