This sentiment is spontaneous; perhaps because I have nothing else
to love. I am alone in the world; my dear parents are dead; I have
no brothers or sisters, no lover; and inasmuch as I have nothing to
love, I gave up my heart to hatred. I hate the French, and, above
all, Napoleon, who has brought so much misery on Europe, and for ten
years has spilt rivers of blood. It is hatred that has incited me--
hatred has forced the sword into my hand, and when we go into
battle, I shall not only call, like you, 'Long live the fatherland!'
but add, 'Death to the tyrant Napoleon, the enemy of the Germans!'
Yes, I hate this Bonaparte more intensely than I love my own life;
and, as I could not stab him with the needle, with which I made caps
and bonnets for the fair ladies of Berlin, I have cast it aside, and
taken up the sword. That is my whole history--the history of the ci-
devant milliner Caroline Peters, the future horseman Charles
Petersen."
"What!" ejaculated Leonora, in amazement. "You intend to enlist in
the cavalry?"
"If they will accept me. I am well versed in horsemanship, for when
my father was still living I rode out with him every day. He was a
much-respected farmer in the suburbs of Stralsund, and owned many
horses. During the siege of Stralsund he lost every thing, and we
were reduced to extreme poverty. My father died of grief, and since
that time I have not again mounted a horse.
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