Hans Eitelfritz promised Adam to tell no one what had become of his son, and then returned to his men.  The next morning the mutineers from Aalst sought their fallen leader; but he had disappeared, and the legend now became wide-spread among them, that the Prince of Evil had carried Navarrete to his own abode.  The dog Lelaps died of his wound, and scarcely a week after the pillage of flourishing Antwerp by the “Spanish Furies,” Hans Eitelfritz’s regiment was ordered to Ghent.  He came with drooping head to the smithy, to take his leave.  He had sold his costly booty, and, like so many other pillagers, gambled away the stolen property at the exchange.  Nothing was left him of the great day in Antwerp, except the silver toys for his sister’s children in Colln on the Spree.

CHAPTER XXXI.

The fire in the smithy was extinguished, no hammer fell on the anvil; for the wounded man lay in a burning fever; every loud noise disturbed him.  Adam had noticed this himself, and gave no time to his work, for he had to assist in nursing his son, when it was necessary to raise his heavy body, and to relieve Ruth, when, after long night-watches, her vigorous strength was exhausted.

The old man saw that the girl’s bands were more deft than his own toil-hardened ones, and let her take the principal charge-but the hours when she was resting in her room were the dearest to him, for then he was alone with Ulrich, could read his countenance undisturbed and rejoice in gazing at every feature, which reminded him of his child’s boyhood and of Flora.

He often pressed his bearded lips to the invalid’s burning forehead or limp hand, and when the physician with an anxious face had left the house, he knelt beside Ulrich’s couch, buried his forehead among the pillows, and fervently prayed the Heavenly Father, to spare his child and take in exchange his own life and all that he possessed.

He often thought the end had come, and gave himself up without resistance to his grief; Ruth, on the contrary, never lost hope, not even in the darkest hours.  God had not let her find Ulrich, merely to take him from her again.  The end of danger was to her the beginning of deliverance.  When he recognized her the first time, she already saw him, leaning on her shoulder, walk through the room; when he could raise himself, she thought him cured.

Her heart was overflowing with joy, yet her mind remained watchful and thoughtful during the long, toilsome nursing.  She did not forget the smallest trifle, for before she undertook anything she saw in her mind every detail involved, as if it were already completed.  Ulrich took no food which she had not prepared with her own hand, no drink which she had not herself brought from the cellar or the well.  She perceived in advance what disturbed him, what pleased him, what he needed.  If she opened or closed the curtain, she gave or withheld no more light than was agreeable to him; if she arranged the pillows behind him, she placed them neither too high nor too low, and bound up his wounds with a gentle yet firm hand, like an experienced physician.  Whatever he felt—­pain or comfort—­she experienced with him.