Finally, after much toil and trouble, and under the approving laughter of the spectators, they accomplished it.  The meat simmered in the kettle, watched by two cadets, two others turning the spit.  The work was done; the sheep was converted into soup and roast.

And because they showed themselves so industrious and cheerful, one and another of the soldiers softened their hearts and threw them a piece of bread or a canteen; and the poor boys accepted these alms thrown at them with humble gratitude, and no feeling of resentment or defiance remained in their hearts, for hunger was appeased; but appeased only for the moment—­only to encounter new sufferings, renewed hunger, fresh mockeries.  For onward, farther onward must they wander.  Every now and then one of them sank down, begging for pity and compassion.  But what cared the soldiers, who only saw in the children the impersonation of the hated enemy, to be tortured and worried to death as a sport?

More than twenty of these little cadets succumbed to the sufferings of this journey, and died miserably, forsaken and alone, on the high road; and no mother was there to close their eyes, no father to lean over them and bless them with a tear.  But over these poor martyr-children watched the love of God, and lulled them to sleep with happy dreams and gentle fancies about their distant homes, their little sister there, or the beautiful garden in which they had so often chased butterflies together.  And amidst such fancies and smiling memories they dreamed away their childish souls, beyond the grave, to a holy and happy reawakening.

* * * * *

CHAPTER V.

THE EXPLOSION.

General von Tottleben was alone in his chamber—­at least he had no visible company; but two invisible companions were there—­Care and Sorrow.  They whispered to him uncomfortable and melancholy thoughts, making his countenance serious and sad, and drawing deep and dark lines across his brow.  He was a German, and was fighting in the ranks of the enemy against his German fatherland.  Therein lay the secret of his care-worn features, the reading of the suppressed sighs; the broken, sorrowful words which he uttered, as with folded arms and bowed head he paced up and down his room.  He was a German, and loved his country, which had repaid his love with that apathy and non-appreciation that have destroyed and killed some of the greatest and noblest men of Germany; while others have taken refuge in foreign countries, to find there that recognition which was denied them at home.  General von Tottleben was only a German—­why, then, should Germany take notice of him?  Because he possessed information, talent, genius.  Germany would have appreciated these if Von Tottleben had been a foreigner; but, as unfortunately he was only a German, Germany took no notice of him, and compelled him to seek in a foreign country the road to fame and distinction.  He had gone to Russia.  There his talents had been prized and employed.  He was now a general in the Russian army, and the alliance between Russia and Austria compelled him to fight against his own country.