"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--