IN the streets of London, about this time, might be seen two sunburnt Tyrolese, rather bewildered at the strange sights and sounds around them, accompanying an Englishman to Lord Sidmouth's office.

Their names were MÜller and Schonecher: their errand was soon told, in earnest, homely phrase. England was the home of the free. England was rich and sympathetic; the Tyrolese were fighting for liberty, but they were poor; they could not even muster enough money to buy gunpowder for their rifles. The present lull could not be expected to last long, for the enemy were already marching on South Tyrol. Would not generous England help them?

Of course such a question as this roused the British soul; and the deputies were received as we are wont to receive the latest comers, with hospitality and distinction. They were feasted, they were praised, they were encouraged; but—nothing more was done for them. People sated their eyes with gazing at them, their ears with hearing them, and then—one man went to his farm, another to his merchandise; saying Government should take it up; and Government said it was dangerous, and thought it had better be done by private subscription. And so, nothing was done at the time; and when the grant of thirty thousand pounds was afterwards announced to them by Lord Sidmouth, it was too late—the war was ended.

The war burst out afresh in October. General Peyri, at the head of six thousand men, advanced upon Trent, summoning the Tyrolese to lay down arms. Twelve hundred Tyrolese and Austrians met his advanced guard at Ampezzo, and were repulsed with great loss. A sharp action took place at Lavis, in which the French were victors, and many Tyrolese fell; but they rallied under Eisenstecken, who drove the enemy back to Trent, and re-occupied Lavis for some time.

A dismal reverse awaited Speckbacher in the pass of Strub, where he was completely defeated, with the loss of three hundred brave men. His dear little boy, now just eleven, was hanging over him as he lay terribly wounded on the field, and trying to suppress the large tears that blinded him, while he made a kind of turniquet for his father with his twisted handkerchief, when a French soldier came up, and laid his hand on the little fellow's shoulder.

"Ah, cruel!" cried Speckbacher, half starting up on his elbow, and sinking back again as the blood welled from his wounds. "Spare my child!"

"Il faut Étrangler les petits louveteaux," replied the captor hoarsely; and unaware of the value of the wolf he was leaving behind him, while he dragged away its young.

Speckbacher groaned, and closed his eyes. "Maria!" faintly murmured he—that name, so sacred to a Catholic, made him feel for his crucifix. He pressed it to his lips, but could not utter even "ora"—hollow sounds, like the humming of innumerable bees, rang in his ears; he became insensible.

When consciousness was restored, he found himself in his own dear home, with Maria ministering to him. Directly she saw him recognise her, she began to shed tears; but, like a brave woman as she was, dashed them away.

"Where's Anderl?" asked Speckbacher faintly.

"I don't know, dear—hanging about somewhere, looking after you—he will soon find where you are, rely upon it."

Speckbacher could not; he knew more of his fate than she did, but said nothing. What a heavy day it was to him! He mourned for himself, he mourned for the men he had lost, he mourned for his country, and he mourned for his dear little boy, marching to a French prison. He could talk to his wife of all but the last, but she would not let him—he was weak from loss of blood, and she insisted on his silence, and on his hearing her talk to him.

She told him that the Tyrolese, as soon as they saw him cut down, without being able to rescue him, retreated in disorder to the heights of Melek, from whence they afterwards fell back to Innsbruck, fighting as they went; that Rudolf had found him lying insensible, and borne him off the field, and that Father Joachim had bound up his wounds, and sent him home in a bÄndl (or low cart on two fore-wheels), well cushioned with trusses of straw, and in charge of two men.

When Speckbacher saw her performing her various little domestic duties thoughtfully, yet cheerfully, and then remembered Anderl, his heart sank within him.

Maria could not account for the nervous fever that consumed him. His wounds were well dressed, and she thought he ought to be doing better than he was.

The next morning, after a dreamy, light-headed night, Speckbacher, in a half stupor, heard, or seemed to hear, a voice, a little way from the cottage, somewhere about the stables, say cheerily—

"Hallo! here I am!"

"So I see," grumbled, or seemed to grumble, Zoppel, in return; "what account hast thou to give of thyself?"

"I've been taken prisoner, and run away. Does any one know anything of father?"

"Ay, surely; he's ill in bed, as bad as can be."

"Oh, how glad I am that he's at home! I left him all in a bath of blood. Zoppel!" (in an eager, under-voice,) "has mother fretted much about me?"

"How should she? She never wist harm had come nigh thee."

"Heaven be praised! Father, then, did not tell her! then, I'll not, Zoppel. I'm so hungry."

"Go in-doors, boy, bless thee, and get something to eat."

"I think I must." And Speckbacher, whose hearing was quickened by fever, presently could distinguish the boy's stealthy footsteps in the adjoining room. Meanwhile, his wife, waking, and leaning over him to peer into his face, and see how he fared, perceived a bright smile on his lips, though his eyes were shut.

"You're shamming," said she cheerfully; "what art smiling so about, Speckbacher?"

"Thoughts of my own," said he, smiling still.

"Come! tell me."

"Look into the kitchen, Maria; I think Anderl has come back."

"Ah, the young rogue, trust him for that!"

She did not dress one bit the faster; and, when she entered the kitchen, greeted her boy just as usual. He sprang in to his father, gave him a bright, intelligent look, kissed him, and then laid his head beside him on the pillow.

"Mother knows nothing," whispered he. "How capital of you, father! Are you getting better?"

"Yes, dear boy: now you are come home, I shall get well very fast."

He did get well very fast; and was soon up and doing, fighting with the enemy at Waldrung, where he nearly fell into their hands.

The overwhelming force of France and Bavaria was dispersing the Tyrolese in every quarter. In the midst of this struggle, in which the mountaineers were so willingly pouring out their life-blood, Austria concluded a treaty of peace with France, and the Tyrol was made over to Bavaria!

Conceive the feelings with which a revolted slave, escaped back to his native chieftain, would find himself consigned by him to the slave-dealer again! Conceive, moreover, that the native chief had, in the first instance, hired the slave to return to him, and had openly or secretly encouraged him all along!

EugÈne Beauharnois published a manifesto, promising the Tyrolese pardon and peace if they would immediately lay down their arms. In consequence of this, many hundreds of peasants, stunned at their fate, submitted at once, while those who still continued in arms were bereft of spirit and hope.

Hofer, for a few days, was paralysed. He left Innsbruck, now nearly deserted by his men, and returned to the Passeyrthal, to consider what was to be done in this strait.

As he approached am Sand by the little winding road among meadows that nearly passes the church, he heard a loved voice on the other side of the hedge; and another, neither loved nor lovely, but of unpleasant quality, alternating with it. They were not close to him, but drawing nearer, and every word, through the clear air, was distinguishable.

"I don't think so, father."

"You will find it so, daughter. And if Hofer has any sense in his head, he will do as I say. It is decreed by Providence that the French shall be victorious; and if he opposes that decree, he will find himself knocking his head against a stone wall. He might even do this and welcome, if his own head only were concerned; but when his refusing to lay down arms, or to call on his countrymen to do so, compromises their safety, it is nothing short of selfish cruelty."

"Can it be so?" thought Hofer, pressing his hand to his brow, in painful reflection, as the voices now retired from him. He sat down under the hedge to try to settle his mind; but he could not. While thus sadly engaged, his faithful dog flew up to him, and leaping gladly upon him, prevented him from further reflection; so he rose and walked towards am Sand. Just outside the house stood Theresa, and the companion he had heard talking with her, a priest,—of a very different sort from Father Joachim. This man, with whom Hofer had had some previous acquaintance, had a narrow brow, a cunning eye, and something subtle in his gait and voice. As for Theresa, it could be seen by a very slight motion of the back of her neck, that she was displeased with him, and would not assent to what he said.

"Ah! here's father!" joyfully exclaimed she, as she turned round and saw Hofer. Running to embrace him, she hastily whispered into his ear, "Here is a tiresome, cunning French priest, who wants to unsettle us all."

Hofer's reverence for the church made him give a respectful reception to Father Donay, who, while supper was preparing, drew him into the gallery running round the first floor of the house, and there talked to him long and earnestly.

"Is the soup nearly ready, mother?" said Theresa impatiently.

"Nearly, child."

"Then I shall call them in, for it will be quite ready by the time they are seated, and I don't like that priest to talk to my father. He's a bad one!"

"Hush, child!—"

"He is, mother, I can tell you.—Father! supper's ready!—"

Hofer came in, looking gloomy, and began unlacing his boots, saying his feet had swollen. Theresa drew off his boots, and tenderly chafed his ankles. There was a subdued, glittering light in the priest's stealthy eye.

"Thou hast lost thy relish, may be, Anderl, for country bread and cheese," said Anna, smiling.

"When I do, I hope the first mouthful of it will choke me," returned the Sandwirth, vehemently cutting up the loaf in huge slices.

"Cincinnatus, returned to his plough," observed Father Donay ironically.

"I don't know aught of Saint Senatus," remarked Anna, after a moment's thought; "is he in our calendar, father?"

"No, my good woman,—no, daughter, no—A good Roman—"

"That's to say a good Catholic, I suppose," said Anna: but the priest did not answer her—his mouth was full of soup.

Hofer could not get on with his bread and cheese. He sank sorrowfully back in his chair, and covered his eyes with his hand.

"Take courage, son," said Father Donay; "consider what a noble sacrifice thou art about to make—"

"What sacrifice?" cried Anna hastily.

"The sacrifice of his will, daughter; the hardest sacrifice man or woman can make."

"Something more than that," groaned Hofer.

"What's that?" cried Anna sharply. "Your will was always a good one—why should you give it up?"

"For the good of all—Hist, dear; these are not women's affairs—"

"No, no, better change the subject," said Father Donay.—"Tell me the meaning of those targets on the wall."

"Boys' playthings, of old, father," said Hofer sadly. "Dangerous ones, too."

During Father Donay's short stay at am Sand, he never ceased urging on his host the imperative duty, as a Christian patriot, of sacrificing his own views, interests, and safety to the safety of his countrymen; and even to place himself in the hands of General Drouet.

Regulus could not have been more willing than Hofer was to devote himself for the common cause; and, with his judgment obscured by Jesuitical casuistry, he drew up a proclamation to his countrymen, advising them to lay down their arms, and consider their cause as lost.

The proclamation was received with despair by Speckbacher; with disgust by a Tyrolese named Kolb. He, meeting the Sandwirth near Sterzing, whither he had accompanied Father Donay, and where the unfortunate proclamation had been penned, hotly remonstrated with him, and declared his conviction that the document which contained the intelligence of the peace was a forgery. Hofer was confounded, and hastened home to re-digest his thoughts; while Kolb proceeded industriously to spread the impression of the forgery among the other chiefs.

Speckbacher and Rudolf were at am Sand, impatiently awaiting him.

"My friend, what is this you have done?" said Speckbacher. "You have given boldness to the vile and base, and discouraged those who were ready to die for their country. It matters little whether we and our weapon-brothers live a few years longer, but it matters a good deal whether their descendants, generation after generation, shall be freemen or slaves. You say, 'We cannot maintain war against the invincible forces of Napoleon.' Who made them so, pray? In the majority of instances we have not found them invincible, as long as we had powder and bullets. 'Entirely abandoned by Austria,'—why, so we have been all the summer, but what success we have had! 'A power of a superior order guides the footsteps of Napoleon.' O Hofer, Hofer! that you should write that! It smacks of Father Donay, certainly. 'It is the immutable decree of Divine Providence which decides victories and the condition of states.' Doubtless it is, in a large way of speaking; but Divine Providence takes into account the actions of men possessed of free will, which it foresees, but does not prevent. And as we have free will, if those wills are bent on freeing the land, under the blessing of God, from its enemies, doubtless it will be freed!"

"Speckbacher, you make my heart burn!"

"Let it burn, Anderl. Take up your pen and write something better—something that will rejoice us."

"I hoped to do this from the first, but feared to bring the blood of my countrymen on my head—"

"Your countrymen are ready to shed it,—not on your head. Your cause is the cause of all."

"You are sure I am justified."

"Certain. Write!"

Hofer sat down, flushing deeply; and wrote quickly. The next day the following proclamation was dispersed among the Tyrolese. Many wept over it; many rejoiced.

"I felt inclined to lay down my arms, prevailed upon by men whom I considered friends to my country, but who, as I now have reason to suppose, are its enemies: I therefore call on you, brethren, to rejoin me. Were we to surrender to the enemy, we should soon see the youth of the Tyrol dragged away from their homes, our churches and convents destroyed, divine worship abolished, and ourselves overwhelmed with lasting misery. Fight, therefore, in defence of your native country; I shall fight with you and for you, as a father for his children."

The Tyrolese rose to arms immediately, and the enemy was defeated with great loss. Generals Rusca and Baraguay d'Hilliers were despatched into the Pustherthal on the third of November, and on the following day were gallantly encountered by the Tyrolese, who were, however, driven back. Rusca eagerly pursued them to Mulbach Clause, where he met with most determined resistance; and, in his endeavour to penetrate into Hofer's own valley,—the Passeyrthal,—he was repulsed with the loss of two thousand men, in killed, wounded, and prisoners.

This warfare raged throughout the month of November, with various success; but the conquest of the country became inevitable, though the peasantry might retain possession of particular passes and fastnesses.

Early in December, the struggle was over. The peasantry were scattered; Father Joachim had escaped to the Grisons; Peter Mayer was shot; Speckbacher, who was the last to lay down arms, found himself deserted; Hofer had disappeared.