New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1916-07-09


through the parsonage. He walked
from room to room stopped for the
byrdredth time at the dining room window and
reeped through the shutters into the pitch
Hack night, even though he knew we'll enough
chat there was no chance of seeing any
ching He listened anxiously behind the tightly
bored front door. He went back into the
li,cben and ouenched with pail of water the
last eobers of the open hearth fire. He tried
tho hack door to see whether it was securely
locked Finally he entered his study and sank
YEARLY in a corner of the sofa.
Would the CosSackS come tonight!
The pastor shuddered as he thought of the
fa,ef,l events of the last two weeks. It was
only eight days ago that the first warning had
trme 10 the tiny frontier village. On the other
side of the boundary Cossack detachments had
beer observed-only few miles away. Other
villages TO the north had already been plum
dore5 and burned, women and children out
ragged and the men carried off to an uncertain
fate to a miserable captivity. So 1t was nee
essarv TO be on ones guard. In few days the
turn Of this village might also come.
Fear had started general exodus. After
fo~.,-eight hours only two persons were left
the pastor and his wife. He did not want
- abandon his church to the plunderers and
jocendiaries, although he knew that he could
DO little or nothing to protect it. He might
only share its fate.
Yet he could not have fed even if he had
wished 10 do so. To fee would have meant
leaving behind him his wife, who, desperately
81 was no longer equal to the hardships of
hasty journey. ct
R1t NOW she no longer detained him. She
had died three days before. Perhaps MS own
careessness had FASTENED her death
Sitting by her bed he had studied the casu
atty lists in the newspapers. They nad lour
sons at the front. three grown men and FRITZ,
The Youngest their favorite, siXteen-year-olu
l.v who as a volunteer had followed his broth
ers into the field. Column by column the pastor
had read the list through; he was ready TO
breathe a sigh Of relief, when suddenly shiver
ran through his body and he let the paper
drop TO the floor.
Quickly he bent over and picked it up again.
irving meanwhile to conceal his excitement
But with the sharpened senses OF one VINO IS
aDproacbing death his wife had already real
ized that something must have happened. ohe
demanded TO know the truth before she died
tho whole truth, without evasion or subterfuge
.Is il Karl? Is it Hans? Is it Rudolph
She asked with her weakened voice. Are they
dead. or prisoners, or only wounded? Are
thev seriously or only slightly wounded?'
Still he kept on shaking his head.
"Is it, No, that is impossible lie
could not have been sent to the front--a vol
unteer. d mere boy. They must have employed
him some other way-in the sanitary corps
in base hospital. There are so many ways in
which he could make himself useful But not
at the 'front.'
Yes. il was Fritz, the sixteen-year-old son,
their Youngest, their favorite. lie was missing
zone without leaving a trace behind him.
"A prisoner or dead?" she asked
Rrt the brief notice did not show. Against
his name stood the simple word missing
That might mean-that certainly did mean
that he would come back again!
The diving woman did not utter complaint
With vide-open eyes she stared hXedly ahead
of her. Yet she saw clearly what her husDaha
feared. but dared not put into words-tnat
Fritz's life had been a sacrifice TO the Father-
land. He was lost But he had done them
honor.
grave for his wife-an exhausting task be-
cause the ground was already frozen-dressed
her in her wedding gown and buried her. 1t
was lonely funeral, without the presence OF
friends or the tolling of bells. A solitary man,
with barred head, read the service for the dead
and sang the interment hymn-pastor, sexton
and undertaken all in one.
Now only his church held him to the vii
LACE. But that was an indissoluble bond.
The Cossacks might come-he was ready to
receive them. If he only knew what had be-
come Of Fritz,
The pastor had not slept for four nights.
Fully dressed, in state between sleeping and
waking. he losses restessly on the sofa in his
s:uay. The night hours creep slowly and, as
from affair, he hears the measured strokes Of
the church tower clock--one, two, three,
four, five.
Suddenly he starts out of his half-sleep and
sits up straight Had he been dreaming or
what had aroused him so violently? In the
silence of the early morning in the death-like
stiffness Of the deserted village, he had thought
he heard the neighing of horses. Then came