The king sighed deeply. "God is my witness," he said, "that I did all I could to avoid a breach with Hanover, and to save the king from the hard fate which now falls upon him. Believe me," he added, "my heart could make no greater sacrifice to Prussia, her greatness, and her calling in Germany, than in yielding to this necessity." A moisture clouded the king's clear eyes. "Decline to receive the letter!" he said with emotion, sorrowfully bending his head. "God bless your majesty," cried Bismarck with kindling eyes, "for the sake of Prussia and of Germany!" General von Moltke looked gravely at his royal commander with an expression of earnest love and admiration. Silently the king motioned with his hand and turned to the window. Count Bismarck and the general left the cabinet. CHAPTER XX. THE CRISIS. Langensalza had grown very quiet after its days of storm and excitement. The Hanoverian army was disbanded, and had returned home. The Prussian troops had advanced upon other enemies in the south and west, and the little town was now as placid and still as it had been for long years before, until Fate chose it for the theatre of so bloody a struggle. But although the streets were as quiet and monotonous as ever in the hot sunshine of midsummer, within the houses a quiet life went on of inexhaustible love and mercy, that love and mercy which the tempest of war always calls forth so abundantly, and which is so lovely a witness of the eternal and indestructible connection between man's heart and the God of unconquerable love, of inexhaustible compassion. Many of the severely wounded Prussians and Hanoverians could not be moved, and numerous hospitals were formed. All the private houses had received the poor sacrifices of war, and from Prussia and Hanover, besides the sisters of mercy and deaconesses, numerous relatives of the wounded had arrived, to undertake the care of those they loved. When the sun was setting, and the twilight brought the coolness of evening, many women and girls in dark, simple dresses, with grave faces, walked silently through the streets, hastily breathing in a little fresh air, to obtain strength to continue their work of loving self-sacrifice; and the looks of the inhabitants followed them with quiet sympathy, as they sat before their doors after their day's work was over, talking in whispers about one group after another as it passed. Madame von Wendenstein, with her daughter and Helena, had been most kindly received into old Lohmeier's house, Margaret preparing two rooms in the well-to-do burgher house with every possible comfort, whilst the candidate found a lodging in a neighbouring hotel. Trembling with anxiety, Madame von Wendenstein approached her son's bed, repressing by a powerful effort the convulsive sobs that threatened to choke her. The young lieutenant lay rigid and quiet, his low, regular breathing the only sign of life.