"To the dear ones at home--to the joys and sorrows of the heart, to the fair woman we love! War is rapture, love is life! Let the wounds bleed, let the heart break into a thousand pieces.

Laurels grow green on the battle-field, love twines garlands of roses-roses with thorns, yet beautiful roses! Go, beaker! No other lips shall drink from you." Georg's cheeks glowed as he flung the glass goblet into a corner of the room, where it shattered into fragments.

His comrades at the table cheered loudly, but Captain Cromwell rose quietly to leave the room, and the landlord shook his wise head doubtfully.
It seemed as if fire had poured into Georg's soul and his spirit had gained wings.

The thick waving locks curled in dishevelled masses around his handsome head, as leaning far back in his chair with unfastened collar, he mingled clever sallies and brilliant similes with the quiet conversation of the others.

Wilhelm listened to his words sometimes with admiration, sometimes with anxiety.