CHAPTER IV. The morning was bright and clear. We were seated around the breakfast table, every one of us doubly oppressed. We were grieved on our own account, and troubled by the thought that the mother's heart was soon to become rent by the sad tidings. Richard had told the news to Bertha. My wife seemed to be watching Bertha, and at last reproved her for having been weeping again. "It is our duty," said she, "to accept the inevitable with resignation. Mankind might well be likened to the plants in the field, which are obliged quietly to submit to the storm that descends on their heads." We exchanged hurried glances, but Bertha did not reply. "Will my wife be as strong in a few moments from now?" was the question I inwardly asked myself. Rothfuss was heard cracking his whip in front of the house. He was about to drive out into the fields, taking Martella with him. His intention was to tell her all that had happened as soon as he reached the fields, so that she might there spend her rage, and not annoy the household by her noise. Victor rode along with them. My wife inquired whether the newspaper had not yet come, or why I was not reading it, and wished to know what was the matter. The moment had arrived. I gathered up all the courage that was yet left me, and said, "We will take you at your word--'It is our duty to accept the inevitable with resignation.'" "What is it? Tell me." "Our son Ernst has--deserted!" "After all!" exclaimed my wife, while she laid her clinched fists on her heart, as if to prevent it from bursting, and with compressed lips stared into vacancy. Fearing that she would faint, the children and I rushed to her assistance. "Never mind; all will be over in a moment. I can now breathe again. And now, I beg of you all, be silent." She closed her eyes. We remained standing around her in silence. Not a sound was heard, save the rapid ticking of the clocks and the innocent singing of the thistle-finch. At last, she removed her hands from her face and gave way to a torrent of tears. With her hands folded on her breast, and softly, without a loud sign of pain, she thus lamented: "O my son! My poor son! My poor, unhappy child! You are now a fugitive in the wide world, and without a home--lost and distracted--a wandering proof of the confusion of our broken household, now rent in twain and bereft of peace. His heart is a wayward one. It is easier to spoil a human being than to improve one. Let him who believes that this war is just before God rise up and plunge his sword into my son's heart!" She had raised herself while uttering the last sentence; when she finished, she fell back in her seat again. She then suddenly and energetically sat up again, and asked, "Does Martella know of this?" I replied that Rothfuss had taken her out into the fields with him in order to tell her all.