CHAPTER　XI。
  AFTER　THE　BATTLE。
  The　cannon　were　silenced；　the　discharges　of　musketry　had　ceased。　On　the　great　plain　of　Kunersdorf；　where；　a　few　hours　before；　a　bloody　battle　had　been　raging；　all　was　quiet。　Could　this　be　called　repose？　How　cruel　was　the　tranquillity　which　rested　now　upon　this　fearful　battle…field！
  It　was　the　peace　of　deaththe　stillness　which　the　awful　messenger　of　Heaven　presses　as　a　sign　and　seal　of　his　love　upon　the　pale　lips　of　the　dead。　Happy　they　whose　immortal　spirits　were　quickly　wafted　away　by　the　dread　kissthey　no　longer　suffer。　Woe　to　those　who　yet　live；　though　they　belong　to　death；　and　who　lie　surrounded　by　grinning　corpses！　The　cold　bodies　of　their　comrades　are　the　pillows　upon　which　they　lay　their　bloody　heads。　The　groans　of　the　dying　form　the　awful　melody　which　awakes　them　to　consciousness；　and　the；　starry　sky　of　this　clear；　transparent　summer　night　is　the　only　eye　of　love　which　bows　down　to　them　and　looks　upon　them　in　their　agony。
  Happy　those　whom　the　murderous　sword　and　the　crushing　ball　carried　off　in　an　instant　to　the　land　of　spirits！　Woe；　woe　to　those　lying　upon　the　battle…field；　living；　breathing；　conscious　of　their　defeat　and　of　their　great　agony！　Woe！　woe！　for　they　hear　the　sound　of　the　tramping　and　neighing　of　horsesthey　come　nearer　and　nearer。　The　moon　throws　the　long；　dark　shadows　of　those　advancing　horse…men　over　the　battle…field。　It　is　fearful　to　see　their　rash　approach；　spurring　over　thousands　of　pale　corpses；　not　regarding　the　dying；　who　breathe　out　their　last　piteous　sighs　under　the　hoofs　of　these　wild　horses。
  The　Cossack　has　no　pity；　he　does　not　shudder　or　draw　back　from　this　monstrous　open　grave；　which　has　received　thousands　of　men　as　if　they　were　one　great　corpse。　The　Cossack　has　come　to　rob　and　to　plunder；　he　spares　neither　friend　nor　foe。　He　is　the　heir　of　the　dead　and　of　the　dying；　and　he　has　come　for　his　inheritance。　If　he　sees　a　ring　sparkling　upon　the　hand　of　a　grinning　corpse；　he　springs　from　his　horse　and　tears　it　off。　If　his　greedy；　cruel　eye　rests　upon　a　rich　uniform　he　seizes　it；　he　tears　it　off　from　the　bleeding；　wounded　body；　no　matter　whether　it　is　dead　or　still　breathing　and　rattling。
  Look　at　that　warrior　who；　groaning　with　anguish；　his　limbs　torn　to　pieces；　bleeding　from　a　thousand　wounds；　is　lying　in　an　open　grave；　he　is　wounded　to　death；　he　still　holds　his　sword　in　his　left　hand　his　right　arm　has　been　torn　off　by　a　cannon…ball；　a　shot　that　he　might　not　be　trampled　upon　by　the　horses'　hoofs；　they　are　forced　to　leave　him　in　the　hands　of　God　and　to　the　mercy　of　man。
  But　the　Cossack　knows　no　mercy。　That　is　a　word　he　has　never　heard　in　his　Russian　home；　he　has　no　fear　of　God　before　his　eyeshe　fears　the　Czar　and　his　captain；　and　above　all　other　things；　he　fears　the　knout。　He　knows　nothing　of　pity；　for　it　has　never　been　shown　him　how　then　should　he　exercise　it？
  When　the　Cossack　saw　the　Prussian　officer　in　his　gold…embroidered　uniform；　he　sprang　from　his　horse　and　threw　the　bridle　over　him；　a　shrill　whistle　told　the　wild　steed；　the　Cossack's　better　half；　that　he　must　stand　still。　He　sprang　into　the　grave　where　the　Prussian　warrior；　the　German　poet；　was　laid　to　rest。　Yes；　a　great　German　poet　lies　therea　poet　by　the　grace　of　God。　All　Germany　knows　him；　〃their　songster　of　the　spring。〃　All　Germany　had　read　and　been　inspired　by　his　lays。　The　Austrian　and　the　Saxon　considered　the　Prussian　Major　Ewald　von　Kleist　their　enemy；　but　they　loved　and　admired　the　poet；　Ewald　von　Kleist。　The　people　are　never　enemies　to　poesy；　and　even　politics　are　silent　before　her　melodious　voice。
  There　he　lies；　the　gallant　warrior；　the　inspired；　noble　poet；　his　broken　eyes　are　turned　to　heaven；　his　blue；　cold　lips　are　opened　and　wearily　stammering　a　few　disconnected　words。　Perhaps　he　thinks　in　this　last　hour　of　the　last　words　of　his　last　poem。　Perhaps　his　stiffening　lips　murmured　these　words　which　his　mangled　hand　had　written　just　before　the　battle：
  〃Death　for　one's　fatherland　is　ever　honorable。　　　　　　How　gladly　will　I　die　that　noble　death　　　　　　When　my　destiny　calls！〃
  Yes；　death　might　have　been　beautiful；　but　fate　is　never　propitious　to　German　poets。　It　would　have　been　noble　and　sweet　to　die　in　the　wild　tumult　of　battle；　under　the　sound　of　trumpets；　amid　the　shouts　of　victory；　sweet　thus；　with　a　smile　upon　the　lip　to　yield　up　the　immortal　spirit。
  Ewald　von　Kleist；　the　German　poet；　received　his　death…wound　upon　the　field　of　battle；　but　he　did　not　die　there；　he　lives；　he　knows　that　the　battle　is　lost；　that　his　blood　has　been　shed　in　vain。　The　Cossack　has　come　down　into　his　gravewith　greedy　eyes　he　gazes　at　the　rich　booty。　This　bleeding；　mangled　bodythis　is　to　the　Cossack　not　a　man；　it　is　only　a　uniform　which　is　his；　with　hands　trembling　with　greed　he　tears　it　from　the　quivering；　bleeding　form。　What　to　him　is　the　death…rattle　and　the　bloodeven　the　bloody　shirt　dying　frame。　＇Footnote：　〃History　of　the　Seven　Years'　War。〃Thiebault；　363。＇　The　Prussian　warrior；　the　German　poet；　lay　there　naked；　his　own　blood　alone　covered　his　wounded　body；　wrapped　it　in　a　purple　mantle；　worthy　of　the　poet's　crown　with　which　his　countrymen　had　decked　his　brow。
  But　Ewald　von　Kleist　is　no　longer　a　poet　or　a　herohe　is　a　poor；　suffering；　tortured　child　of　earth；　he　lies　on　the　damp　ground；　he　pleads　for　a　few　rags　to　cover　his　wounds；　into　which　the　muddy　water　of　the　hole　in　which　he　lies　is　rushing。
  And　now　fate　seems　favorable。　A　Russian　officer　is　riding　byhe　takes　pity　on　the　naked　man　with　the　gaping　wounds；　he　throws　him　a　soldier's　old　mantle；　a　piece　of　bread；　and　a　half　gulden。　＇Footnote：　〃Seven　Years'　War；〃　353。＇　The　German　poet　receives　the　alms　of　the　Russian　thankfullyhe　covers　himself　with　the　cloak；　he　tries　to　eat　the　bread。
  But　destiny　is　never　propitious　to　German　poets。　The　Cossacks　swarm　again　upon　the　battle…field；　and　again　they　approach　the　groaning　warrior　in　the　open　grave；　he　has　no　longer　a　glittering　uniform；　but　the　Cossack　takes　all；　the　poor　old　mantle　excites　his　greedhe　tears　it　from　the　unresisting　soldier；　he　opens　his　hands　and　takes　out　the　half　gulden　which　Ewald　von　Kleist　had　received　from　the　Russian　hussar。
  Again　he　lies　naked；　again　the　muddy　water　forces　into　his　wounds；　and　adds　cruel　torture　to　the　agonies　of　death。　So　lies　he　till　the　next　day；　till　the　enemy　takes　pity　upon　him　and　carries　him　as　a　prisoner　to　Frankfort。　＇Footnote：　Ewald　von　Kleist　died　a　few　days　after　this；　on　the　24th　of　August。　The　Russians　gave　him　an　honorable　burial；　and　as　there　was　no　sword　upon　his　coffin；　Captain　Bulow；　chief　of　the　Russian　dragoons；　took　his　own　from　his　side　and　placed　it　upon　the　bier；　saying；　〃So　worthy　an　officer　shall　not　be　buried　without　every　mark　of　honor。〃Archenholtz；　262。＇
  Happy　those　who　meet　with　sudden　death。　It　is　true　all　the　living　did　not　share　the　cruel　fate　of　Ewald　von　Kleist；　but　all　those　thousands　who　were　borne　wounded　and　bleeding　from　the　battle…field　were　conscious　of　their　sufferings　and　their　defeat。
  The　little　village　of　Octshef　near　the　battle…field　was　a　hospital。　During　the　battle　all　the　inhabitants　had　fled。　The　wounded　had　taken　possession　of　the　huts　and　the　surgeons　were　hastening　from　house　to　house　giving　relief　where　it　was　possible。　No　one　entered　into　those　two　little　huts　which　lay　at　the　other　end　of　the　village；　somewhat　separated　from　the　others。　And　yet　those　huts　contained　two　wounded　men。　They　had　been　brought　here　during　the　battlethe　surgeon　had　examined　their　wounds　and　gone　out　silently；　never　to　return。　Groaning　from　time　to　time；　these　two　wounded　men　lay　upon　the　straw；　their　eyes　fixed　upon　the　door；　longing　for　the　surgeon　to　bring　them　help；　or　at　least　alleviation。
  And　now　the　door　was　indeed　opened；　and　an　officer　entered。　Was　it　the　obscurity　of　twilight；　or　had　blood　and　pain　blinded　the　eyes　of　the　wounded　men　so　that；　they　could　not　recognize　the　stranger？　It　was　true　his　noble　and　generally　cheerful　face　was　now　grave　and　stern；　his　cheeks　were　ashy　pale；　and　his　great；　flashing　eyes　were　dim；　but　there　was　still　something　inexpressibly　majestic　and　commanding　in　his　appearancethough　defeated　and　cast　down；　he　was　still　a　hero；　a　kingFrederick　the　Great！
  Frederick　had　come　to　take　up　his　quarters　in　this　lonely　hut；　to　be　alone　in　his　great　grief；　but　when　he　saw　the　two　wounded　men；　his　expression　changed　to　one　of　earnest　sympathy。　With　hasty　steps　he　drew　near　to　the　two　officers；　bowed　over　and　questioned　them　kindly。　They　recognized　his　voicethat　voice　which　had　so　often　inspired　them　to　bold　deeds　in　the　wild　whirl　of　battle；　but　whose　tones　were　now　mild　and　sympathetic。
  〃The　king！〃　cried　both　in　joyful　surprise；　and　forgetting　their　wounds　and　helplessness；　they　strove　to　rise；　but　sank　back　with　hollow　groans；　with　the　blood　streaming　anew　from　their　wounds。
  〃Poor　children；〃　said　Frederick；　〃you　are　badly　wounded。〃
  〃Yes；〃　groaned　Lieutenant　von　Grabow；　〃badly　wounded；　but　that　is　of　small　consequence；　if；　your　majesty；　we　only　knew　that　we　had　gained　the　day。　We　had　taken　two　redoubts；　and　were　storming　the　third；　when　this　misfortune　befell　us。　Tell　us；　your　majesty；　is　it　not　true？　Is　not　the　victory　ours？〃
  A　dark　shadow　passed　over　the　f