ad been picked up by
the men in the dog-cart, and was gone.

"And so at last my hero was alone. At first he enjoyed it very much. But
though every one allowed him to be the finest young fellow on the road,
yet nobody seemed to care for the fact as much as he did; they talked,
and complimented, and stared at him, but he got tired of it. Sometimes
he saw the youngest brother, looking each time more wild and reckless;
and sometimes the sister, looking more and more miserable; but he saw no
one else.

"At last there was a stir among the people, and all heads were turned
towards the distance, as if looking for something. Melchior asked what
it was, and was told that the people were looking for a man, the hero of
many battles, who had won honor for himself and for his country in
foreign lands, and who was coming home. Everybody stood up and gazed,
Melchior with them. Then the crowd parted, and the hero came on. No one
asked whether he were handsome or genteel, whether he kept good company,
or wore a tiger-skin rug, or looked through an opera-glass? They knew
what he had _done_, and it was enough.

"He was a bronzed, hairy man, with one sleeve empty, and a breast
covered with stars; but in his face, brown with sun and wind, overgrown
with hair, and scarred with wounds, Melchior saw his second brother!
There was no doubt of it. And the brother himself, though he bowed
kindly in answer to the greetings showered on him, was gazing anxiously
for the old coach, where he used to ride and be so uncomfortable, in
that time to which he now looked back as the happiest of his life.

"'I thank you, gentlemen. I am indebted to you, gentlemen. I have been
away long. I am going home.'

"'Of course he is!' shouted Melchior, waving his arms widely with pride
and joy. 'He is coming home; to this coach, where he was--oh, it seems
but an hour ago; Time goes so fast. We were great friends when we were
young together. My brother and I, ladies and gentlemen, the hero and
I--my brother--the hero with the stars upon his breast--he is coming
home!'

"Alas! what avail stars and ribbons on a breast where the life-blood is
trickling slowly from a little wound? The crowd looked anxious; the hero
came on, but more slowly, with his dim eyes straining for the old coach;
and Melchior stood with his arms held out in silent agony. But just when
he was beginning to hope, and the brothers seemed about to meet, a
figure passed between--a figure in a cloak.