That Feuchtwang scene, it would appear, has brought him to a resolution.

There is a young page Keith of the party, Lieutenant Keith of Wesel's Brother; of this page Keith, who is often busy about horses, he cautiously makes question, What help may be in him?
A willing mind traceable in this poor lad, but his terrors great.
To Donauworth from Anspach, through Feuchtwang and Nordlingen, is some seventy or eighty miles.

At Donauworth one surely ought to lodge, and see the Schellenberg on the morrow; nay drive to the Field of Hochstadt (Blenheim, BLINDHEIM), which is but a few miles farther up the River?
Buddenbrock was there, and Anhalt-Dessau: for their very sake, were there nothing farther, one surely ought to go?
Such was the probability, a visit to Blenheim field in passing.

And surely, somewhere in those heart-rending masses of Historical Rubbish, I did at last find express evanescent mention of the fact,--but cannot now say where;--the exact record, or conceivable image of which, would have been a perceptible pleasure to us.

Alas, in those dim dreary Books, all whirling dismal round one's soul, like vortices of dim Brandenburg sand, how should anything human be searched out and mentioned to us; and a thousand, things not-human be searched out, and eternally suppressed from us, for the sake of that?
I please myself figuring young Friedrich looking at the vestiges of Marlborough, even in a preoccupied uncertain manner.
Your Majesty too, this is the very "Schellenberg (or JINGLE-HILL)," this Hill we are now skirting, on highways, on swift wheels; which overhangs Donauworth, our resting-place this hot July evening.