_You_ at least did not run, and,
like true heroes, you bear your wounds on your foreheads; your mothers,
therefore, will proudly bid you welcome; your betrothed or your wives
will embrace you with rapturous tears, and your friends will be proud of
your valor."
"Does it not seem almost as though he had heard our mournful and
despondent words, and wished to comfort us?" asked Schill, turning to
the count. "His blue eyes apparently do not behold only our physical
wounds, but also those which cause our hearts to bleed, and he wishes to
apply a balm to them by his sweet, flattering words."
"He wishes to console the poor defeated, and reconcile them to their
fate," said Pueckler, nodding kindly to the youth.
"You have a better and more generous opinion of me than I deserve," he
said, sadly bowing his head so as to shake its exuberant mass of long,
fair hair. "I simply told you what I thought, and what every one who
looks at both of you will and must think."
"Would to God you spoke the truth, young man!" said Count Pueckler,
mournfully. "Believe me, however, but few will think like yourself; a
great many will rejoice at seeing us defeated and humiliated."
"Instead of bewailing us, they will deride us," exclaimed Schill;
"instead of weeping with us, they will revile us!"
"Who will dare to do so?" exclaimed the youth, in an outburst of
generous anger.
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