Hartmut had been carried, when he fell, to a house near by, and lay unconscious on his narrow cot.  He neither saw nor heard his father, who stood with the surgeon by his side.

Falkenried looked earnestly at the pale, worn face and closed eyes, then he turned to the surgeon and said: 

“Do you consider the wound mortal?”

The physician shrugged his shoulders.

“The wound of itself is not, but the strain and excitement of that fearful ride, the loss of blood, and the terrible night—­I fear, General, there’s little hope for the brave fellow.  We must be prepared for the worst.”

“I am prepared!” said Falkenried earnestly, then he kneeled and kissed his son, whom he had only found, he feared, to lose again; as he rose two hot tears fell on the death-like face.

But the father had no time to stay by his son.  He must be up and doing.  After a few minutes he left the room, leaving repeated injunctions with the doctor not to relax his watchful care for an instant.

The General’s staff and many other officers were waiting in the market-place for their commander.  As they waited they talked of the man who had ridden through the jaws of death to save them all; none knew his name, but he had come through the mountain pass, had faced a revengeful and infuriated foe, with death on all sides, and had reached them in time.

When the general appeared they surrounded and questioned him at once concerning the brave stranger.

Falkenried had his usual earnest look, but the settled gloom of his face was gone forever, and in its stead was an expression which those around him had never seen before.  His eyes were wet, but his voice was firm and clear as he answered: 

“Yes, gentlemen, he is severely wounded, and perhaps the ride which saved us all was his death ride.  But he has done his duty as a man and a soldier, and if you would know his name, he is my son—­Hartmut von Falkenried.”

The old manor house of Burgsdorf lay peaceful and quiet in the summer sunshine.  Its young master, who had been away from it for a whole year had just returned to it and to his young wife, for the war was over.

The great estate had not suffered during his long absence; it had been well cared for.  The mother had taken the reins in hand again, and had governed as of old with judgment and a watchful eye, but she now resigned them willingly to her son, and declared her intention of taking up her residence in Berlin.

She looked well and happy to-day as she stood upon the broad stone veranda talking with her son who was by her side.  He had never before seemed so handsome in her eyes, for his military life and discipline had given him a fine, stately bearing.  She might well feel that he had gained something with which her education had not provided him, but she would not have admitted that for the world.

“So you intend to build?” she asked.