o encounter, his only concern was the consideration of the
affliction of the beloved being he held in his arms, should he be left
on the field of battle. The mere thought of the painful existence she
would then lead in solitude, and in the remembrance of the few days of
their bliss, unmanned him. He pressed her in his arms, as if to drive
away these agonizing ideas from his mind; he gazed with intense love
upon her endearing eye, seeking to obliterate the heart-rending
feelings of the moment; but his heart, though rent by the afflicting
struggle of separation, was inspired with hope and confidence. He at
length forced himself from her embrace.

The two knights joined the Duke at the gate leading to Cannstadt. The
night was dark, only enlivened by the dim light of the first quarter of
the moon and the host of stars. Albert observed the Duke to look
gloomy, and wrapped in deep thought. His eyes were cast down, as if to
avoid observation, and he rode on in profound silence, after he had
saluted them hastily with his hand.

There is something peculiarly solemn and striking in the night march of
an army. By day, the sun, a cheerful country, the sight of many
comrades, the change of scenery, invite the soldier to beguile time by
conversation and the merry song; and, because outward impressions
forcibly engage the attention, little is thought among them of the
object of the march, of the uncertainty of war, or of futurity, which
is veiled to no one more than to the military man. Very different is a
march by night. The hollow sound of the tread of the troops, the
regular pacing of horses, their snorting, the clatter of arms, only
break the stillness of night, whilst the mind, no longer able to dwell
on surrounding objects, impressed by these monotonous sounds, becomes
thoughtful and serious; joking and laughter cease to cheer the march,
loud talk sinks into whispering, and thought, no longer occupied with
indifferent subjects, is taken up with speculations upon what is likely
to be the result of the campaign.

Such was the complexion of the march of that night, gloomy, and
uninterrupted by any shout of animating joy. Albert rode by the side of
the old knight of Lichtenstein, occasionly casting an anxious look at
him, for he sat in his saddle as if bent down by grief, with an
expression of thoughtfulness on his countenance, more strongly marked
than he had ever noticed before. Animation seemed almost suspended, and
nothing ga