It was with feelings of the liveliest gratitude to Providence, and pride in our gallant soldiers, that I reached the city of Zaarfburg, some ten hours or so after its capitulation. A large proportion of the army corps which had so long invested it was drawn up on the plain to receive me. The remainder were occupied in the city itself, where also, at the time of my arrival, was General Groplau himself, busied with affairs of State. A more triumphal progress than I made through the cheering soldiery could scarcely be imagined; indeed, if any proof were wanting of the popularity of the return of our house to Pannonia, it might have been discovered in their enthusiasm. For the time being discipline appeared to be thrown to the winds; helmets were waved on bayonet points, salvo after salvo of cheering followed me along the line, until, at one point, it was with the utmost difficulty I could urge my horse forward, so eager were the men to press about me and to assure me of their loyalty and devotion. At last, however, we reached the bridge, the same which leads to the now famous city. What would I not have given to have had Ottilie beside me then? It was a moment to be remembered all one’s life long. As I write, the whole scene rises before my eyes. Once more I can see the old stone gateway, the long wall on either side of it, broken in one place, where Max and his storming party had made their desperate entry, and from the gateway itself General Groplau and his staff advancing to receive me. There were tears in the old man’s eyes as he came forward to welcome me in the name of the army, and an unaccustomed huskiness in his voice as he spoke the words. He had done his duty, and the pleasure of being in a position to hand me the keys of the city, whose fall it was well known would practically bring about the end of the war, was not the smallest part of his reward. Side by side we passed under the arch, and emerging into the city itself, made our way towards the Council House, which, for the time being, he had made his headquarters. Here a State Council was convened, at which many important matters connected with the capture of the city and the treatment of the prisoners were discussed. After this the various officers who had especially distinguished themselves during the siege, and also in the capture of the city that day, were presented to me.

“And now, General,” said I, this latter ceremony being at an end, “what news have you to give me of the man to whose bravery we, to all intents and purposes, owe the city? The messenger you sent to me this morning informed me that he was seriously wounded, and that the gravest doubts were entertained as to his recovery.”

“I regret having to inform your Royal Highness that the man’s condition is desperate in the extreme,” the general replied. “He now lies in the house to which he was conveyed immediately after he was discovered. All that is possible has been done, but I fear without avail. His condition was hopeless from the first.”

“Pray take me to him,” I said, “in order that I may thank him for the service he has rendered his king and country. Since his condition is so dangerous, it would be inadvisable to postpone the matter for any length of time. Let us, therefore, set off at once.”

So saying, we left the Council Hall, and made our way towards the house to which the dying man had been carried. There is nothing in this world presents a sadder picture, I think, than a city a few hours after it has been captured by the enemy. While the actual fighting continues there is an excitement which relieves the tension, but when all is over, and nothing more remains to be done, its condition is pitiable in the extreme. Traces of the recent struggle were to be observed on every hand. Half-starved men, women, and children wandered aimlessly about the streets, patrols marched by continually with prisoners; here and there were bodies of dead men, which the bearers had not yet had time to collect and remove; while the guns, which had wrought such havoc on the little band who had first entered the city and seized the main gate, still stood in the place to which they had been dragged, bearing eloquent testimony to the heroism which had conveyed them thither. At last we reached the house for which we were making. It was the residence of one Jacob Hertz, a watchmaker, whom, when we entered, we found seated on his bench, as deeply immersed in his work as if there had been no such thing as war, and nothing worth attending to in life save the mechanism of the chroniclers of time on the shelf beside him. It was not until later that we learnt that his wife and daughter had died during the siege, and that his only remaining son had been killed that morning in the attack upon the gate. Providence, more merciful than man, had deprived him of his senses, and thus his misery sat more lightly upon him than others. I made it my business, when everything was settled, in memory of the brother I loved so well, to provide for his remaining days. It was reported to me, however, that my action, well intended though it was, was of small avail, for he took no interest in anything save his business, remaining to the end an eloquent, though a by no means solitary, witness of one of the most sanguinary struggles this nineteenth century has seen.

A messenger had previously informed the doctor in charge of the sick man of our coming, and that official now waited upon us. Groplau presented him to me, and I inquired the condition of his patient.

“I fear it is a hopeless case,” he answered, shaking his head, “’Tis a wonder indeed that he is alive now to see your Highness. All that science can do has been done for him, and now I think it would be more charitable to allow him to reach the end without subjecting him to any further torture.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” I said. “It certainly seems hard that he should not live to reap the reward of his bravery. By the way, have you any idea of his history? General Groplau informs me that some time since, when he offered him a commission, he declined the honour for reasons of his own. I should like to know all you can tell me concerning him, that I may help him if possible.”

“I can tell your Highness nothing,” the doctor replied. “From what I know of him, he is a very reserved fellow, and though his comrades have for a long time regarded him as a hero, and would do anything for him, he has only one friend, an Englishman, who is in the room with him now, and who seldom leaves his side.”

“An Englishman?” I said, with some surprise. “That is strange. The man himself is, of course, a Pannonian?”

“Without a doubt,” the doctor replied. “But since he converses fluently in English with his friend, I should say it is probable that he has spent some considerable time in that country.”

Fearing to waste more time, I bade the doctor conduct me to the dying man’s room. How little did I dream the discovery I was to make there!

The chamber was situated on the first floor, and looked out upon the street. When I entered the room, a private soldier was bending over the bed, smoothing the pillow beneath the dying man’s head. His figure came between us, and for this reason the other’s face was hidden from me. The doctor advanced to the bedside, and felt the man’s pulse.

“My friend,” said he, “let me tell you that you are the recipient of a great honour. His Royal Highness the Prince Regent has paid you the compliment of coming himself to see you.”

The man did not answer, but, knowing all that I do now, I can well understand the struggle that was going on within his breast. Then I advanced to the bedside.

“My man,” I said, “it is seldom one hears of such bravery as yours. Your general has told me everything, and I have come to thank you in the name of your

I had progressed no further than this when I stopped suddenly. A fear such as I had never known in my life before had taken possession of me, rendering me speechless and almost paralysed. No, it could not be true! It was impossible that such a thing could be even thought of. Scarcely daring to trust the evidence of my eyes, I looked again. No, there could be no doubt of it, no doubt at all. The man lying upon the bed before me was none other than Max, Max my brother, the man for whom I had searched throughout the world. With a cry that came from my heart I threw myself beside the bed and took his hand in mine.

“Max! Max!” I cried, regardless of the people standing by, “have I found you at last? At last, Max, at last?”

“At last, Paul,” he answered, with a curious smile upon his face. “Yes, you have found me at last.”

I could not utter another word, but repeated his name again and again. I had found him, the man for whom I had searched so long, and whom I had scarcely even dared to hope to see again. Yes, it was quite true that I had found him, but in what a state! Mad, indeed, had I been not to have looked for him in the ranks of Pannonia’s army. I might have known that when she called he would not be the last to answer. And yet to think of him as he was now.

“Max,” I faltered, “why did you not let me know you were here?”

“Because you would have sought me out,” he answered. “Believe me, Paul, it is far better as it is. I have no regrets. I have fought for you and for her, and that makes me quite happy.”

“You do not know how we have loved you, or how we have searched for you,” I said; “and to meet like this! Oh, Max! it is more than I can bear.”

At this point the doctor came forward and examined him. I glanced anxiously at the former’s face, but what I saw there was not calculated to reassure me. I accordingly drew him on one side.

“Tell me frankly,” I said, “is his condition quite hopeless?”

“Quite,” he replied. “It is marvellous that he has lingered for so long.”

“You are quite sure that nothing can be done for him? Remember that he is the King!”

“I regret having to say that nothing more can be done,” said the doctor, visibly moved at my distress.

I turned to Groplau, who was standing at the foot of the bed.

“General,” I said, “unknown to you, it was your King who won for you the city.”

The general came forward and dropped upon his knee.

“Oh, if your Majesty had only told me!” he said; “if only I had not been so blind!”

“So blind?” asked Max, as if he did not quite understand what the other implied.

“Yes, so blind,” the general continued. “Ever since that day on which I offered you the commission, your face has haunted me. I felt sure I had seen it before, but I could not tell where. I did not think of the days when you were a little boy, and played with my sword. If only I had known, how different things would have been!”

“I would rather have them as they are,” said Max feebly. “’Tis better so, believe me. If I had to live my life again, I would not omit this portion of it for anything. And now leave me alone with my brother. Something tells me we shall not have much more time together.”

The others did as he commanded, and when the door was closed upon them once more, I took my place at his side. He took my hand in his, and his dark eyes looked lovingly upon me.

“Paul,” he said, “that old gipsy woman was right after all when she inferred that you would be King. My dear old brother, don’t think I grudge you the honour. Heaven knows I do not. You will make a better king that I should ever have done. I have never even been able to rule myself; how much less, then, should I have been able to rule others? And now tell me of yourself. There is not much time to waste. Our mother and father are dead?”

“Yes,” I answered; “and they died loving you and speaking of you to the last.”

“And Ottilie?”

“She loves you too,” I replied. “She has encouraged me in my search for you, and will be stricken with grief when she hears that I have found you too late.”

Here I broke down altogether, and sobbed with my head upon my hands.

“My dear old fellow,” said Max, stroking my hair, “you must not give way like this. There is nothing to be sorry for. I have fought for my country, and have given my life for her, as so many thousands of other men have done. Fate has played with me all my life, but in death she is kinder than she has ever been before.”

There was another short pause, during which I knelt beside him, his hand resting upon my shoulder. Never in my life before had I suffered such agony as I did then. Max, on the other hand, was quite calm; he spoke of our father and mother; later, of our country and her future.

“Please God, happier days are in store for her,” he said. “You will make a good king, Paul, and under your rule she will prosper as she has not done for years past. Ottilie will make you a noble queen, and together you will win the love and admiration of your people. I should have liked to see you happy together.”

At this I again broke down completely.

“Oh, Max!” I faltered, “do not talk of us. What will anything mean to Ottilie and myself when we have lost you?”

As I spoke I thought of our boyhood, of the old, happy days in Pannonia, when we had been such firm and dear companions. I could recall nothing in Max’s character that was not self-sacrificing, and to think that his life should end like this! I took his hand and held it tenderly in mine. Oh, why could I not give my life for his, and thus draw him back from that dark land into which he was so swiftly passing? That the end was very near there could be no doubt. Once more opening his eyes, which had remained closed for upwards of a minute, he whispered to me that he would like to bid farewell to the general and to the man who had been his companion in so many strange places and under such different circumstances. Accordingly, I went to the door and called them in. Groplau was the first to advance towards the bed. The old man was genuinely affected. Max looked up at him and gave him his hand. Not a word passed between them; indeed, speech was unnecessary. There was a long silence, a hand-grip, and then Groplau stepped back, and Bertram, the Englishman, took his place. He made no attempt to conceal his grief. “Good-bye,” said Max. “You have been a good friend to me, Bertram; be as faithful to my brother. It is my wish that you should serve him. God bless you both!”

Bertram tried to speak, but his voice failed him, and he turned away with the tears streaming down his face. Then Max looked at me, and I went to him again.

“Paul,” he said, but so feebly that I could scarcely hear the words, “it is very near now. God bless you, Paul. Kiss me, dear old brother; we’ve been

Stooping, I kissed him on the forehead, on which the dews of death were quickly gathering.

Then, softly as a tired child, he fell asleep.

Maximilian, the uncrowned King of Pannonia, was dead!