o Jena.

Reimers groaned in bitter distress of mind.

Was there no salvation?

He looked around him and gazed into the blackness of night. All about
him was gloom. A light breeze was blowing; it bore on its wings the
scent of the blossoming heather and the resinous odour of pine-trees.
And from the beds of the wasted garden arose another smell that mingled
with the per fume of the breeze: the invigorating smell of the soil, of
the mother-earth. It infused courage into the despairing heart of the
lonely man, and elevated his drooping spirit.

The soil of their native land was the inexhaustible source from which
the strength of the German people constantly renewed itself. Thanks to
their love for the soil they could never utterly perish.

To this was owing the continual unconscious longing that drove the
workmen out of the great cities on holidays, so that the green of woods
and meadows was dotted with colour by the gay summer attire of women
and children; a longing that made the lower classes crave to possess a
few roods of land, if only to stand on their own soil and cultivate
fruit whose flavour would be sweeter to them than any food that money
could buy: the mighty living love for the soil of their native land.

And suddenly Reimers had a waking vision. He looked down upon the earth
from some point of vantage. Germany lay beneath him as though viewed
from the car of a balloon, with the familiar outlines pictured in the
maps; yet he seemed to distinguish every roof in the cities and every
tree in the woods. All parts of the country bore harvest; moors,
marshes, heath-lands, had been converted into orchards, fruitful
fields, or stately forests. But the extended boundaries of the large
estates had vanished.

From the Baltic to the Vosges, from the marches of Schleswig to the
Bavarian highlands, one peasant-farm neighboured another. The towns had
grown no larger, for a new and happy race of men cultivated the soil: a
lusty race, who flooded the cities with fresh vigour; a free race,
loving its fatherland with a jubilant, willing, conscious love. And the
sun shone down joyfully on this land of peace and plenty.

The pleasant picture vanished, and once more his eyes stared into the
gloom.

From the distant camp came borne on the night wind the sound of the
tattoo. He listened vaguely. Distance muffled the clear trumpet-call,
and the final majestic roll of the drum was alike lost in the deep
melancholy of the dark