The regiment was mustered—it joined others—and in a few days was on its march to be united with an attachment of the grand army.

The army of the French, in those days to which we refer, was not of a kind to be overlooked, whereever it encamped, or whithersoever it marched; but just in proportion to the obtrusiveness of the whole was the indistinctness of its parts; and though each man in the ranks was made to feel something of personal identity, yet few out of the ranks looked upon the marshaled host as any thing less than one vast machine which a master-mind had formed, and a master-hand was directing; and to have supposed that a single soldier could have found distinction, or acquired note, unless by some excessive crime, or excessive courage, would be like identifying a drop in the ocean, or expecting some particle of matter to assert and confirm its indisputable right to distinction.

All heard of the progress and the victories of the army, but none knew exactly who were included in that little sentence, “one thousand killed and wounded;” and the heart of Louise sunk within her as occasional bulletins of battles reached the village, with statements of daring courage, of admirable conduct, and of numerous deaths. Letters were then not common from the army, at least from private soldiers.

Time passed, and Louise obtained permission of her mother to visit a relative at a distance; it was deemed a good opportunity to repair her health and spirits by a change of scenery and of company; and so she left her mother with more than usual evidence of grief at departure, for Louise, though affectionate, was not timid, and she rarely anticipated danger in any undertaking of her own; and such was her self-possession, that she never suffered from any of those incidents of travel which so often disturb the nerves of more delicate persons.

A battle had been fought, and a German city yielded to the arms of the French. The wounded were disposed of in the hospitals, churches, and hotels of the conquered city.

Adolph lay stretched out upon a well prepared bed in a small chamber, quite apart from some of his wounded brethren. A musket-ball had passed through his body, escaping the vital parts, but producing a wound which it was feared would, from the lack of regular attendants, and the warmth of the weather, prove mortal. He had suffered much, and his system was not in a condition to aid nature; still he rather improved. One morning, while he lay ruminating on the change in his affairs, he saw the surgeon of the regiment entering the room, followed by a young, slightly-built person, who seemed to have very little of the military in his movements or his dress; his face, for a moment, sent back the thoughts of Adolph to the home of his boyhood and youth; he started, as if some sudden pain had seized him, but looking again, he heard the name of the stranger announced. It was Klemm; he was the secretary to the general commanding the city.

“I have come,” said Klemm, sitting down beside the bed of Adolph, “to assist in taking care of some of our wounded.”

“Of our wounded,” said Adolph.

“Yes, our wounded; for, though my pronunciation is rather German than French, I am a native and a citizen of France, educated in Germany, and bearing in my speech pretty strong proofs of my master’s powers of instruction, and my own of imitation. I have left some of the volunteer nurses with others, and have come to do my best by you. I have some acquaintance with the art. Is this your dog?”

“Yes, this is Ponto the second; his predecessor, whom I brought from the village with me, perished in the same action in which his master received his present wound; and long used to the company of a faithful dog, I procured this, the nearest resemblance to old Ponto that I could find, and have christened him after his predecessor.”

“And transferred your affections from the old to the new companion?”

“Not entirely yet, but nearly, I think; he is likely to inherit the love as well as the name of the deceased.”

“Love is a quality easily transferred, then?” said Klemm.

“Why, yes; we soldiers, who are quartered in favorable positions, do certainly find it a convertible commodity.”

“I will dress your wound,” said Klemm.

When the office had been performed, and Adolph was settled quietly down upon his well beaten pillow, Klemm said, “It is now time for me to repair to my duties at head-quarters, and you would better compose yourself to sleep. Do you need the assistance of a chaplain as well as a nurse?”

“To confess the truth,” said Adolph, “I believe I could about as well dress my wound myself, as to go over some of those troublesome prayers with which my boyhood was unutterably bored. I think, however, that a little sleep would be about as refreshing as prayers.”

Just as Klemm was withdrawing, Adolph called to him.

“Do I understand that you are to act as assistant surgeon or nurse in this building?”

“Yes.”

“Then I think I shall recover, for I have felt no dressing like this since I was shot; and probably in a few weeks we may have a frolic together, for I perceived as they brought me hither that the place is not wholly destitute of females.”

Considerable familiarity grew up between the wounded man and his nurse. The exceeding delicacy of the attentions of Klemm, his soothing care, his skillful application of all the prescriptions of the surgeon, created in Adolph a spirit of gratitude which then found expression in words, but which he hoped would have other exponents at a future time.

“I see you wear a token,” said Klemm, as he took hold of the medal which had been placed round the neck of the soldier. “I should think that one who wore this would not fail in his daily devotions. Or is this a love token?”

“Well, rather more of love than religion, I imagine.”

“Oh, then your heart has suffered as much as your body?”

“Why that might be the token of another’s love for me, rather than of mine for her.”

“That is true, indeed; the medal itself might have been bestowed as a token of love for you; but surely, if worn by you, it was worn as a token of love for another.”

“Why, to say the truth, it has been worn without much thought any way; but if you will look at it, you will see that it has saved my life by breaking the force of a ball.”

“It has certainly suffered considerably,” said Klemm, as he gazed at the crushed medal.

“It is strange,” said Klemm, some days afterward, when dressing the wounds of Adolph, “that you should wear a religious medal on your neck, and appear to be inattentive to services for which such things are worn, and even indifferent to the motives for which this particular one was given.”

“Do you know the motive?” said Adolph.

“You told me some days since, that it was rather a token of love than religion.”

“In which I think it proper to say I was wrong.”

“You awaken in me a curiosity by your remarks which I certainly have no right to expect will be gratified.”

Adolph, whose fault of character it was to yield to immediate influences, professed himself willing to explain, desiring it to be understood, however, that the names he should use with regard to the absent, should be fictitious. “My own follies are justly visited on me, but I have no right to connect respectable names with mine in this situation.”

Adolph, changing the name of the village and that of Madam Berien’s family, related to Klemm the circumstances of his life—his love for Louise, his irreligious habits, his restoration to propriety, his call to the army, and added that the evil associations of the camp had obliterated not only the sense of respect which he had begun to feel for religion, but it had really led him back to skepticism; and his life in the army had of late been in accordance with his want of belief.

“Of course,” said Klemm, “you retain your affection for things and persons of this world, notwithstanding your loss of belief in the doctrines that relate to that which is to come?”

“Not entirely.”

“Have you ceased to love Louise—do you love another?”

“Neither; but I confess to you that as I released myself from the trammels which the religious opinions of Louise placed upon my mind and conduct, I felt less respect, and consequently less love for her.”

“Does your respect and love go together?”

“My love for her was almost entirely dependent on respect. She was my superior in education, my teacher in religion.”

“And so she put on airs, did she—played the school-mistress?”

“I should certainly do injustice to her were I to admit the force of your query. She led me back into religious observances less by any thing masculine in her character than by the evident disinterestedness of her conduct, and the conviction that however little I might respect the requirements of religion, I certainly found the results of the outward observances of the rules the best for myself.”

“Do you still love Louise?”

“Can I love her, and live as I have lived for these last six months? I ask seriously.”

“I will answer that when I can ascertain how intimately your self-respect is connected with that respect which you say was the fount of your love for Louise.”

“It is certain that for some months after I entered the army, my resolutions for good were well maintained, and I thought that my affections for Louise were augmented by absence. But I fell into the habits of those with whom I associated, and I soon found that they shared the opinions which my earlier companions professed; and I confess to you that my old skepticism returned, and though my sufferings here have certainly prevented me from the indulgence of dissipation into which I had fallen, yet I do not find that my religious belief has returned with my change of conduct.”

“Probably not, your change of conduct, as you call it, is only the necessity of your position, and you have perhaps sinned as heartily here, within sight of death, as when you were in the full flush of health.”

“And, by the way, Mr. Klemm, that is the unkindest remark you have made to me yet, and smacking the least of German accent of any sentence you have uttered. How much your voice resembles Louise’s!”

“Do I resemble her much in other respects?”

“You are not as tall, and you are darker; beside, your shock of hair resembles her splendid head about as much as your guttural German does her pure French.”

“Adolph,” said Klemm, in accents far more Germanic than those recently used, “would you seek to renew your relations with Louise if you were now permitted to return?”

“The only weakness which I ever knew in Louise was her love for me, and that, I have occasion to know, would not allow her to marry me with my present vices.”

“Could you not conform to the customs of her family without a change of opinion?”

“Would you advise me to do it?”

“Would you do it?”

“Klemm, you have seen too much of my character for me to affect to conceal much from you. I repeat it, I do not find myself disposed to any sanctimonious display of piety; I cannot and will not submit myself to the mortifying sacraments of the church. But if I could play the hypocrite, I would not deceive Louise if I could; and I suppose it is an evidence of my want of love for her now, that I will not do this to secure her as my wife. What say you?”

“I will answer you to-morrow,” said Klemm, as he hastily left the room.

“All gone! all impressions of piety erased, all holy resolutions abandoned, all faith shipwrecked, all progress given up, all religion relinquished; yet what is that last sentiment he utters, ‘I would not deceive her even to make her my wife.’ Surely while the sentiments of religion are clouded, while their effect is denied, they are lying deep in the heart, buried, but not lost—silent, unseen, but surely not dead.”

Adolph was recovering slowly, and his nurse sought to comfort him with the assurance that he would soon be allowed to return home upon a furlough.

“Why should I desire to return home,” said Adolph, “a wreck of what I have been—a wreck in mind and body, my health ruined and my faith destroyed? I take back nothing which caused my departure to be regretted.”

“You have heard, then, that Louise, apprised of your situation, has resolved to discard you?”

“No, I have not heard it, but I feel it; and, moreover, I cannot and will not impose upon her faith in me.”

“I think if you could resolve to resume your religious duties there, notwithstanding all that has passed here, though she should know it all, she would receive you. But shall I invite a priest into your room?”

“To have me laughed at by the whole regiment. I have little to confess that I have not told you—nothing, indeed, that you may not fully understand by what I have said.”

“But I have no functions to grant absolution, whatever you may confess.”

“Has any one more than you have? Is not the whole system one of priestcraft? What do priests know more than I do, and for what are they seeking to bring me under their care, unless to augment their power, and increase their comforts?”

“Perhaps you have an inclination to listen to teachers of another creed? They are in the next town.”

“Oh no, they are all alike in one thing, however they may differ in other matters, to rule others and help themselves.”

“Was Father Rudolph of that class?”

“No, apparently not—but how do you know Father Rudolph? Or how did you know that I was acquainted with him?”

Klemm bit his lip—“It is not difficult to ascertain who have been your friends, as in your delirium you were very free with their names.”

“Did I repeat her name.”

“Only as Louise. But you are apparently set against the clergy.”

“Yes.”

“Have you thought really of their influence on your life? Have you considered that much of all that you call morals is indeed the effect of their religious teaching?”

“That is religion not the priest.”

“I speak for the instrument, I confess; but a clergyman is to religion what an army is to a war—and you might as well think of conducting a national contest without officer and soldier, as a moral, religious contest without a clergy. And I doubt whether you have any idea of religion, unless it be a sort of restraint upon certain actions and passions. You mean morals when you say religion, and as you have seen morals exist where there was no profession of religion or observance of prescribed devotion, you think that such a morality is an independent system. Let me correct that idea. I agree that we find morals without religion, but I do not agree that morals would exist without it, and thousands of our young officers (I heard some of them last evening,) assert with philosophic gravity, that they are moral (they mean good) without religion. How vain—how short-sighted. They overlook the great fact that their morals are good habits founded on the religious teachings and practice of their mothers or priests, and that all the credit which they claim for their philosophy is due to Christianity, and that less settled in habits, or less reflective than they now are, they would fall with the first temptation that presented. What do you say to that Adolph?”

“I say nothing now—proceed.”

“I will proceed to make a personal application. To whom was the virtue of your childhood and youth due? Certainly to your virtuous, religious mother.”

“Did you know my mother?”

“What a question!”

“If not, how did you know that she was religious?”

“Because you said that in your childhood you were religious and had a mother. You gave me a knowledge of the cause when you stated the effect.”

“But my mother was neither a priest nor a religeuse.”

“No, but she frequented the sacrament of the church, and attended to the instruction of a priest, and thus became religious. But you admit that falling into bad company your morals became, if not depraved, at least vitiated, and that you began to despise religion when you neglected morals.”

“But when I began to reform, certainly I did not owe my change of purpose to a priest, and I only intended the reformation in my morals.”

“To whom then were you indebted for moral improvement?”

“To Louise.”

“And did not Louise owe her instruction to the same priest whom you had neglected? Nay, is it not probable that she applied to Father Rudolph for advice in the very matter of your reformation, and that he prescribed the condition on which she was to indulge her affections and encourage yours?”

“I cannot say that it was not so. But Louise was pretty independent in her manners, and would scarcely have asked the priest’s advice with regard to a lover.”

“Do you know any thing temporal of greater consequence than matrimonial engagements, or any relation more likely to have effect upon what you seem to think the priest has a legitimate right to meddle with?”

“I do not believe the priest interfered.”

“I know he did.”

“You know?”

“It is most natural that he should have done it. And now permit me to suggest still further, that while you owe the lessons which Louise gave you to the good father, you owe the reformation which you commenced to the remains of religious instruction in your heart. Undoubtedly it was your love to Louise that gave her influence over you, but it was religion that made her efforts successful.”

“You confuse me—I do not assent, but I cannot now contend.”

“I will leave you—leave you with this single remark, that not only did you owe your former reformation to religion, but there is religion now dealing with your heart, and your affection for Louise will return with the ready admission of religious instruction and the performance of religious duties.”

“I think I love her now as well as ever.”

“Then I shall hear more to-morrow of your experience.”

The night was one of nervous irritability, and poor Adolph presented to the surgeon the next morning, one of the worst cases of relapse in the hospital, and Klemm was early summoned to the room of his patient. The day was passed in painful aberration of mind, and short unrefreshing sleep.

The evening found the sufferer somewhat relieved.

“What can I do for you more?” said Klemm, as he smoothed down the pillow after assisting Adolph to acquire a comfortable position.

“That voice again!” said Adolph, “and no German.”

“I have got clear of my German accent by conversing with you.”

“Only at times,” said Adolph.

“Can I do nothing more for you?”

“Nothing, I believe.—Did you prepare for the priesthood?”

“No. I had neither inclination nor vocation.”

“I am sorry.”

“Adolph you are very sick—sick, less from the pain of your wound than from the tumult of your mind. I am unable to assist you. Let me invite in a clergyman, who is in the hospital.”

“Are there any here?”

“One. The terrible state of the wounded in some of the wards has compelled the officer to admit a priest.”

“Is there contagious disease?”

“Yes.”

“Do you not fear for yourself?”

“Die vollige Liebe treibet die Furcht aus.”

“What’s that?”

“Remember the words. I will call in the clergyman.”

And before Adolph could either consent or refuse Klemm had left the room.

In a short time a priest entered the chamber of Adolph, and proceeded to make himself acquainted with the state of his penitent’s mind, and then to attend to the duties of his sick call.

Adolph was calm and settled when Klemm returned, but not communicative.

Klemm then announced his departure a duty, and the fact that Adolph would, as soon as his strength would permit, be allowed to return home.

The parting of the friends that evening was truly affecting. Klemm was made to promise a visit to the village—“Though,” said he, “I may make an impression on Louise unfavorably to you.”

“I do not fear that,” said Adolph.

“Die vollige Liebe treibet die Furcht aus,” said Klemm. “A German quotation which I will show you in the original, or at least explain to you when we meet in your village.”

Klemm took leave of Adolph and Ponto, the faithful dog, and proceeded on his journey.

Men gather to see a regiment, a single company, or even a little squad depart for the camp—but few look out for the returning wounded—they come back singly and sorrowful. The wagon that was passing the ferry house nearly opposite the village in which resided Madam Berien, stopped for a moment, and a soldier, war-worn and wounded, stepped slowly from the vehicle, followed by his dog. He entered the house, and as he closed the door upon a small parlor, he found himself confronted by a female.

“Adolph!”

“Louise!”

“And your mother?”

“Well—all well.”

“And Ponto,” too, said Louise, as the affectionate dog, after reconnoitering round her, sprang up to receive his share of the caresses—“Ponto, too, come back.”

“Yes. But this is not Ponto that left the village with me. How comes he to be so familiar with you?”

“Your wounds are better?”

“I am well nearly. I need only rest—only your kindness, and I shall be ready for another campaign,” said he with a melancholy smile.

The boat awaited the passengers, and a few on the opposite shore were waiting for the