The military train came rushing along, and just as it reached the bridge there was a flash of lightning. For an instant everything stood revealed in the dazzling light, the heavy threatening clouds, the dim distant mountains, and the whirling river, but the spot beneath the willow was vacant, and there was a plash in the foaming waters. In a moment the night swallowed all up again, the train thundered across the bridge, and in the west there was a zigzag gleam,--Saint Michael's sword of flame.
Two days later at General Steinrück's head-quarters various officers were assembled waiting for orders, but with unusually grave faces, and conversing in undertones. They had learned the sad misfortune that had befallen their chief. His grandson, the handsome, gallant, and gay Count Raoul, was dead; he had been walking at night on the river-bank, a false step had precipitated him from it into the river at a spot where the current was unusually strong, and he had been drowned.
It was terrible for the old man thus in the evening of his days to see the last of his name and race vanish in the bloom of youth, while he could not even stand beside his coffin or follow it to his ancestral tomb. Duty detained him at the head of his corps; indeed, in the two days that had elapsed since he had heard the sad news no duty of his position had been neglected; he was now giving audience to Captain Rodenberg, a bearer of important despatches. Not one of the officers suspected the nature of the scene--the closing scene of a family drama--that was enacting behind those closed doors. Michael was standing there beside the general, saying,--
"They found him at daybreak, quite near the house where we were staying. I had time to make the necessary arrangements, and then I was obliged to leave, intrusting everything else to the care of my dear old teacher, who also undertook the sad duty of carrying the news to Countess Hortense of her son's death and of having the body taken to Steinrück."
The general had listened in silence; now he asked, "And does no one know----?"
"No one save ourselves. Clermont and his sister will be silent,--must be silent for their own sakes. Were anything known of what has occurred, existence would be impossible for them anywhere. Here are the papers. I deliver them into the hands of my general, and the honour of the Steinrück name is intact."
Steinrück received the papers, and held out his hand to his grandson: "I thank you, Michael."
The young officer looked at him anxiously, not deceived by the rigid composure of his manner; he knew what lay behind it.
"Grandfather," he said, gently, "now you can mourn for him."