The wounded soldier lay unconscious for many days in the Forest House. Hans nursed him carefully. He took care of Bettina, too, whom he refused to leave with Frau Schmelze, and Minna Schneiderwint came to milk the cows and do the cooking. Later they must find a new home, but the Herr Forester Leo had been glad, for the present, for Hans to keep on with Kaspar's duties.

Bettina spent much time by the sick officer. At first, she had been afraid of him lying there in a stupor, but presently she grew used to the quiet and liked to sit near his bed while her grandfather was in the forest, singing away to her doll and never minding the sick man. One day she was putting her dolly to sleep with a pretty song her godmother had taught her:

she sang. The Germans say that it is the song the Virgin Mary sang when she rocked the little Jesus in Bethlehem, and so Bettina loved it.

"My sister sings that," said a voice from the bed, a weak voice like a child's.

Bettina gave a great start and then smiled when she saw it was the soldier.

"My dolly is named Anna," she said, and she ran to the bed to show him.

"My dolly is named Anna"

"God be praised," said Hans, when he came in and found them talking.

The soldier would hear the news. Hans told him everything, but not all at once, for it was not wise for him to have too much excitement.

Jena was lost. So was AuerstÄdt. Both great battles had been fought in one day, neither party hearing the cannon of the other. Retreating, the armies had crossed each other, and never had Europe seen such turmoil and confusion. As for the Prussian army, it had vanished. The young soldier could not believe it. A few weeks before he had marched with that brilliant army, singing songs, and certain of victory.

"And the Emperor?" his face flushed with hatred.

Then Hans told him how, on the day after Jena, Napoleon had marched into Weimar.

"Our good Duchess had remained," he said, "all the day of Jena, and the next morning she opened her doors to Weimar families and any English strangers. There was nothing to eat, and all Her Highness had was a cake of chocolate she found hid beneath a cushion. Towards evening of the day of the battles—I have been told, sir, it was awful!—the French rushed in, pursuing the Prussians. It was terrible. The soldiers slew each other in the streets, the pavements ran blood, the French fell on the wine and beer, and, not knowing what they did, they set fire to the houses near the castle, and the French officers quartered themselves on the Duchess. She alone, sir, remained calm. We have heard how she waited that second evening at the head of the stairs for Napoleon. When he arrived she advanced to meet him, greeting him with politeness. 'Who are you?' he cried, like a peasant."

"The upstart!" muttered the young lieutenant.

"'I am the Duchess of Weimar,' our lady told him," continued Hans, his voice thrilling with pride at Her Highness's bravery. "'I pity you,' said Napoleon, 'for I must crush your husband. Where is he?' 'At his post of duty,' our Duchess, sir, told him. She is a brave lady, sir, and it's a pity, a dreadful pity, that many of our soldiers are not like her. Pardon me, sir, but the doings of our army have been dreadful."

Then he told all the rest he had been told: how Count Philip de Segur had come in the dawn to report to Napoleon all the events of the night, and when he had told him that they had failed in their attempt to capture the Queen of Prussia, Napoleon had said: "Ah, that would have been well done, for she has caused the war."

"That is false," cried the lieutenant, his face flushing. "Our Queen was in Pyrmont for her illness caused by the death of little Prince Ferdinand, and it was decided upon before her return. How dare Napoleon——"

"The Emperor of the French dares anything," and Hans shrugged his old shoulders. He had heard, too, but he had no idea how true it was, that Napoleon had written the Empress Josephine, who was then in Paris, that it would have pleased him much had he captured Queen Louisa.

"And why?" asked the soldier, "why should the Emperor hate so gentle a lady?"

Hans shook his head.

"One is good, the other is bad. From the beginning of things, sir, the pastors tell us in church, there's been war between good and evil, nicht wahr?"

The soldier nodded.

"I suppose so," he said.

Then he heard the rest about the Duchess of Weimar.

The Emperor of the French could not praise her enough.

Next morning he had breakfasted with her. "Madame," he asked, "how could your husband be so mad as to make war upon me?" "My husband," said the Duchess, "has been in the service of the King of Prussia for more than thirty years, and, certainly, it was not at the moment when the King had so formidable an enemy as your Majesty that the Duke could abandon him."

The Emperor was so pleased with her brave answer that his manner changed at once. His tone became respectful and he made her a bow. "Madame," he said, "you are the most sensible woman whom I ever have known. You have saved your husband. I pardon him, but entirely on your account. As for him, he is a good-for-nothing."

Then he talked much more with the Duchess, and at her request ordered all the disorder to be stopped in the town, and everywhere that he went he praised her conduct.

"And we have one comfort," Hans told the soldier. "The Duke, our Duke, Herr Lieutenant, alone remained firm, the Prince of Orange standing with him. They, sir, made an orderly retreat to Erfurt, but," he shrugged his broad shoulders, "their bravery counted as nothing."

Hans was a different man since the death of his daughter. He had but one thought, and that was hatred of the French and of Napoleon. When he walked now, his head hung low. He had no longer cheery words for the people he met with, but a gruff good-day and then no more speaking.

Only to the soldier was he talkative. There was something about the pleasant-faced lieutenant which brought back the old Hans; each day the young fellow grew dearer. Still, even he felt that Hans had his secrets. He came and went in strange ways, and often after nightfall.

One morning, when the frost was white on the grass and the leaves of the low shrubs were touched with silver, the old man started out as usual. There were still French at Jena, though Napoleon with the army had marched away towards Berlin. Bettina was with the soldier, who was up now, and hoped soon to try and join the army.

He and the little girl were great friends. He had told her how that he had three sisters, the oldest, very pretty and named Marianne, and the other two, Ilse and Elsa, were twins, round, jolly and so alike there was no telling them apart unless they spoke, when you knew Ilse because of the shape of one tooth. He had three brothers, Wolfgang, Otto, and little Carl.

"And our home, dear little Bettina, is called the Stork's Nest," he told her, "because my father is Professor von Stork, and the real stork has brought my mother so many babies."

Bettina was delighted at this and asked many questions about Marianne, who was so pretty, and read so many books, and Ilse and Elsa, who were always in mischief, fooling everybody about which was which and trying to do everything that their brothers did.

But the one of this family in whom Bettina took the most interest was little Carl, who had such red cheeks, almost white hair, and blue eyes like saucers.

The reason of this was a story the soldier told her.

One day, he said, his mother was taking her nap after dinner. Before she shut her door she told little Carl, who then was six, to go and stay with his big sister, Marianne. But Marianne was reading a famous book by the great poet, Goethe, called "The Sorrows of Werther," and she told Carl to run away and let her alone.

He did run away, and so far that not a soul could find him.

All the home was in the wildest confusion, Madame von Stork wringing her hands, scolding Marianne, and telling her that it was all her fault, because she would read books, write letters and poems; Mademoiselle Pauline, a young French girl who lived with them, searching everywhere and assuring his mother that Marianne was perfectly useless since she had been to Frankfort-on-Main, formed a friendship with Bettina Brentano and taken to adoring Goethe; the boys racing everywhere; and the good, calm father trying to quiet everybody.

At last Ilse and Elsa had screamed that Carl was coming, and in he walked with the prettiest story you can think of.

He had run away to the Thiergarten, a great, fine park in Berlin, and there had found some boys who had asked him to play horse.

One had reins and quickly harnessed Carl for his steed.

Then off he had pranced, up and down the avenues, until, with a snap, pop had gone the reins.

"A run-away! A run-away!" called the boys, as off had run Carl.

Faster came the drivers and faster ran the horse until, bump, he landed with his head right into a lady.

"You naughty child—you——" began one voice, an old one, when a second—it belonged to the lady who had been bumped—interrupted:

"Please, dear friend, be quiet. Let him alone. Boys will be wild," and she smiled at her companion, a bright-eyed old lady with white hair.

Then she asked Carl his name, told him she had heard of his father, and then she patted one round cheek, kissed him on the other, and said, "Run away, little son, and carry a beautiful greeting to your parents."

"And who was she?" cried Bettina, when the lieutenant first told her.

"Guess," said the soldier, smiling mischievously.

Bettina shook her little head.

"The Queen," said the Herr Lieutenant, and then roared when he saw how surprised Bettina was.

She and her friend, the Countess von Voss, had been walking in the park like any other ladies, and Carl had run into her.

Bettina wanted to know everything.

Was Carl scolded for running off? Was he proud? And how had his mother liked it?

His mother certainly had been much pleased at such an honour to Carl, and, as for the little rascal, he could talk of nothing else, but most certainly he was scolded.

"But nothing did him the least good until his sister Marianne had told him that Pauline would write a little letter in French to Bonaparte, and if he ran away again the Emperor would come and get him."

Bettina shuddered. She could quite believe that Carl never had run away again.

"He is a great boy now," said the Herr Lieutenant. "This happened two years ago."

"I have seen the Queen, too," confided Bettina, and she told him all about the day at the inn, and about Napoleon, and her mother, whom she missed so. Night after night she wept herself to sleep under her feather bed, poor little Bettina.

"Oh, dear Herr Lieutenant," she said, "why did not the ravens wake the Kaiser Barbarossa?"

"Perhaps they will some day," he answered, smiling.

"Do you think, gracious Herr Lieutenant," she asked on the day when Hans had departed so secretly, "that the wicked Emperor will get the dear, lovely Queen?"

The soldier shook his head.

"No, no, little Bettina, the good God must save her, for she is so good and kind to everybody."

Then Bettina came quite close to him, her doll in her arms. Her little dress was no longer bright red. Frau Schmelze and her grandmother had made her one of black.

"Herr Lieutenant," she began.

"Ja, little Bettina."

"I saw a raven to-day."

The young officer laughed.

"So," he said, "so?"

"I think, gracious Herr Lieutenant," and Bettina smiled, "I will run out to the garden, and if I see a raven now, I will give him a message to Barbarossa. He did not wake for my mother," her lips quivered, "but then, Herr Lieutenant, there was no time to send him a message. If I see a raven now, I will call out loud and off he will fly to the cave of Barbarossa."

"Put some salt on his tail, Bettina," said the Herr Lieutenant, "then he will sit quite still and listen until he knows the message."

Bettina trotted off and begged salt of Minna Schneiderwint. Then she ran into the frosty garden to watch for the raven.

At the gate she saw French soldiers. Without a word in they marched and came forth again with the Herr Lieutenant in the midst of them.

"Adieu, dear Bettina, adieu," he cried. "I am a prisoner. Tell your grandfather and thank him for his goodness."

"Auf wiedersehen," Bettina flew to him, her face all alarm.

But the soldier shook his head.

"Adieu, dear Bettina, adieu, I am not likely again to see you or your grandfather." Then he put his well arm about her and kissed her.

"Come, come," cried the soldiers, and off they marched into the forest along the path away from Jena.

Bettina ran into the house, her little body shaken with sobs.

Everybody she loved the wicked Emperor took away, her mother, her father, and now the Herr Lieutenant. Oh, if she only had a wand as in the fairy tales, she would change him into a great black stone, or some cruel animal.

In came Minna Schneiderwint, wringing her hands and sobbing, "The dear, gracious Herr Lieutenant! What will Herr Lange say when he hears of it? Ach Gott! Ach Gott! What a monster is Napoleon!"

Hans, returning, found Bettina still weeping.

"Liebchen," he said, after he had heard the story, "we, too, are going on a journey." Then he told her to say nothing to Minna Schneiderwint, but to help make up a bundle to travel with.

Not a soul, he said, must know a word of their going.

Bettina did as he told her, though the tears came to her eyes when she heard that she was not to say good-bye to Hans, or the baby, or her godmother, Frau Schmelze, or Wilhelm.

Her grandfather Weyland she did not mind not seeing, but she would like to kiss her grandmother.

"Nein, nein," said old Hans, "it is all a great secret."

"And when shall we come back, dear grandfather?" Bettina felt, indeed, as if Napoleon was her enemy, for now she was to lose everybody but her grandfather.

"When the Emperor is conquered," said old Hans, and his brow darkened, "we shall come back to Thuringia."

Then he took off Bettina's dress, and between the lining and the material of the waist he placed a letter.

"Tell no one," he said, "or I shall punish you."

Then, when Minna Schneiderwint had gone home in the afternoon, he fed all the animals, locked the door, and wrapped the key in paper.

"Come, Bettina," he said, and off they started, the old man with his gloomy face, the bundle on his back, a stick in his hand, Bettina in her black clothes and carrying some sausage and bread for supper.

On the road they came upon four boys at play.

"Walter!" Hans called, "come here."

One left the game and listened.

"Take this package for me to Herr Leo," said Hans, "and can you remember a message?" he looked at the boy sharply.

"Ja, Herr Lange, naturally," and Walter looked indignant. He was twelve or thirteen.

"Tell him, and all who ask you, that I have gone on a journey. Bettina, here, goes with me. We will come back when the Emperor is conquered. And, see here, Walter——"

"Ja, ja, Herr Lange."

The old man gave him some money.

"Here is your pay. See that you earn it."

The boy nodded.

"And, Walter——"

"Ja wohl, Herr Lange."

"I shall not mind if you finish your game before you go to the Herr Forester."

The boy laughed.

"Do you mean it?"

Hans nodded.

"Thank you, Herr Lange," and Walter, pocketing the coin, went back to his game.

"Auf wiedersehen, Herr Lange, auf wiedersehen, Bettina, and pleasant travel."

"Auf wiedersehen," said Hans.

"Auf wiedersehen," said Bettina.

Then, breaking away, the little girl ran back, her eyes full of tears.

"Walter, dear Walter," she cried, "please, will you not take my love to my little brothers? And, Walter, please, will you not ask my dear godmother Schmelze in Jena to take a wreath to my dear mother's grave at Christmas? Please, Walter, please?"

"Ja wohl, dear Bettina, ja wohl," and the young boy patted her on the shoulder.

"And greet Willy Schmidt, and Tante Lottchen Schmelze, and, auf wiedersehen, dear Walter, and thank you."

Then she ran after old Hans, waiting impatiently. They started towards Erfurt, but, as soon as they could, Hans changed their direction.

"Where are we going, dear grandfather?" asked Bettina, surprised.

The old man hesitated.

"Would you like, Liebchen, to see the Queen again?"

Bettina's eyes glowed.

"Then say nothing to anybody, and try and keep from being tired, and perhaps we may help save the Queen from Napoleon."

"And the Herr Lieutenant, dear grandfather?"

But Hans shook his head, his face saddening.

"Nein, nein, dear child," he said, "we will not see our soldier," and he muttered something against Napoleon.

Poor little Bettina!

It would be nice to see the lovely Queen, but she knew the Herr Lieutenant, and he told her stories. Her lips began to quiver.

The old man, noticing it, held her hand closer in his.

"Nein, nein, do not cry, Liebchen," he said, "we may see the Herr Lieutenant. Who can tell? Soldiers are everywhere."

Then he taught her a story to tell if any questioned them. She had lost her parents and her grandfather was taking her to an aunt in Prussia. Their home had been burned after Jena and they had nothing to live upon. Of her little brothers, or her grandparents Weyland, she was to say nothing.

It was well the old man had been in haste to tell her these things, for even that evening they were stopped by French soldiers, who searched Hans's pockets and even his clothes, and questioned both him and Bettina.

"Nonsense," said one man when they discovered nothing, "this is not the man we want. This one speaks true. Look at his eyes. And who burdens himself with a child when out on such business?"

The others looked uncertain, one with keen black eyes and firm mouth biting his nails while he considered.

"The man answers the description." The first man looked dubious.

"Use your sense," said a third man. "The child——"

All eyes turned on Bettina.

"You have lost your father and mother?" She felt the keen black eyes reading her through and through.

At the sound of these names and at the thought that she would never again see them, her lips quivered and her eyes filled.

The man stopped quickly.

"Let them pass," he said with a shrug. "Only a fool would choose such a messenger," and he glanced with contempt at Hans, who certainly had answered stupidly, quite like a peasant, saying he knew no French, and begging them to speak in German.

"God be praised, child," he cried, when they were safe through the lines, "you have saved me. The first danger is passed." And he bent down and kissed her.

"Shall we save the Queen, grandfather?"

"Who knows?" answered Hans. Then he charged her that she must never mention that it was to her they were going. He did not tell Bettina that had the letter in her dress been found they would have shot him without discussion, and so she gazed at him in wonder when, "God be praised! God be praised!" he said over and over.

A wagon was waiting at an inn where presently they stopped. It was all very queer and puzzled Bettina, for the driver said, "The Angel," and her grandfather said, "God bless her," and without more words he lifted her in and told her to lie down on the straw and go to sleep.

They drove the whole night and it was morning when her grandfather waked her and gave her some black bread and sausage. Then they alighted and trudged all day through the forest paths, keeping off the main roads, and as they walked Bettina saw the deer in great herds coming to the open places to feed on the hay which the foresters had tied about the pine trees for their dinners, and once she saw great, gleaming, yellow eyes in some bushes.

It was only a huge black cat, but Bettina was sure that it was Waterlinde, the mother of all the witches in Germany, and who, on Walpurgis night, leads the dance on the Brocken Mountain.

"Wait, grandfather, wait!" she cried. Then she ran back to the cat.

"Waterlinde! Waterlinde!" she called, "please ride on your broomstick and get Napoleon!"

The cat raised its tail, which grew monstrous from its anger.

"Hiss!" it said, "Hiss!" Then fled into the bushes.

But Bettina was joyful.

"It will get the Emperor," she said. "It promised. Oh, grandfather, how happy I am! Waterlinde will get Napoleon!"