THE hours of the 24th of August wore wearily by in Nuremberg. It was not the first Day of St. Bartholomew marked by great events and by bitter and widespread agonies. The anxious citizens listened, trembling, to the roar of the cannon, which continued without intermission the whole day long. “Nothing like this was ever heard before,” men whispered each to other. Messengers, who came and went continually to and from the scene of action, brought tidings of the terrible attack the Swedes had made upon the stronghold of Altenberg, and told that all around the eminence upon which it stood there was raging a conflict unexampled for its fury, its carnage, and its obstinacy.
Not much work of any kind was done in Nuremberg that day. The ladies of the Labeling Haus sat together, watching breathlessly for the news brought them from time to time by the baron, or by other friends; sometimes discussing what they heard with eagerness, but more often relapsing into the dreary silence of suspense. Even the busy hands of Jeanie hung down idly that day.
Beside the anxiety common to all, she had her uncle to tremble for, and she knew him to be in the very hottest of the fight. And was there not also the young volunteer, whose gallant heart would all too surely carry him into danger? Fortunately Hugh at least was safe; a friend of August had accommodated him with a place on one of the towers on the wall, where he enjoyed exceptional facilities for seeing all that was going forward.
For ten weary hours there was no pause in the dreadful sounds that told of wholesale, and perhaps useless, slaughter. Night fell; but no one thought of sleep. Lights were brought, and the ladies still sat together in the room they had occupied all day. Presently Caroline von libeling, who had dropped into an uneasy slumber sitting on the floor, with her head resting against the knee of her aunt, started up suddenly with a cry of terror― “What is that?”
“That?” repeated Frau von Gunsdorf. “Why, nothing, child, but the rain, which is beating against the windows. It has been pouring in torrents for the last half-hour.”
“I thought it was the army of Wallenstein. I was so frightened.”
“You need not be frightened, dear. Has not your father told us many times that there is no real cause for alarm? Wallenstein, even if victorious (which is little likely), would scarcely venture to attack us now. Still, I am sorry for this rain. It will add, in many ways, to the miseries and horrors of the night.”
Long after midnight the baron came in thoroughly wet and very tired. His sister and daughters, while they helped to take of his dripping garments, asked eagerly for news.
“Wallenstein is still in Altenberg,” was the mournful answer. “The Swedes returned to the attack again and again, with a gallantry beyond all praise. Everything that skill unsurpassed and valor almost superhuman could accomplish was done―but done in vain.”
“Then,” said Gertrud von Savelburg,―in this instance the first to utter the thought of all,― “then Gustavus Adolphus has failed.”
“Gustavus Adolphus, for the first time since he set foot upon German soil, has not been victorious. That is all. No failure, only a check―God grant it may be but a temporary one!―in a career hitherto of unexampled triumph.”
“And our boy? Have you heard anything of him?” asked Frau von Gunsdorf.
“Our boy is safe, thank God! but his friend, Colonel Crailsham, is numbered with the dead. Fraulein Hannchen, I have news for you. Your uncle has distinguished himself highly, and has now been left for the night, with five hundred commanded musketeers, to hold against all corners the debatable ground at the foot of the castle, for the honor of the Swedish army.”
“Such a night!” sighed Jeanie.
“That is in his favor. The Imperialists are little likely to attack him, for no advantage save a punctilio of honor, and it is better to stand under rain than under fire. It is no light thing for him to know that the king has given the honor of his army into his keeping.”
“I am glad,” said Jeanie, “glad and proud of him. Thank you, Herr Baron.”
“We all have cause to be glad,” said the baron, “since those we love are safe. So let us thank God together, take the meat and drink we need after our long day's fast and watching, and go in peace to our beds, trusting in the care of Providence, which is extended alike over us and over that great army yonder in the field.”
The next day brought back August to them. His bright young face wore a grave and thoughtful look. He was sobered by this his first sight of real warfare. It was no light thing to see men go down beneath the fiery rain; and it was yet more terrible to see their faces afterward. But he told with enthusiasm how the Swedes had returned once and again to the desperate charge, what wonders of valor they had performed, and also―what was new to his hearers—how the king in person had that morning brought off in safety the commanded musketeers left on the field under Graham. Colonel Monro, whose duty it was to do this, having been wounded the day before, and looking faint and exhausted, the king sent him back to his tent, and taking the partisan out of his hand, performed the work himself, securing the retreat of the gallant little band. “Although not quite a victory,” said August, “it has still been a glorious day for Gustavus Adolphus.”
“And you?” asked his aunt, speaking much more lightly than she felt; “have you yet had enough of the sport of war?”
“The sport of war?” he repeated gravely. “If war be sport, it is the sport of demons; the sport of demons, but perhaps the work of angels. Is it not written in the Scriptures, ‘There was war in heaven, Michael and his angels fought against the Dragon’?”
“That is a mystery. It does not mean such wars as we have on earth.”
“I know it is a mystery. But whatever it means, it must mean fighting against sin and wickedness— sometime, somewhere, somehow. And that is what Gustavus Adolphus is doing here and now.”