"To march out in mourning--to rush to the battlefield like angels of
death and shout, 'We are the legion of avengers, sent by Prussia to
atone for her disgrace! Our uniform is black, but we intend to dye
it red in the blood of the French!' And then to fight exultantly in
the thickest of the fray for the fatherland, and for our queen,
whose heart was broken by the national dishonor and wretchedness!
Oh, it must be blissful, indeed, to march with that legion to avenge
the tears of Queen Louisa, and--"
"But Leonora!" cried her mother, staring in amazement at the young
girl who stood before her with glowing cheeks, panting bosom, and
uplifted right arm, as if she had just drawn the sword--"but,
Leonora! what is the matter with you? What does your impulsiveness
mean? Has Charles infected you with his enthusiasm? Do you want to
increase the excitement and despair of the poor boy? He cannot join
the 'Legion of Venegance;' he cannot be one of Lutzow's riflemen!"
"No," said Leonora, vehemently and almost triumphantly, "HE cannot
be one of Lutzow's riflemen!"
"Leonora!" cried her father, in a warning tone, "Leonora, what are
you saying?"
She started and dropped her arm. "It is true," she muttered to
herself, "we should not betray our thoughts; God alone must know
them."
Her father limped to her, and, laying his hands on her shoulder,
looked into her excited and glowing face.
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