. . . Ay, her son!
Desnoyers waxed very indignant over his wife's low spirits, retorting:
"But I tell you that Nobody will kill Julio! . . . He is my son. In my
youth I, too, passed through great dangers. They wounded me, too, in the
wars in the other world, and nevertheless, here I am at a ripe old age."
Events seemed to reinforce his blind faith. Calamities were raining
around the family and saddening his relatives, yet not one grazed the
intrepid sub-lieutenant who was persisting in his daring deeds with the
heroic nerve of a musketeer.
Dona Luisa received a letter from Germany. Her sister wrote from Berlin,
transmitting her letters through the kindness of a South American in
Switzerland. This time, the good lady wept for some one besides her son;
she wept for Elena and the enemies. In Germany there were mothers, too,
and she put the sentiment of maternity above all patriotic differences.
Poor Frau von Hartrott! Her letter written a month before, had contained
nothing but death notices and words of despair. Captain Otto was dead.
Dead, too, was one of his younger brothers. The fact that the latter
had fallen in a territory dominated by their nation, at least gave the
mother the sad comfort of being able to weep near his grave. But the
Captain was buried on French soil, nobody knew where, and she would
never be able to find his remains, mingled with hundreds of others.
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