Taking his arm in mine, I went as far as the city gate with him. I had to tell him all about Richard, but my pride in this noble, happy grandson, in a great measure thrust aside my grief for my son. CHAPTER XI. (_June 18th._) And now I write of the great day, the greatest known to me and to all men living. It was the morning of the triumphal entry. I went out early and wandered through the joyous streets. I saw, beneath the chain of gay triumphal arches, the long row of conquered cannon, and, behind them, the seats for the wounded, the convalescents and their nurses. Music resounded from all the side streets. It was the great jubilant heart-throb of a whole people. For a long time, I sat on a chair, which had been placed there for some invalid. My heart was so full when I thought that I had lived to see this day; and, amidst this high swelling tide of joy, I could not help looking into my own heart, and asking myself how I had met the duties that life imposed upon me. Were I to die now--this very day--I have served the truth to the best of my ability; I have intentionally offended no one, and have loved mankind and my country with all my soul. I was often weak, but my weakness has harmed no one but myself. As this was passing through my mind, I had to stop suddenly. My friend Wilhelmi said to me in the heartiest manner, and without sarcasm, "You have within you an overflowing fountain of sentimentality." It is true; it has brought me much sorrow, but it has afforded my soul many pure and tranquil experiences, and I said to myself, "This is not the time for tender sensibility. To be strong is now the word. Look at the Emperor! What must this man who, to-day, bears the impress and the majesty of great historical memories, feel in his innermost soul; and yet he stands erect and firm." And as I thought this, I, too, walked along more firmly than before. I went to the stand which had been erected for the deputies. It was, as yet, almost empty; gradually, it filled up. My early walk, my deep emotions, and, more than all, the heat and strained expectation had thoroughly fatigued me. Then came my friend Wilhelmi. He motioned to me from afar and waved his hat. "Waldfried, I bring you glorious news!" he cried. "Just read this; you had gone out so early; we hunted everywhere, but could not find you. A telegram for you has arrived; your children are coming." "My children!" "Yes. Richard and Ludwig and their wives, and your grandson Wolfgang." I read the telegram; there it was--they were all coming. Richard was saved. At Bertha's house, he was married to Annette. Wilhelmi saw me turning pale, and called to a stately Rhenish deputy behind us, one who had brought some good wine of his own raising: "Westerwalder, give us a glass of your best Rüdesheimer."