From the Baltic to the Vosges, from the marches of Schleswig to the Bavarian highlands, one peasant-farm neighboured another. The towns had grown no larger, for a new and happy race of men cultivated the soil: a lusty race, who flooded the cities with fresh vigour; a free race, loving its fatherland with a jubilant, willing, conscious love. And the sun shone down joyfully on this land of peace and plenty. The pleasant picture vanished, and once more his eyes stared into the gloom. From the distant camp came borne on the night wind the sound of the tattoo. He listened vaguely. Distance muffled the clear trumpet-call, and the final majestic roll of the drum was alike lost in the deep melancholy of the darkness. The tattoo. All must now go to rest. He thought of the beautiful pale woman whom he loved, who had given him one last moment of ecstatic joy in life before death claimed him. Had she too gone to her rest? The little weapon gave a faint report. The screech-owl fluttered out of its cranny in the wall. With an apprehensive beat of its wings it sailed off over the deserted village and sent forth its piteous cry. CHAPTER XVII "Love of the fatherland, Love of the freeborn man,--" (_German National Anthem._) Franz Vogt had calculated that his release from prison would take place at the beginning of February. He had hoped for a clear sunshiny day, a blue winter sky, a hard frost, and crackling snow beneath his feet. Everything turned out according to his wish; yet when the heavy prison-gates opened, Vogt never noticed the beauty of the winter day. He thought of Wolf, whom they had shot down in his attempt to escape. He himself had helped to lift the dead man, whose skull had been shattered by the shot. Vogt was escorted back to the garrison by a sergeant. He would have had about two months more to serve, as the five months of his imprisonment were not counted; but on account of his father's death he had in any case to be given his discharge, in order that his little property might not suffer by neglect. He had to wait a few days till all the formalities were gone through. Gunner Vogt did everything he was told punctually and obediently, though hardly with that cheerful frank readiness which had of old proved him such a good soldier. During his punishment the fresh open-hearted lad had become a gloomy, self-contained man. One evening Käppchen, the clerk, who among all the changes in the battery seemed to be the only person who remained in his place, announced to him: "Vogt, your papers are made out. To-morrow you can go." And Vogt answered him respectfully: "Very good, sir."