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Yonder, on the other side of the mountain-pass, the clear, bright winter sun lighted up the citadel which had just surrendered to the German troops.  The garrison which had occupied it were marching off prisoners of war, while a portion of the victors were already on their way to the fort.

General von Falkenried, surrounded by his staff, was standing in the market-place of the little city, and was just on the point of marching to the fortress.  The helmets and guns of the men gleamed brightly in the morning sun as they marched in solemn order toward the citadel.

General von Falkenried, who had been giving various orders, now turned to his officers and gave the signal to move forward.

At that moment a rider came dashing down the main street at a mad galop.  His noble horse was covered with sweat and froth, and his flanks were bleeding from the sharp spurs which had been pressed into his side.  The rider’s face was covered with blood, too, which evidently came from a wound in the forehead which had been hastily bound with a cloth.  As if fleeing before a storm, he heeded naught in his path, but rushed on in his mad ride toward the market-place where the commanding general was to be found.

Just a few steps from his goal the horse’s strength gave out and he fell.  But in the same instant the rider had sprung from the saddle, and hastened to the commander-in-chief.

“I come from General M——.”

Falkenried drew a sharp, quick breath; he had not recognized the blood-stained face, he only knew that the man must have come on some important mission, but the tone of the man’s voice gave him some premonition of the truth.

Hartmut swayed for a moment and put his hand to his head—­it seemed as if he, like his horse, would succumb at the last moment; but he gathered himself together for a final effort.

“It is a warning from the general—­there is treachery, the citadel is to be blown up as soon as our men are in it—­here are the dispatches.”

He tore the dispatches from his breast and handed them to Falkenried.  The officers were startled by the unexpected news, and gathered around their chief waiting the corroboration or denial of the statement just made, but a strange sight met their eyes.  Their general, who never lost his presence of mind, no matter how unexpected or how dreadful the calamity which he faced, stood gazing at the orderly as if a ghost had risen from the earth, still holding the unopened dispatches in his hand.

“Herr General, the dispatches!” said one of the adjutants, half aloud.  He understood his leader as little as did the others.  It was enough to bring Falkenried to his senses.  He tore open the dispatches and learned their contents in a second, then again he was a soldier who thought of nothing but duty.  He gave his orders in a loud, clear voice, the officers hurried hither and thither, cries of command were given, and signals sounded in every direction, and a few minutes later the division marching to the fortress was brought to a standstill, while the withdrawing garrison was also brought to a sudden halt.