Maria could not account for the nervous fever that consumed him. His wounds were well dressed, and she thought he ought to be doing better than he was. The next morning, after a dreamy, light-headed night, Speckbacher, in a half stupor, heard, or seemed to hear, a voice, a little way from the cottage, somewhere about the stables, say cheerily-- "Hallo! here I am!" "So I see," grumbled, or seemed to grumble, Zoppel, in return; "what account hast thou to give of thyself?" "I've been taken prisoner, and run away. Does any one know anything of father?" "Ay, surely; he's ill in bed, as bad as can be." "Oh, how glad I am that he's at home! I left him all in a bath of blood. Zoppel!" (in an eager, under-voice,) "has mother fretted much about me?" "How should she? She never wist harm had come nigh thee." "Heaven be praised! Father, then, did not tell her! then, I'll not, Zoppel. I'm so hungry." "Go in-doors, boy, bless thee, and get something to eat." "I think I must." And Speckbacher, whose hearing was quickened by fever, presently could distinguish the boy's stealthy footsteps in the adjoining room. Meanwhile, his wife, waking, and leaning over him to peer into his face, and see how he fared, perceived a bright smile on his lips, though his eyes were shut. "You're shamming," said she cheerfully; "what art smiling so about, Speckbacher?" "Thoughts of my own," said he, smiling still. "Come! tell me." "Look into the kitchen, Maria; I think Anderl has come back." "Ah, the young rogue, trust him for that!" She did not dress one bit the faster; and, when she entered the kitchen, greeted her boy just as usual. He sprang in to his father, gave him a bright, intelligent look, kissed him, and then laid his head beside him on the pillow. "Mother knows nothing," whispered he. "How capital of you, father! Are you getting better?" "Yes, dear boy: now you are come home, I shall get well very fast." He did get well very fast; and was soon up and doing, fighting with the enemy at Waldrung, where he nearly fell into their hands. The overwhelming force of France and Bavaria was dispersing the Tyrolese in every quarter. In the midst of this struggle, in which the mountaineers were so willingly pouring out their life-blood, Austria concluded a treaty of peace with France, and the Tyrol was made over to Bavaria! Conceive the feelings with which a revolted slave, escaped back to his native chieftain, would find himself consigned by him to the slave-dealer again! Conceive, moreover, that the native chief had, in the first instance, hired the slave to return to him, and had openly or secretly encouraged him all along! Eugène Beauharnois published a manifesto, promising the Tyrolese pardon and peace if they would immediately lay down their arms. In consequence of this, many hundreds of peasants, stunned at their fate, submitted at once, while those who still continued in arms were bereft of spirit and hope.