The sun was just setting of a clear day in December as we halted on a little eminence, which commanded a distant view on every side. Behind lay the dark forest of Germany, the tree-tops presenting their massive wavy surface, over which the passing clouds threw momentary shadows; before, but still some miles away, we could trace the Rhine, its bright silver current sparkling in the sun; beyond lay the great plains of France, and upon these the sick man's eyes rested with a steadfast gaze. “Yes!” said he, after a long silence on both sides, “the fields and the mountains, the sunshine and the shade, are like those of other lands; but the feeling which attaches the heart to country is an inborn sense, and the very word 'home' brings with it the whole history of our affections. Even to look thus at his native country is a blessing to an exile's heart.” I scarcely dared to interrupt the reverie which succeeded these few words; but when I perceived that he still remained seated, his head between his hands and lost in meditation, I ventured to remind him that we were still above a league from Heimbach, the little village where we should pass the night, and that on a road so wild and unfrequented there was little hope of finding shelter any nearer. “You must lean on me, Father; the night air is fresh and bracing, and after a little it will revive you.” The old man rose without speaking, and taking my arm, began the descent of the mountain. His steps, however, were tottering and uncertain, his breathing hurried and difficult, and his carriage indicated the very greatest debility. “I cannot do it, my son,” said he, sinking upon the grassy bench which skirted the way; “you must leave me. It matters little now where this frail body rests; a few hours more, and the rank grass will wave above it and the rain beat over it unfelt. Let us part here: an old man's blessing for all your kindness will follow you through life, and may cheer you to think on hereafter.” “Do you then suppose I could leave you thus?” said I, reproachfully. “Is it so you think of me?” “My minutes are few now, my child,” replied he, more solemnly, “and I would pass the last moments of my life alone. Well, then, if you will not,--leave me now for a little, and return to me; by that time my mind will be calmer, and mayhap, too, my strength greater, and I may be able to accompany you to the village.” I acceded to this proposal the more willingly, because it afforded me the hope of finding some means to convey him to Heimbach; and so, having wrapped him carefully in my cloak, I hastened down the mountain at the top of my speed.