“they are going! they are going!” I hurried to the window, and reached it just in time to see the troops disappear in the turn of the street, while my traveling-carriage went at full speed before them.
“Stop! halt! that is my carriage!” I shouted from the window; but finding that my cry was of no avail, I worked my way through the crowd into the open street: but, alas! the troops were entirely out of sight, and I gazed upon empty space.
“Do not be alarmed,” said an old man, who wore the badge of a magistrate; “the general will soon return your carriage; he only wishes to be conveyed to the next post—for he is half dead with his wounds, and seemed anxious to reach his estate as soon as possible.”
“And who is this general?” I inquired. No one knew his name. “And how far will he need my equipage?” No one could tell.
I ran for some distance up the road, and found that it branched off in four different directions, so that all further search seemed fruitless; so, trusting to obtain some information from the crowd, I returned to the inn, but only to find that every one appeared perfectly indifferent to my misfortune, and totally engrossed with their own near danger through the proximity of the French.
“You must give me a protocol of this shameful affair,” I demanded of the magistrate; “the whole village can bear witness to this act of unjust force; and furthermore, write down that I shall remain here at the expense of the general’s purse, until my wagon is returned.”
The old man readily wrote down what I required. I had a duplicate of the protocol drawn out, and placing it carefully among my patriotic songs, tried to wait patiently until the morrow, when I confidently expected the return of the conveyance. Alas, it was a hope that was destined to remain unrealized, for the carriage never came. By good luck, I had some ready money with me; but then the general had carried off my whole wardrobe; my Berlin friend would certainly expect the value of his equipage; and, worse than all, the 19th of October was drawing near, and the count would be waiting my arrival in Magdeburg. Ah! was not all this a heavy trial of faith for the nominated curate! In my despair, I determined to wait no longer, but cutting a knobbed stick from the road-side, set off for a pedestrian journey; and as I wandered along the scented fields and by the perfumed hedges, I was even able to sing in a loud, clear voice, some favourite stanzas of a German hymn.
CHAPTER SIXTH.
THE RETURN.
Walking briskly along the road-side, I every now and then encountered straggling groups of Prussian soldiers, with or without their baggage-wagons; and fearful of coming into collision with these heroes of war, I passed on in entire silence, till, on reaching the little village of Burg, I was thus accosted, in a gay and familiar tone—
“Ha, doctor, is that you?—and where are you bound?”
It proved to be a lieutenant, who had formerly boarded in the same house in Berlin, and whom I then jestingly called “Charles the Great,” because he always boasted of being a descendant from that monarch.
“I am on my way to Magdeburg.”
“Then you are journeying in vain, friend; for the French have already besieged it with one hundred and fifty thousand men. Turn back with us, if you will allow me to advise you. To Berlin!—the enemy is at our heels—all is lost. Braunschirog dead; Mollendorf a prisoner; the king no one knows where.”
“But, lieutenant, I must go to Magdeburg.”
“What, to be run through with French bayonets? Well, a pleasant journey to you, doctor;” and he was about hurrying on, when, just at that moment, two dragoons dashed by, shouting aloud, “The enemy has already crossed the Elbe at Wittenburg.”
At this alarm, the troops hastened their march, and feeling that my onward course must be a fruitless one, since I could not hope to find admittance into a besieged city, I accepted the lieutenant’s invitation, and resigned all present hope of meeting with the count, all prospect of the parsonage, and, saddest of all, my glowing visions of a speedy marriage. Now, in truth, I had reached the darkest spot in my never over-bright lot; now, again, I found myself an obscure doctor of philosophy, a lonely bachelor, and an honest, well-intentioned, but most unfortunate man.
“Ah,” thought I, as I slowly trudged along, “it is hard to say who has lost most by this victorious Napoleon—I or my king.”
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
OUR HERO MADE CHAPLAIN.
“Cheer up—cheer up, poor heart! thy master marches beneath the banner of Charles the Great, and will plead for his protection as far as Berlin.” This was my playful soliloquy, as I overtook the lieutenant, who greeted me once more with a warm welcome.
“You shall not suffer for your decision,” exclaimed my commander; “I can boast of a platoon of Prussians as brave as any in the kingdom; and if we had but one cannon, we would not yield to two regiments of those hateful Frenchmen. And so, doctor, on the spot, I tender you the appointment of chaplain to my platoon.”
As the office seemed a suitable one, I accepted
