eputation of my
daughter must not be kept as clean as the white cravat of your master?
I should like to know that!" Master Koehler's voice during this
conversation was raised to so high a pitch as to draw the attention of
the bystanders, and having grasped Old John by the collar, there was no
saying what might have been the consequences, had not the master smith
dragged the querulous couple away by force, and separated them. He
thereby quelled the dispute, but he could not stop the report, which
was speedily circulated through the whole town, that Old John, having
an intrigue in his old age with Master Koehler's young daughter, had
been brought to an account by her angry father, in the open field.

The man[oe]uvres of the infantry were by this time at an end, the crowd
separated, and the young man, who had been the original cause of the
foregoing conversation, was observed to bend his way also towards the
town. His step was slow, and undecided; his face looked paler than
usual, his eyes sought the ground, or wandered occasionally, with an
expression of silent grief, towards the distant blue mountains, the
boundaries of Wuertemberg. Albert von Sturmfeder had never felt so
unhappy as in these moments. Bertha had left Ulm with her father; she
had made him swear again to be faithful to his promise, an act which he
unavailingly felt to create a lurking regret in his breast. It had cost
him no small struggle at the time, to consent to her wishes, but the
overwhelming pain at parting from her, and the grief exhibited by the
beloved girl, had mastered every feeling but that of desire to soothe
the agony of her mind. His position was now one of extreme difficulty,
when he calmly considered his future plans. To crush in the bud all
those golden dreams and bright hopes of glory and honour, with which he
thought to render himself worthy the hand of the daughter of
Lichtenstein, was nothing, he felt, compared with the disgrace and
contempt, which he must expect to meet at the hands of men, whose
esteem was dear to him, for having deserted their colours, at a moment
when the struggle was about to commence. How could he give a reason, or
find words sufficiently convincing, to justify his conduct, before that
gallant old friend of his father, Breitenstein? How could he appear
before the noble Fronsberg? Ah, that friendly salute, with which he
appeared to encourage the son of his brave companion in arms, produced
a thousand torments. Hi