June 11th.

There is in the Reuss regiment of infantry an amusing little adjutant, Senior-lieutenant Schreck. He was with the expedition in China, and for that was awarded a medal. He is never to be seen without his little red and yellow ribbon. In fun the colonel asked him: "Have you got a ribbon like that on your night-shirt too?"

"You are pleased to jest, sir!" answered the little fellow indignantly, from the back of his long-legged bay mare.

"After all," said Falkenhein to me later, "I was just as proud of my first medal in the year 1870!"

"But this deluge of orders," he continued, "that was showered upon the China Expedition leads to a lot of self-delusion. It magnifies an insignificant event to an unnatural degree. Trivial successes stand out as if they were great victories, and cause exaggerated notions of individual infallibilty. This was exactly what happened in the Dutch campaign of 1787, upon which followed the disasters of Valmy and Jena."

Jena!——Guentz said that too. Moreover, the colonel does not deny that the Expedition achieved all possible success. But he considers most objectionable that self-asserting propensity to boast about it associated as it so often is with an unctuous piety. "Of course," he said, "it's only one of the signs of the times; and it is just these times that don't please me. All this outward show in religion is detestable. It was just so in Berlin and Potsdam in the time of Bischoffswerder and Woellner."

That again was before—Jena.

June 13th.

For the first time the colonel asked me about my experiences in the South African War. He was reminded of it because a lieutenant belonging to the South-West African Defence Corps happened to call upon him at the practice-camp. I could only say that I had brought away with me from the Transvaal an unspeakable abhorrence of war.

"Of war in general?" asked Falkenhein.

"Yes, indeed," I answered; and then it suddenly struck me what a preposterous reply this was for an officer to make. I qualified the assertion by saying I had assisted at the most unfortunate period of the Boer War, during the panic that followed Cronje's capture, and had got to know only the seamy side of warfare: demolished farms, trampled-down fields, no real steady fighting, scarcely any skirmishing even, but just one continual rout.

The colonel listened to my torrent of words in silence. Then at last—"Good God!" he said, "a thoughtful man must detest war—all war. But it does not do to be sentimental. Sentimentality in this matter is synonymous with stupidity." He spoke of this for a long time, then about other topics, and finally wound up by saying: "There are many such enigmas in this world that must remain unsolved for the present, and with which men are yet forced to deal in a practical manner, even at the risk of making mistakes. So that we just have to choose a sensible middle course. We must be neither too superficial nor too profound. And above all, we must not think too much!" Unfortunately, I am not the man for such compromises.

June 16th.

The colonel lunched with me in the canteen, sitting on benches in the middle of the wood; our fare being bread, sausage, and some excellent lager-beer. Close by were several one-year volunteers, and two or three non-commissioned officers with them. They looked uncomfortable, for they are forbidden to be on familiar terms with the non-commissioned officers. The colonel, however, did not mind it much.

"I believe," he said, "that it cannot always be avoided." Then he spoke of the one-year volunteer system, which in his opinion is a two-edged sword. It furnishes most efficient reserve-officers,—it has that advantage, certainly. But the drawbacks are as follows:

It is apt to demoralise the non-commissioned officers. True, bribery is strictly forbidden; but that is a mere empty form, a prohibition which is daily infringed, such infringement being purposely overlooked, whether for good or evil. The non-commissioned officer then ceases to depend on his pay alone; and that puts temptations to dishonourable conduct before many a perhaps otherwise conscientious man, besides inevitably engendering dissatisfaction with his profession. Furthermore, the one-year volunteer system takes away just those men who, with their higher intelligence and culture, might most effectually oppose the socialistic propaganda that goes on in the ranks, and who might in a certain sense exert an enlightening influence on those around them. The colonel regards all prohibitions and regulations against the inroads of the revolutionary spirit in the army as more or less futile. The only practicable expedient is the influence over the privates of thoroughly trustworthy elements in their midst. The fact that the one-year volunteers live in barracks among the privates certainly makes severe demands on the patriotism of the younger ones; but then it renders careful surveillance possible, and affords a valuable insight into the life of the common soldier, into his ways of thinking and his views of the world in general. Falkenhein maintains that for the same reason this arrangement, although in some respects inconvenient, is highly desirable for the avantageur as a future officer. The French military authorities, who have lately instituted a similar system, have, in his opinion, done perfectly right.

The hardships of the life serve both to sift out the incapables, and to produce officers who are more mature, more manly, and who do not look upon their inferiors as utter aliens.

The inspection of the regimental shooting went off without a hitch. In his subsequent criticism the general spoke of the pleasure it invariably afforded him to inspect the 80th Regiment of the Eastern Division Field-Artillery,—a pleasure of which he had never been disappointed. He ended by saying: "I congratulate both the regiment and yourself, Colonel von Falkenhein. The regiment, because it has such an excellent commanding officer at its head; and you, because you have made your regiment such a splendid body of men." Hardly a very brilliant or very witty remark, this; but it sounded pleasantly, and one could not reasonably expect higher praise.

Falkenhein was in the best of good humours. "Come, Reimers," he said after lunch, when he had accompanied the general to his carriage, "We'll give my two bays a little exercise. They've had none yet to-day."

The two officers started off at an easy trot towards the butts, chatting as they went.

"Here's something that will interest you, my dear Reimers," said the colonel presently. "Wednesday, the day we arrive home, is your day to go to the Guentzes. Mariechen has written to say there will be a surprise in the evening—vegetables of her own growing and poultry of her own rearing. The child makes one's mouth water, after our fare at the mess! The ladies promise us asparagus, home-bred chickens, new potatoes, salad, rhubarb shape, and a bowl of strawberries, too—everything home-grown. They drew lots as to which of the fowls were to be sacrificed, and are anxiously awaiting the arrival of the men, because not one of the kitchenmaids will consent to wring the neck of a chicken. My daughter also thanks you very much for your kind message; and I was to give you her kind remembrances, and to thank you heartily for taking such excellent care of her old papa." Reimers thanked him in a low voice.

"It is wonderful," continued Falkenhein pleasantly, "what a change a little creature like that girlie of mine can make in one's home. It used to be quite immaterial to me where I slept whether here, in barracks, or in my own house. After my dear wife died I never cared to be at home. And now this little girl makes things so pleasant again that I once more enjoy being within my own four walls."

The lieutenant did not think this at all extraordinary. And as the colonel went on chatting gaily about his little daughter, Reimers, so silent hitherto, became quite talkative. Falkenhein turned and glanced at him now and then. The young man threw his heart and soul into his subject, and his eyes shone as he related various little instances of Marie Falkenhein's amiability and charm.

Suddenly Reimers paused. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask the colonel at once for this jewel of a girl. It would, indeed, be the most natural end to their conversation, and he felt sure that he would meet with no rebuff. But then he had not meant to approach the colonel on the subject so long as he was a mere simple lieutenant. He would at least wait for his promotion to senior-lieutenant. Therefore he held back the proposal he had so nearly made.

It fell out that the very next day an official telegram arrived, promoting Reimers to the rank of senior-lieutenant. Colonel von Falkenhein was the first to congratulate his acting adjutant, and it astonished him that an event of the kind, bound to occur in the natural order of things, should throw the sedate Reimers into such a state of excitement.

The new senior-lieutenant, too, was surprised at himself, having hitherto imagined that he regarded such externals with considerable equanimity. The delight with which he now fastened the stars upon his epaulettes was little less than that with which, seven years earlier, he had attached the epaulettes themselves to his uniform, feeling himself the happiest man in the whole world.

When Senior-lieutenant Reimers reported himself to the colonel, Falkenhein made him an unexpected proposition.

"My dear Reimers," said he, "you know that Kauerhof is now the eldest senior-lieutenant in the regiment. Before he gets his captaincy he will have to return to ordinary duty for a time, and I must therefore look about for another adjutant. So I thought of you, my dear Reimers. You have been so entirely satisfactory as acting adjutant that I cannot wish for a better man. But what do you think of it yourself?"

Reddening with pride and pleasure, Reimers replied: "If you are kind enough to think me worthy of such a mark of distinction, sir, I can only promise to do my best."

The colonel nodded, and continued: "I can well believe in your good intentions. But now, how about the Staff College?"

"Under these circumstances," replied Reimers quickly, "I will of course gladly give up the Staff College."

"That's just what you shall not do!" returned Falkenhein. "You shall go to the Staff College. It is my wish, in your own interests and in that of your career, my dear Reimers. Perhaps the matter could be arranged by your postponing your examination for a little while. You will probably in any case have to wait patiently for quite six years to come before you get the command of a battery. Be my adjutant for the first two years of that period, and then go in for your examination. By that time I shall probably be no longer in the regiment. Well, what do you say?"

Reimers agreed with pleasure. There seemed nothing but good fortune for him that day. Apparently all his wishes were to be fulfilled. Would it not perhaps be best to propose at once for the hand of Mariechen? Was not this just the right moment, after receiving such a conspicuous proof of Falkenhein's esteem and goodwill? But finally a piece of pure punctilio prevented him from carrying out his intentions. It was not at all correct to make a proposal of marriage at the time of receiving an official notification.

At luncheon that day it was continually, "Your health, Reimers!" "Good luck to you, Reimers!" or the orderly would be at his elbow with a message: "Captain Blank, or Lieutenant So-and-so, would like to drink a glass of wine with you, sir." And Reimers pledged his friends gaily across the table. He had invited Guentz and little Dr. von Froeben to a bottle of champagne, and grew more reckless as time went on. When lights were brought for the cigars Guentz said to him: "You're a bit screwed, my boy. You'd better go and sleep it off."

But Reimers had become exceedingly jovial. "Oh, it's nothing at all!" he declared. "I'm going for my ride now It was postponed on account of the announcements to-day."

"That'll do nicely, my son," said Guentz; "that will put you right again." And he looked on smiling as the new senior-lieutenant swung himself into the saddle. The first attempt miscarried, and even the successful one was accomplished with difficulty; but the rider sat firmly enough in his seat when he got there and Dorothy had no tricks. Guentz waved merrily to his friend as he turned off into the forest.

The mare's hoofs sank deep into the soft sand; she soon allowed herself to fall into a lazy pace, and Reimers did not press her. Dorothy stretched out her neck and drew the bridle through her rider's fingers; he let it hang loose.

Reimers now became aware for the first time that the glasses and half-glasses in which he had answered his friends' congratulations must have amounted to a considerable number. If he tried to concentrate his thoughts on any particular subject, they slipped away from him in the most perverse manner. He reflected vaguely that this was the kind of mood in which he had of old committed all manner of pleasant follies and youthful indiscretions. And why not? Was he not young, and a free man?

How delightful was this solitude after the noise and smoke of the mess-room! It was now about six o'clock, and a heavenly June evening. The sun was still high, but the heat was no longer oppressive; the air felt soft and caressing. The dense forest on either hand was wrapped in stillness; no sound penetrated between the slender stems of the trees; the horse's tread in the soft sand made only a slight swishing noise.

At a crossing of the ways the mare came to a standstill, stretching out her nose towards a narrower lane, and snuffing the air. Finally she turned off the sandy road on to a grassy bridle-path. Reimers gave her her head; this was probably a short cut to the neighbouring village.

Now the wood became thinner. Cleared patches or young plantations alternated with the groups of tall pine-trees, and presently a fairly large meadow appeared on the left. The hay had already been carried; but in one corner the last remains of the crop had been collected and heaped together. This little haycock exhaled a penetrating fragrance, the essence of forest, grass, and sunshine, which the mare sniffed at longingly.

Suddenly there came over Reimers an irresistible desire to stretch himself out in the hay and rest there for a little. Without further thought he dismounted, pushed some hay to the mare with his foot, passed the bridle round the trunk of a pine that stood solitary at the edge of the field, and threw himself down on the soft grass. He pillowed his head on his cap, and buried himself deep in his rustling couch. He drew out along stalk and chewed at it; it still retained the sweet grassy taste. Thin wisps fell across his face, and between them he looked up into the blue sky, lazy and contented. Perfect stillness reigned around him; only as from time to time he turned his head the dry grass crackled and rustled, sounding in his ears like the snapping of twigs and branches.

At last his eyes became painful from staring so long into the dazzling blue of heaven. He shut them; all now was red instead of blue, and to lie with closed lids was grateful and delicious after the blinding light. He cast one sleepy glance at the mare. She stood there flicking her sides with her tail, and kept trying vainly to get some hay from the ground into her bit-encumbered mouth. He thought of slackening the curb for the poor beast, but was too lazy to stir.

While he was dozing off it seemed to him as if something light and fluttering passed him by; and for a moment he became aware of another perfume added to the scent of the hay—something faint, yet distinct. But he kept his eyes closed; nothing external mattered to him.

Reimers was awakened by a gentle pricking and tickling. It felt as though a wisp of hay were passing lightly over his mouth, backwards and forwards. He snatched at it, and a long stalk remained in his hand. His eyes were slightly dazzled; he was gazing straight at the sun, already considerably lower in the sky.

Lazily he looked around him. Thank goodness, the mare was still there, her head turned towards him, her ears pricked attentively.

And here—close beside him? A woman sat there; a dainty little figure, dressed in some light silken fabric, on her fashionably-curled golden hair an enormous straw hat, above which nodded brilliant scarlet poppies. She sat with her back to him, and was trying to pick out the longest stalk from a tuft of grass that grew at the edge of the meadow.

Reimers rubbed his eyes. Devil take it all! was he still dreaming? A subtle odour came wafting from the rustling silk of her attire, a breath of depravity, as though hailing from the corrupt life of some big city; a bewildering, insinuating atmosphere, that had of a sudden overpowered the delicious freshness of hay and pine-trees.

He shut his eyes dizzily. His senses were still somewhat dazed from his potations; he could not rouse himself to a clear awakening.

The woman turned towards him. A charming, rather bold face bent down over him, and a pair of hot, eager lips were pressed to his. And Reimers, after the space of years behind him, was once again in that mood in which he had of yore committed acts of folly.

A few weeks later Senior-lieutenant Reimers had a consultation with the surgeon-major, Dr. Andreae.

"What you tell me, doctor," he said at the end, "is very much like a death-sentence, so far as a man's domestic happiness is concerned. He must never hope to found a family?"

"No," replied Andreae; "a decent man does not marry under such circumstances. If he does, he commits a crime, consciously or unconsciously, not only upon a woman, but upon his children."

"Thank you, doctor." And Reimers would have taken leave, but Andreae stopped him at the door.

"I beg of you, my dear Reimers," he said, "not to take too tragic a view of your case. I assure you, many men in like circumstances make out a very tolerable existence. Among the younger men of the present generation the average is enormously high, though fortunately most cases are not so serious as yours. Quite alarmingly high, the average, to us doctors.

"But after all, life is not entirely concerned with this one relation to the other sex. Those who find themselves cut off from domestic happiness in this particular are often most excellent officers. In peace they can devote themselves entirely to their profession without other distractions; so that it benefits somewhat, as does the Catholic Church by the services of her celibate priesthood. And in active warfare it seems to me that such men must enjoy something of the fatalism of Islam. All is not lost, my dear fellow! I hear everywhere the greatest praise of your capacity and talents as an officer. So be brave, and throw the others as mere ballast behind you. You have a guiding star in your profession—is it not so?"

Reimers nodded.

"You are right, doctor," he said, "and I am much obliged to you."

He looked weary and broken as he went out at the door. In a thoughtless moment he had destroyed his one chance of happiness. That moment he must expiate, and he knew he was strong enough to bear the burden.

But it seemed to him that it was not this alone that had decided his fate. He felt as though a grey veil had descended over his whole future; even over all that in his imagination had elevated him above the more sordid chances of destiny.

Could this be because that star to which the doctor had pointed him was losing its brilliancy?

Gloomily he trod the woodland path to the town. Down below in a field behind the barracks an old sergeant was giving the assistant trumpeters a lesson. The lads blew forth a horribly ill-tuned unison. Then the sergeant set his own trumpet to his lips, and the notes of the dismissal rang clearly through the air:—



The signal that in the man[oe]uvres indicated the close of each evolution.



CHAPTER XIV

After eighteen months of service Gustav Weise was made bombardier. Captain von Wegstetten thought this would now be a safe experiment with the erstwhile social-democrat.

But more non-commissioned officers were still required.

Sergeant Wiegandt had gone away on April 1: Wegstetten's best non-com., and now the blissful husband of the beaming Frieda. He would have been made deputy sergeant-major very shortly; but not even this prospect had been sufficient to retain him. At Michaelmas two more non-commissioned officers would obtain their discharge; Heppner was dead; Heimert was in a mad-house; there were strange faces everywhere, instead of the old tried experienced men. And even so there were not enough of them.

In this embarrassment Wegstetten bethought himself of Vogt. He was an honest steady lad, on whom one could depend. All his superiors praised him, and, besides, he had good blood in his veins, inherited from his father, the brave old sergeant, with his iron cross and his medal for bravery.

Vogt did not prove to be particularly willing. Every plough in its furrow, every mower deftly at work, awakened in him longings for his old agricultural pursuits. He wore his uniform with a good grace; there was no help for it, and grumbling would have only made the life harder. But to stay on longer than necessary—for that he had no hankering.

Wegstetten knew how to tackle his men. He talked glibly to the gunner about the honour and distinction to be won as a non-commissioned officer, not forgetting to observe how much the father at home would rejoice to see the son following in his footsteps.

Vogt asked his father's advice, and the turnpike-keeper wrote back: "Jump at your captain's offer, my lad. As an old soldier, I am very glad to think of my boy as a non-commissioned officer. Never mind about me. The pleasure you give me will make me young and strong, so that I shall be able to keep the place going till you come home again at last."

So Vogt signed on for another year.

But directly he found himself committed he began to regret his decision.

He had been very lonely in the battery since his comrade Klitzing's death. He had not felt inclined to strike up a friendship with any one else; none of them were quite his sort. Despite his good nature, Truchsess was a lazy obtuse kind of fellow. Count Plettau, to be sure, was different; for though one never quite knew whether he was in jest or earnest, still one could have something like rational conversation with him. And Plettau took a real interest in the sturdy peasant lad, in whom he recognised an outlook on life so different from his own as to fill him with constant amazement. He told Vogt about the peasants of his own Westphalian home, who in many cases had lived on their land from generation to generation, and knew no higher source of pride than to call themselves peasant-farmers.

Then Vogt's eyes would brighten up. These men of the red mother-earth were people after his own heart.

"Yes," he said, "so it should be everywhere in Germany:

Peasant farm by peasant farm, Then shall none have hunger or harm!"

Vogt was grateful to the count for talking to him so sensibly and kindly; but still things were totally changed: he could not find any one to replace his faithful friend Klitzing. The poor fellow felt more and more lonely every day.

In addition to this he had many vexations to bear when on duty. Captain von Wegstetten and Lieutenant Reimers, who certainly both knew their business well, had always shown themselves satisfied with him; but a new senior-lieutenant was imported into the battery, a certain Brettschneider, who was always pulling Vogt up and finding fault with him.

Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider came from the Staff College, and the non-commissioned officers whispered it about that he was considered no end of a swell. Well, he might be clever and smart enough; but, nevertheless, the new officer was not infallible. When the exercises were going on he could make mistakes like every one else. One thing was certain: he was tremendously well-set-up. He always stood as straight and stiff as a ramrod, and he could scarcely turn his carefully groomed head, so high was his collar! Moreover, his pink, clean-shaven face never for one moment lost its expression of haughty disdain. The men avoided him as far as they could, for one seldom came near him without being called back and found fault with; and everybody—non-coms. and all—felt exasperated by the young man's conceited behaviour.

Devil take the fellow! Wegstetten and Reimers certainly did not make themselves cheap with the men. But when things were going right, they always had time for a word of praise and an appreciative smile. Even the sharp eyes of little Wegstetten could look quite good-humoured on occasion. But Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider always remained stand-offish, looking as if he had swallowed a poker.

All this incensed our honest Vogt. Of course it was true—confound it! that a soldier was only doing his duty; still, one is but human, and one deserves a little recognition for hard and faithful service. And isn't that the right way to knit a lasting bond between officers and men, one that should prove valuable when hard times come?

During the gun-practice Vogt had been several times called over the coals by Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider. The bombardier did his duty in a cheerful spirit, and sometimes let fall half-audible jokes and chaff for his comrades' benefit. This much annoyed the officer in question, and he spiced his rebuke with the remark that he didn't know how a man who couldn't observe the first rudiments of discipline could aspire to being a non-commissioned officer!

Vogt laid this scolding to heart. He had meant no harm when he had called out "Hurry up!" to that dilatory old Truchsess. On the other hand, it could not be denied that Brettschneider was in the right: they were forbidden to speak unless it was absolutely necessary, and "necessary" his admonition had certainly not been.

Nevertheless, a bitter feeling of having been unjustly treated remained in Vogt's mind.

When they came back from the practice-camp he rejoiced to be once more doing ordinary drill; for at this he knew he was especially good, particularly in the gun-drill. He would be able now to show the senior-lieutenant what a capable fellow he was. And this time they would have to be more than usually particular over the exercises; the colonel himself was going to review the sixth battery.

The mantling and dismantling of the guns needed great promptitude and dexterity. Imaginary accidents were therefore said to have happened, and the men keenly competed together to see who should remedy them most quickly and satisfactorily.

The pole of Vogt's gun was supposed to be broken. In a second he had put on the spare iron bands that should in reality be fixed with nails, and then he wound coil after coil of stout rope round the join, till the pole was as if held in a strong web of cordage, and would be more likely to break in a new place than to give way again where it had broken before.

He had just finished this piece of work, when a gunner came running to say that the off-wheel of the gun-carriage had been destroyed by a shot, and must be replaced by a new one.

This was a serious piece of business. Three men would have to hold the heavy carriage while the two others fixed the scarcely less heavy wheel on to the axle. To make things worse, that blockhead Truchsess had hurt himself in removing the wheel that had been "destroyed," so that only four men were left. Vogt rolled up the spare wheel, but it was almost impossible to fix it; the heavy wheel was too cumbersome for a single man.

The sweat ran in streams down Vogt's forehead into his eyes, making them smart terribly; but he would not give up, and at last with a tremendous effort managed to lift the wheel into place and slide it on to the axle. There was nothing to do now but to run the linch-pin through the axle and screw on the nave to keep all safe. This he did with trembling fingers.

Vogt raised himself. Thank God! Neither of the other five guns had got as far as his, and yet his had been the heaviest job. He told his men to keep still, and ran over to Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider to report the completion of his task.

Brettschneider was standing at the edge of the parade-ground in the shade of the baggage-shed, talking to Senior-lieu-tenant Reimers.

It was only while he was running that Vogt first noticed how severely he had strained himself. His heart hammered as though it would burst from his body, and his legs were trembling. With the back of his hand he wiped the sweat from his brow, and drew himself up in the prescribed fashion as he reported: "Gun six ready, sir. Pole mended and spare wheel fixed."

As through a mist he saw that Senior-lieutenant Reimers was smiling a little, probably at his over-heated appearance. Then suddenly he heard the sharp high voice of Brettschneider.

"Please stand in a more respectful attitude, Bombardier Vogt, when you have something to say to me," the voice snapped out.

Vogt pulled himself up and repeated his announcement.

But now the senior-lieutenant began to correct him and find fault with him: he was to put his right shoulder higher, his cap was not straight, he must place the tip of his little finger on his trouser-seam, and put his feet wider apart.

"Straighten your knees!" commanded he at last.

Vogt felt how his legs were trembling. He might have been able to obey; but he was at the end of his patience.

Brettschneider again and in a louder tone commanded: "Bombardier Vogt, straighten your knees!"

But Vogt did not care; a mad resentment surged up in him. He would not obey this idiot at any price. He raised his head, and looked the officer straight in the face with eyes full of open mutiny.

Brettschneider shouted again: "Bombardier Vogt, I order you to straighten your knees. Do you know that you are being guilty of disobedience to orders, and that that is a military crime?"

But Bombardier Vogt remained unmoved, with his mutinous eyes fixed on the senior-lieutenant.

Brettschneider waited a few seconds, then he called quietly to one of the corporals: "Put Bombardier Vogt under arrest!"

The corporal looked blankly, first at Brettschneider, then at Vogt.

The senior-lieutenant repeated his order, whereupon the corporal took the bombardier by his right arm and marched away with him through the gate into the courtyard of the barrack.

When they were out of hearing, Reimers turned to his companion: "Were you not a little hard on him, Brettschneider?"

The clean-shaven face turned towards him languidly, and Brettschneider asked coolly: "How do you mean, my dear fellow?"

"Well, you must know yourself!" pursued Reimers. "The man had just done a good piece of work, he came running to you and expected a word of recognition,—he deserved it, Brettschneider,—and you let him be taken off like that! I don't think that's the way to make men love their work."

"One must preserve discipline, and prevent these rascals from getting thoroughly demoralised."

Reimers shrugged his shoulders. "Vogt was the best soldier in the whole battery," he declared.

"Then the battery is in a bad way!" retorted Brettschneider impatiently. "The man commits an undeniable piece of disobedience before your eyes and you defend him? I am much obliged!" Brettschneider put on his haughtiest expression, smiled with the utmost politeness, and said amiably: "You must confess, my dear Reimers, that I am entitled to my own opinion about the matter."

In Room IX. that evening the conversation was of a heated description. Truchsess swore that he would not put up with that low fellow, that Brettschneider. All of them were furious with the stuck-up young man; and though they had hitherto gone through their duty without much fuss or grumbling, they were now filled with a thorough repugnance for the soldier's uniform and a perfect hatred for military life in which one had to knuckle under to idiots like that. You half killed yourself and what did you get by it? More kicks than halfpence, or perhaps you even get clapped into prison!

"Keep your hair on, brewer!" said Count Plettau to Truchsess; and putting on a superior tone: "We don't understand all this, you see! this is the higher kind of patriotism! Lieutenant Brettschneider ought to have a medal, instead of being blamed by such as you!"

He also was beside himself with rage over the exasperating piece of folly he had witnessed. Hang it all! if he had not been so seriously concerned to get to the end of his long years of service he would certainly have put a spoke in the wheel of this young gentleman, the senior-lieutenant. But no; that would be too foolish. Only a few days more and he would be free at last; he could not play tricks with his chances.

Suddenly he laughed aloud.

"You keep your mouths shut, boys!" he said, "otherwise you may get into trouble yourselves. But don't worry! When I have got over the next few days I'll give the senior-lieutenant the lesson he wants!"

The turnpike-keeper, Friedrich August Vogt, was gazing in surprise on a letter which the postman had just pushed in at the little window. The superscription was in the hand-writing of his son, but the post-mark bore the name of the capital.

What was the boy doing there? He had written nothing as to any prospective change. Well, the letter itself must explain.

At first the old man could not understand the written words. He read them through a second and a third time. At last he comprehended what had happened. He sat on his chair as if paralysed, and read the last page of the letter over and over again without attaching any meaning to it.

His son wrote from the prison where he was now detained as a prisoner awaiting trial. He related all that had passed straightforwardly and without excusing himself.

"To-day I have been shown the charge against me," he concluded. "It is a case of wilful disobedience before all the other men. I believe it is an offence that is rather severely punished, and I know, too, that I am not without blame. But perhaps, dear father, you will not condemn me altogether; perhaps you will be able to imagine what my feelings must have been. For your sake alone I ought to have been able to control myself, and I beg you to forgive me for not having done so."

The turnpike-keeper jumped up suddenly from his chair. He flung the letter violently down on the table and struck it with his fist. He felt full of uncontrollable anger against this boy, who had brought shame upon him in his old age at the end of an honourable and blameless life. And why? because my gentleman did not choose to obey orders! because he had chosen to feel injured! A soldier to feel himself "injured" by the blame of his superior! So these were the new-fangled times of no discipline and no respect for one's betters!

And this was the reward of his trouble in bringing up the boy to be loyal and true: that he had now got a son in prison! When the neighbours asked: "Your son is in the artillery, isn't he?" he must reply: "Oh, no; he was once! Now he is carting sand." "What! carting sand?" "Oh, yes; he is carting sand, dressed in a grey shirt, and with a lot of other gentlemen in a long row A Oh, very honourable gentlemen, all of them! A thief on one side of him, and on the other a person who did not quite know the difference between mine and thine." "Your son!" "My son, neighbour."

The turnpike-keeper seized the letter again to see how the thing went exactly.

Nice sort of business this! There it was right enough: "Wilful disobedience before all the other men!" Nothing else was to be made of it.

But this Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider—by God!—he was not one of the right sort, if the boy was telling the truth. With all due respect for an officer, he seemed to be a perfect popinjay. There were people like that here and there who were ready to burst with pride and conceit, and who looked upon an inferior as scarcely a human being.

And again he snatched up the letter.

What the boy wrote was all very clear and straightforward honestly and truthfully put. One could not help believing what was there on the paper; and, of course, it was easy to understand how the thing had come about. After all, every man has his feelings, whether he be a gunner or a senior-lieutenant. The devil! he himself would have done exactly as Franz did; though, of course, in his case life in a charity-school had made him used to giving in to people. But the boy had always been so independent, no one could help feeling for him.

And after all, when one looked at it rightly, it was a clumsy thing for Lieutenant Brettschneider to have done, and his son's fault had been the outcome of an unfortunate set of circumstances,—not a very serious fault either, though the poor lad would have to pay for it dearly enough!

Wilful disobedience—what sort of punishment would there be for that? It had such an imposing, ceremonious sound! He racked his brains to think whom he could ask about it. But there was no one in the village who would be of any use.

After a sleepless night he rose from his bed with his decision made. He milked the cow, and asked a neighbour to see to the animals during the day. Then he put on his old-fashioned black Sunday coat and the top hat which he only wore on great occasions, such as the king's birthday. On his breast he fastened his medal and cross. Over all he wore his old cloak, and he put some pieces of bread and sausage in his pocket. He was ready for travelling.

On the way to the station he passed a field of barley. It was ripe for cutting, and he had meant to begin reaping that morning. But what did it matter about the barley? He had got to see after his boy and petition for him. He would go straight to the right person: he would go to the garrison and seek out the head of his son's battery, Captain von Wegstetten.

Throughout the whole journey he was alone in the railway carriage; other people did not travel so early. He looked stupidly out of the window. It was all one to him to-day what the fields looked like and how the harvest was getting on. He could only think of what he should say for his boy. Perhaps it was still possible to make them give up the charge against him.

In the capital he sat for an hour and a half in the waiting-room, waiting for his train. He got a cup of coffee, and ate his breakfast from the provisions in his pocket.

It was close and hot in the big room. He felt uncomfortable in such an atmosphere, as every one must do who is accustomed to work in the open air, and at last he threw back his cloak to relieve his oppression. People stared at his medals, nudged one another, and would not take their eyes off him, looking curious but respectful.

The turnpike-keeper sighed and buttoned his cloak again. Oh, if people only knew in what trouble he was!

It was just eight o'clock when he reached the garrison town. Of course that was somewhat early to be making such a visit as his; but he had no time to lose, and he knew that an officer must always begin the day early.

The porter at the station did not know where Captain von Wegstetten lived. But the turnpike-keeper had a piece of luck: outside the station he met a gunner, who readily told him the address—"11 Markt Strasse, up two flights of stairs"—and showed him the way to go.

The two flights of stairs tried the old man sorely. He had to wait on the first landing in order to get his breath. "Have I grown old all of a sudden?" he asked himself in surprise.

A soldier in a red coat opened the door to him.

"Is the captain at home?" asked the turnpike-keeper.

"Sorry, but he's not," answered the lad.

"Can you tell me where I can find him?"

"That would be no good. The captain's gone away—to a court-martial."

The turnpike-keeper started violently.

"Is the court-martial on Bombardier Vogt?" he asked.

The soldier answered in the affirmative, and inquired in surprise, "Who are you, then?"

"Vogt's father. I—I wanted to talk to the captain about my son. But it is too late, I see."

He turned about, saying, "Thank you all the same," and went towards the stairs. In the dark he missed the first step and stumbled; the lad ran after him. He led the old man to the banister and said, "Take care you don't fall; it is rather dark here. And you know, Herr Vogt, the men of the battery all say it is a mean shame, what's happened to Vogt, a mean shame."

But the turnpike-keeper did not seem to understand him. He only nodded and said, "Thank you, thank you," and tramped slowly down the stairs in his heavy boots.

Whilst Friedrich August Vogt waited for his train in the station of the little garrison town, the trial of his son was taking place before the military court of the district.

There was no doubt about the circumstances of the case. The two eye-witnesses, Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider and Senior-lieutenant Reimers, were unanimous on the subject, and the accused gave his assent to the correctness of the particulars.

The trial would therefore have come to an end very quickly had there not been a number of witnesses for the accused.

Captain von Wegstetten, as head of the battery; Captain Guentz, who had commanded it during Wegstetten's temporary absence; Senior-lieutenant Reimers and Lieutenant Landsberg, as officers in the battery; the sergeant-major and other non-commissioned officers: all united in giving Vogt the very best possible character. Wegstetten had had a violent altercation with Brettschneider, not only from personal feeling for the bombardier, but also from annoyance that his best candidate for a non-commissioned officer's post was lost to him through a piece of such tactless mismanagement. Brettschneider had complained about this reprimand, but no notice had been taken of his complaint, and that in itself spoke volumes for the accused. Guentz and Reimers were very warm in their praise of Vogt, and even Lieutenant Landsberg remembered the man as being particularly willing and diligent on duty.

Things looked favourable for the accused.

One of the officers present, a captain of the pioneers, asked Vogt: "You had just been working very hard, had you not? had fixed the heavy wheel single-handed, and had run very fast to tell Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider?—were you not very much exhausted and out of breath?"

"Yes, sir."

"I mean, you were rather over-tired and your eyes were dazed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Perhaps you did not quite know what you were doing?"

The accused hesitated a moment.

Wegstetten and Reimers had remained in the room. The former moved restlessly from one foot to the other. If Vogt were only to say "Yes," then the whole thing would be put down to a temporary aberration of mind due to hurry and fatigue, and the affair would end with his acquittal.

But the bombardier answered: "No, sir, I knew quite well what I was doing."

Now that was honest, but distinctly stupid.

The countenance of the prosecutor lightened up. He was a very young man, with many scars on his face. He sat stiffly on his chair, tightly buttoned into an immaculate brand-new uniform; and hitherto he had been regarding with a bored expression a silver bangle that he wore on his right wrist.

The hearing of witnesses was at an end. The president of the court-martial, a fat, good-humoured man of mature years, asked: "Is there anything that you wish to say, Bombardier Vogt?"

"No, thank you, sir."

"You acknowledge your guilt, then?"

"Yes, sir."

But the president wanted to give the man a chance, and asked another question, to which an affirmative answer would be a matter of course.

"But you are sorry for your conduct?" he asked.

The accused, however, again hesitated. Naturally every one expected him to say "yes," so that people were not listening very attentively. But when this "yes" did not appear to be forthcoming, all eyes were suddenly fixed upon Vogt.

"No," said he firmly.

The president looked amazed. "You cannot have understood me," he said. "I asked you if you were not sorry for your conduct?"

But the answer came, clear and decided: "No, I cannot be sorry."

Every one present looked dumfounded. Wegstetten thrust his sword angrily against the ground. God in heaven! was the fellow an ass? Now his fate was sealed!

Those who were assisting at the court-martial looked indignant; the chief of them, a major of dragoons, tapped impatiently on the table with his gold pencil-case, and gave a condemnatory shake of his head. The youngest of his colleagues, a senior-lieutenant in the grenadiers, twirled his moustache briskly; the expression of his face said plainly: "Just wait a bit! we'll give you a lesson!"

The public prosecutor beamed. He rose with an air of triumph, and demanded, "having full regard for all the extenuating circumstances of the case, but also in consideration of the obstinate persistence of the accused in his offence," a punishment of nine months' imprisonment.

Vogt turned as pale as death when he heard these words. This was impossible! It could not, it ought not to be!

The court was not long in coming to its decision, and its judgment was read out by the president in a quiet even tone of voice.

The accused hung on his lips with anxious expectation. At last, after all the formalities, came the verdict: "five months' imprisonment." He leant against the railing that separated him from his judges. The wood gave a creak. Long after the fat gentleman had sat down again Vogt went on listening. Surely something more was coming; some mitigation of this terrible sentence? But the trial was at an end.

The condemned man was taken away by a non-commissioned officer; he walked with unsteady steps, his eyes staring into vacancy. In the passage outside he caught sight of Wegstetten. The captain was talking to an old man in civilian clothes. Vogt felt a thrill when he saw the white hair that surrounded the old man's face. But it was only after he had gone round the next corner of the passage that the recognition struck him: great God, it was his father!

Involuntarily he stopped and tried to turn back; but the non-com, took his arm and pushed him forward, not roughly, yet in such fashion that the prisoner gave up his attempt.

"You fool, you!" said his companion; "if you had said you were quite sick with shame for your silly behaviour, you'd have got off with a month!"

After endless questions the turnpike-keeper had managed to find his way to the court-house of the army-corps. He had been wandering through street after street; the busy traffic of the capital had made his head spin, and he was tired to death with this unwonted tramping over hard stone pavements.

He had arrived before the court-room door just as the witnesses were leaving. He had recognised Captain von Wegstetten immediately—his boy had so often described the little man with his gigantic red moustache and sparkling eyes—and he was not afraid of addressing him on the spot.

Wegstetten was at first not particularly pleased at this encounter; but the honest troubled face of the old soldier touched him, and he listened patiently.

The turnpike-keeper had not much to say; it only amounted to an earnest representation of how well-conducted his son had always hitherto been; of how glad he had been to be a soldier; and he ended with a bitter lamentation that all this should have happened to such a good, brave lad; the boy must have gone clean out of his senses. The old man said it all with the most touching self-restraint. He took great pains to preserve a soldierly bearing, and omitted none of the customary tokens of respect, just as if he had been still clad in his old sergeant's uniform, and standing before an officer of the most severe type. Yet all the time the tears ran down his weather-beaten furrowed cheeks and his snow-white beard, and as he tried to draw up his bent shoulders the medals clinked together on his breast.

Wegstetten had but little comfort for the poor old man. He told him how favourably all the witnesses had spoken of his son, both officers and non-commissioned officers; how he as captain of the battery had always been glad to have such a capable man under him; and how the whole wretched business had come about through the mismanagement of an officer who had only lately returned to the regiment.

The face of the turnpike-keeper lighted up as he listened to the captain's words. He breathed again. Thank God! things could not go so badly with the boy. A few weeks under arrest—and the affair would be at an end.

But Wegstetten proceeded to tell him of the continued obstinacy of his son, and at last was forced to impart to the old man the severe sentence that had been passed.

Five months' imprisonment! It struck the old turnpike-keeper like a blow. He staggered, and the captain was obliged to support him. But the weakness soon passed, and Vogt begged the officer's pardon. He could not, however, listen to Wegstetten's explanation of the harsh verdict. This was a terrible, a crying piece of injustice; on the one side was an offence, a perfectly trivial offence, committed by a brave well-behaved soldier (as by common consent his boy had been pronounced), who had been driven into it moreover by the "mismanagement" of his superior; and on the other side was this heavy punishment of five months' imprisonment! The disproportion between crime and sentence was incomprehensible to his mind.

He walked in silence beside Wegstetten, who was speaking to him earnestly the while. At the door of the court-house the old man stood still and saluted, meaning to take leave of the captain.

Then the officer asked him: "Would you not like to speak to your son? I will get you a permit."

"Thank you, sir," said the turnpike-keeper, "if you would have the kindness, sir."

This was soon done. Wegstetten exchanged a few words with the superintendent of the military prison and returned with the pass. He himself conducted the old man to the gate of the prison building.

"Don't take all this too hard, Herr Vogt," he said in farewell. "Your son has committed an excusable offence, and has been very severely but not unjustly punished. He remains an honourable soldier all the same."

"Yes, sir," answered the turnpike-keeper. He looked darkly after the little officer. What sort of talk was that? Was it any comfort to be told that his boy was not a dishonourable rascal? He knew himself what his boy was; none knew better! Bravery and honour, that was Franz all over. Nobody need tell him that.

And the poor lad had been punished as if he had stolen something! Many thieves, indeed, got off easier. They had condemned his boy to a dishonourable punishment,—and why? because he had too much sense of honour!

He rang violently at the entrance gate of the prison. A sentry opened the door, took the permit, and ushered him into the waiting-room. "I will tell the inspector you are here," he said, and left the room.

After a few moments the door of the waiting-room opened again and an inspector appeared on the threshold, a dried-up looking man with a leathery complexion. He looked at the permit through his spectacles, and turned curious eyes towards the medals on the breast of the veteran. He shook his head deprecatingly, and called out an order from the door.

Shortly afterwards a grenadier announced: "Bombardier Vogt is here, sir."

"Let him come in," said the inspector. Then he turned away, and stood looking out of the window.

Franz Vogt went quietly up to his father and looked into his face with his frank honest eyes.

"Good-day, father," he said simply.

The turnpike-keeper took his son's hand in both his own. The tears came into his eyes and he looked at him as through a veil. Thank God, the boy still wore his artillery uniform! The old man was spared the sight of him in the grey prison garb.

As the father was silent the son began to speak. He described in his plain hearty way how the whole unfortunate business had played itself out, and related truthfully everything that was in his own favour, while acknowledging his fault without further excuse. "Do you know, father," he concluded, "what the sentence is?"

The turnpike-keeper nodded. Franz cast his eyes down and said in a troubled voice: "It seems to me very hard, father."

He felt a spasmodic pressure of his hand, and his father nodded his head in assent.

"The corporal said I had only myself to thank for it," the prisoner went on. "They asked me if I was sorry, and I said 'no.' The corporal said that was stupid. But I couldn't say otherwise. And I should have to say the same if they asked me again."

Then the turnpike-keeper opened his mouth for the first time since he had entered the room.

"You were right!" he said, so loudly and emphatically that the inspector at the window started and gave a warning cough.

Now that he had seen his son again, this brave honest lad, a change seemed to have come over the old man. The boy had been a willing dutiful soldier, everybody said so, and yet they were going to shut him up in prison for five long months, all because of a piece of fiddle-faddle! Devil take them all! What was the use of being a good soldier? And at a stroke every trace disappeared of the obedient and respectful old sergeant who had worn the uniform so proudly; he was peasant pure and simple, hard-headed and stiff-necked, a peasant who would stand up for what he thought right and defend it through thick and thin.

"You are right" he said, "and you were right all along."

But the son was more discriminating than the father, even though the punishment affected himself.

"You are not in earnest, father," he remonstrated; "I know I was in fault. But the punishment is too hard, even so; and I can appeal."

The turnpike-keeper laughed softly.

"Yes, you can be a fool," he said, "and get yourself into a worse mess! No, boy, if you take my advice you will leave appealing alone. If they have been unjust to you then you must put up with the injustice proudly, it won't last for ever! but never beg for justice!"

Franz Vogt looked disappointed. He had hoped that the higher courts might mitigate his sentence, but his father's advice must be best.

The inspector turned round from the window. The visitor's time was up.

Once more the son regarded with loving pride the venerable appearance of his father.

"Why, you have put on all your medals, father!" he said, smiling a little.

"Yes," replied the turnpike-keeper. "I put on all my medals when I came to see you." And, in a loud voice, that the inspector might hear, he repeated: "I put them on for you, my dear good boy, and for you only." And for the first time in his life he embraced his son, took the boy's head between his hands, and kissed him on the forehead. Franz Vogt felt the trembling of the old man's lips, and choked back his own tears. As the warder was taking him back down the long passage he looked round once more. His father was just going out of the door, and a ray of sunlight fell on the venerable white head. Then the folding-doors closed, and shut in the grey twilight of the corridor.

The villagers had always regarded the turnpike-keeper as rather an eccentric person; but henceforth they began to look upon him as downright crazy. The old widow who had hitherto done his housekeeping was the first to spread this rumour.

The old man took to shutting himself up more and more. Nobody was ever allowed to cross his threshold.

The peasants, however, let him go his way. Every one has a right to do as he likes; and the turnpike-keeper's manner of life was beginning to be looked on as a matter of course, when suddenly he drew upon himself universal attention.

There was to be a fresh election for the Reichstag in the district, the conservative candidate's victory having been disallowed. He had only been successful after a second ballot, in which the votes of the two parties had held the balance almost even; and the election had just been declared null and void, in consequence of the protest made by the social-democrats. The two rival parties, social-democrats and conservatives, were now preparing anew for battle. Every single vote was of consequence, and canvassing went on busily. Election literature flooded the constituency; it was thrown in at open windows and pushed under door-sills.

The turnpike-keeper had hitherto always placed himself at the disposal of the conservative candidate.

The conservative party liked to display names of the "small people" of the neighbourhood on the list of their supporters, in addition to signatures of councillors of state, burgomasters, landlords, &c.

And now suddenly Friedrich August Vogt came and demanded to have his name taken off the list.

The president of the election committee, a cavalry officer in the reserve and the lord of the manor, attempted to make him reconsider his determination. He wanted to know the reasons for this sudden change of conviction, and asked pathetically if the old soldier was going to be unfaithful at this time of day to the motto: "God, King, and Country"? Vogt stuck to his demand, but he declined to give any reasons.

On the day of the election the turnpike-keeper was troubled with a feverish unrest. Ten times and more he put on his hat and stood at the house door with his big stick in his hand, but he always turned back again.

The polling was to end at six o'clock. Shortly before that hour he strung himself up to a resolve. He left the house hastily, and hurried to the ale-house, in the garden of which the polling-booth had been erected.

Before the door stood the two men who were distributing voting-papers. Tired with their day's work, they were leaning against the paling in front of the tavern. One of them, employed by the conservatives, was a superannuated farm labourer from the manor; the socialist was an invalided stonemason, who had lost a leg in consequence of a fall from some scaffolding. They were chatting together in a friendly fashion, notwithstanding the antagonism of their employers.

The one-legged man did not even give himself the trouble to offer Vogt one of his voting-papers. Everybody knew old Vogt. The blood of an old soldier ran in his veins, he was conservative to the bone.

The farm labourer held out a conservative voting-paper, and said:

"You are nearly too late, Herr Vogt. Here is your vote."

But the turnpike-keeper turned away with a lowering look. He stretched out his hand to the other man and demanded a voting-paper, with which the stonemason hastened to furnish him; and Friedrich August Vogt stumped heavily up the steps into the polling-station.

The magistrate of the district was taking charge of the proceedings. Beside him sat the schoolmaster of the church schools, and the inspector of the manor. A few peasants and a workman from the fire-clay factory, his clothes covered with lime, were standing about.

The schoolmaster announced the name: "Vogt, Friedrich August, retired turnpike-keeper, registered number 41."

The old man stretched out the folded voting-paper with a hesitating movement; the magistrate took it and placed it in the tin-box which served as a receptacle for the votes. He nodded familiarly to the elector; this was a certain vote for the conservatives.

But the turnpike-keeper did not respond to the greeting. He stood stiffly by the table looking at the box that contained the voting-papers; suddenly his erect figure seemed to collapse, and the old man slunk out of the polling-station almost like an evil-doer.

The results of the election were known in the village by seven o'clock. One hundred and fifty-three votes had been registered: seventy-seven for the social-democrats, seventy-six for the conservatives. It was the first time there had been a socialist majority in this place. The social-democrats had, therefore, every reason for rejoicing. They sat in the little inn at the end of the village, which was only able to maintain itself through the political disagreements of the villagers, and drank success to their party in the ultimate result of the election throughout the whole constituency. The peasants in the bar of the big inn were not less hopeful; they comforted themselves by declaring that the result in such a small place was of no real consequence. Nevertheless, it was a disgrace to think that there were now in the village more red revolutionists than loyal subjects.

The morning of August the 10th dawned bright and glorious; the day on which Plettau, after so many long years, came once more under the jurisdiction of civil law. It was one of those mornings when it is a joy to be a soldier; when every wearer of the uniform feels heartily thankful that his day's work is to be done out in God's free open world of nature, and not behind a desk or in some overheated factory.

The inspection of the battery was fixed for half-past seven. Lieutenant Brettschneider had had his men out since six, and had already robbed them of their last remnants of good temper. Here he had discovered a helmet the polish of which was not bright enough to please him, there a coat the sleeves of which were too long; or he had waxed wroth over some head of hair that he considered insufficiently cropped. And all this, while "stand at attention" was the order; so that the men got cramp in their legs, and sneezing fits from staring the whole time in the face of the morning sun.

At last the battery was drawn up on the parade-ground, and Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider was ready to do himself credit. The colonel was seen slowly approaching, accompanied by Major Schrader on one side, and by Captain von Wegstetten on the other. Brettschneider hastened towards them to report that the battery was in position.

The colonel received his announcement graciously. "Let the men stand at ease," he commanded. And when Brettschneider had called out the order, he returned to his place to begin the parade.

Then occurred something very startling.

A shout was heard: "Holdrio, hoho!" And then again: "Holdrio—yoho-hoho o!" And again a third time: "Holdrio—yoho—yoho—hoho—o—o!"

The yodel was evidently sounding from the slope of the opposite hill. Every one looked that way; and, behold, on the hillside appeared the figure of Count Egon Plettau, still dressed as for his discharge, in the grey drill trousers and much-patched coat.

He waved his cap to the battery; then he lowered his hands, while the eyes of the onlookers followed in suspense his every movement.

He let down the grey drill trousers; and there in the full blaze of the morning sunshine he went through a certain performance which even the Scythians—suggesting though they did to Greek art the original conception of the centaur—could certainly not have achieved without descending from horseback.

If Plettau, like Janus, had had eyes in the back of his head, down below in the parade-ground he would have seen an array of wide-open eyes and gaping mouths.

After a short interval he arose, picked up a big piece of white cardboard from the ground, and pointed to it as he brandished it in the air. Then he laid it down again, and once more he yodelled gaily: "Holdrio—yoho—yoho—hoho—o—o!" He then bowed politely, and vanished precipitately among the bushes.

Down on the parade-ground every one was speechless. The men looked sheepish; they longed to burst into peals of laughter, but were afraid of getting into trouble. So they took great pains not to commit themselves, and tried to look as if something perfectly ordinary had been happening.

Wegstetten was beside himself with anger and resentment. "I beg you will allow me, sir," he said to the colonel, "to send a couple of non-commissioned officers to arrest that fellow. This is an unheard-of insult to the whole army—a scandal a disgrace!"

Falkenhein's lips twitched. He, too, thought this piece of impudence quite beyond a joke. But he held the same opinion as did the Grand Duke of Oldenburg concerning lese-majeste: that the insult of a fool is no insult.

"Be calm, my dear Wegstetten," he said. "Let your count take himself off. But you had better just send some one up there—one of the non-coms, upon whom you can rely—to fetch down that placard before any of the men can get hold of it. Who knows what impertinence the fellow may not have scrawled?"

Corporal von Frielinghausen was charged with the mission, and ascended the hillside. The exercises were begun meanwhile.

Frielinghausen found the piece of cardboard neatly placed against a bank beside the last traces of Count Egon Plettau. Carrying the placard with its back carefully turned to the battery, he descended the slope again, and returned to the three officers. With the tips of his fingers the colonel took the document from him. The inscription was short enough:

"Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider," cried Major Schrader suddenly, "please be good enough to come here for a moment."

Brettschneider advanced in haste: "You called me, sir?"

Schrader pointed to the placard. "A few words in elucidation of the demonstration up yonder!" he said, shaking with suppressed laughter.

On the cardboard was neatly written in gigantic letters, coloured artistically with red and blue: "A farewell greeting to Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider!"

"A reminiscence of 'Ekkehard,'" said the colonel. "This Count Plettau has read a certain amount. One must give the devil his due!"

But Major Schrader, who in his leisure hours occupied himself with modern literature, who had seen "Die Weber" and "Seine Kleine" in Berlin, and was even acquainted with "Rosenmontag," murmured softly to himself; "A farewell to the regiment!"



CHAPTER XV

"Freedom, that I sing—" (Von Schenkendorf.)

In August Corporal von Frielinghausen was ordered to the Fire-workers' College in Berlin. The young fellow made a good appearance in his neat uniform; his figure had filled out and become more manly, and on his upper lip a slight moustache had begun to show. But his bronzed visage had retained the old frank boyish expression, and altogether he was a fine-looking lad, after whom the women already turned to gaze.

After two years had passed, his friends received a formal notification of his marriage; it was sent with the greetings of Baron Walther von Frielinghausen and Baroness Minna Victoria von Frielinghausen, nee Kettke.

Frielinghausen had obtained his discharge from the army. Minna Victoria was the only child and heiress of the manager of a large place of entertainment, and Baron Walther von Frielinghausen played the part of manager in place of his father-in-law, the rather impossible Papa Willy Kettke. He went about attired in an unimpeachable black coat, and with a well-bred little bow would himself usher into their places any specially distinguished-looking guests. Then he would stand with the air of a young prince in the neighbourhood of the bar, and the waiters and cooks, barmaids and kitchenmaids, had a mighty respect for him. He waxed portly in figure, and Minna Victoria often felt herself obliged to call him over the coals for paying too much attention to some one of the elegant ladies who patronised the establishment.

The sixth battery of the 80th regiment, Eastern Division of the Field Artillery, had occasion, however, to send another non-commissioned officer to the Fire-workers' College—Gustav Weise.

Captain von Wegstetten was very well pleased with Weise; he considered he had made him a permanent convert to the cause of king and country, But Weise was rather inclined to domineer over his subordinates—which was not what might have been expected of a former social-democrat—and on that account his captain had hit upon the idea of persuading him to be a fire-worker. The non-commissioned officer had a clear head, and it might be hoped he would make a career for himself.

Under these circumstances Weise began more and more to curse the day when he had had tattooed upon his arm that ridiculous jingle about Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. It caused him serious annoyance if one of his comrades noticed a scrap of the motto peeping out from under his sleeve, and wanted to see the whole inscription.

One day when he was out walking in the town he noticed on a door a brass plate bearing the announcement: "Dr. Buechsenstein, specialist in skin diseases, &c." It occurred to him that this gentleman might be of assistance to him, and he put in an appearance at the hour of consultation.

The little dark-haired doctor could not entirely restrain his intense amusement when the patient bared his arm and came out with the request that the tattooing might be scraped away.

"Well, my good man," he said, "I can't do that for you! You can't have it scraped away! Anyhow, you're wearing the sleeve of the king's uniform over the watchword of revolution; and if you want to do more, you can put on a thick coating of lanoline and dust it with rice-powder. Then nobody will see it."

"Thank you, doctor," said Weise, standing up. "What do I owe you for your trouble?"

"Nothing at all, my man!" said the little doctor, laughing. "It's been no trouble; only a pleasure!"

And the non-commissioned officer went off to the nearest druggist's, where he bought the largest tube of lanoline in the shop and half a pound of rice-powder.

The military prisoner Wolf could hardly believe his eyes when he saw his former comrade Vogt dressed in the grey prison clothes. The prisoners had been ordered out for open-air work and were standing in the corridor, but at some distance from each other; it was quite impossible to get nearer together, and speaking was strictly forbidden. The guard stepped into their places around the little band, and it was as usual well rubbed into the minds of the latter that these armed sentries carried loaded weapons, and were not supposed to hold their hands in any case of attempted escape. "Halt!" would be called three times, and they would fire if the word of command were not obeyed. The non-commissioned officer in command made this announcement, and then the doors were unlocked and thrown open.

Out in the yard the sunlight only touched the upper storey of one of the wings, and within the high walls the air felt icy cold. As from the bottom of a shaft they looked up to the clear sky overhead, and then stepped out into the real sunshine and felt the warmth of the bright rays.

During the time of the autumn man[oe]uvres, and until the early part of the new year, the enormous parade-ground was deserted. The drilling of the troops went on in the barrack-yard, and it was only after the inspection of recruits was completed that exercises took place in the big ground.

The prisoners were ordered to get the place tidy for the spring and repair any damages that had occurred during the summer. The principal work, however, was the banking up of a high obstacle wall, and beyond it to dig a deep ditch; both for use in the artillery driving-exercises. This was an unspeakably fatiguing business. The soil, to a depth of several feet, consisted of light fine sand. In this they stood ankle deep, loading their wheelbarrows; yet the ditch never seemed to grow any deeper, nor the wall any higher. It was like working with water which continually flowed in again.

Whilst work was going on it was easy for one man to approach another. When Vogt and Wolf passed each other for the first time, one pushing his wheelbarrow before him, the other trotting with his empty barrow down into the ditch, they exchanged melancholy nods. Later it came about that they were standing next each other shovelling the loose sand into their barrows. True, speaking was forbidden; but it was possible to murmur words almost without moving the lips, yet so as to be perfectly intelligible.

"How do you come to be here?" was Wolf's first question.

Vogt related his story, often interrupted by the progress of their work; but when he had deposited his barrowful up above, he always managed to return to the neighbourhood of his erstwhile comrade in the regiment, and at last he had told the whole history of his crime.

Wolf gave a short bitter laugh. He was heartily sorry for this poor fellow, but was not this a new example of the fact that socialists had no need to work hard at propaganda? The ripe fruit was ready to drop into their laps without any co-operation of their own. This Vogt, the bravest of soldiers, the most amenable of men, fitted for a post in the royal body-guard, was wheeling his barrow here amongst thieves and ruffians of all sorts. And beside him the blood-red social-democrat!

And then he listened as Vogt went on to tell of his other acquaintances in the battery; each day, of course, his narrative was interrupted, and sometimes they had only time for a few words.

Weise had been promoted to be non-commissioned officer! That everlasting chatterer, who only owed it to his gift of the gab that he had been able to boast of himself as confidential agent of his union!

Was not this a topsy-turvy world?

But no. Weise fitted his position to a nicety. His fluent adaptability was in its right place. Little Captain von Wegstetten would have no non-commissioned officer under him better calculated to satisfy his desires than Gustav Weise. If he had remained a social-democrat, thought Wolf to himself, he would simply have been a pliant tool in the hands of some stronger member of the party. He was not to be relied on either here or there.

How different was Vogt, the peasant! Honour and steadfast faith looked out of his quiet grey eyes. Wolf began to take him in hand.

The echoes of those hastily whispered words as to the great injustice and oppression of the present, and the glorious equality and freedom of the future, rang the clearer and the more insistently for being awakened within the walls of a prison. Two men, who could with a clear conscience acquit themselves of any guilty intention, were here herding with common criminals and carting sand like them.

The peasant yielded this point at once. Wolf and he were both being punished unjustly. And the world was full of injustice.

"Then you belong to us," said Wolf.

"How do you mean?" asked Vogt. "To you?"

"Why, you are a social-democrat!"

"Am I?" said Vogt. "Perhaps. I don't know."

"If you think like that you must be."

"Well, but I don't want a revolution, or anything of the kind; though it is all the same to me whether we have a king or a republic. I only want to have my work, and to do it as I like, and to be left alone."

"The one leads to the other," said Wolf. "If things are to become better there must be a different form of government."

He went on further to speak of the brotherhood which should include all nations of the earth, so that there should be no more war and no more soldiers. Who else was it but the princes and rulers that hindered the coming of this fair unity of hearts? The people certainly desired ever-enduring peace. The oppressive sense of captivity stirred him to eloquence that fired his own imagination, and finally even inflamed the sober judgment of Vogt.

The peasant nodded: "Yes, yes. That would be fine!"

He could form no clear picture of that brilliant future. All men brothers? No more quarrelling and no more war? No one who would give orders to others? No one who would demand taxes and rent? Was this really possible?

But the other man spoke in such a convinced manner, he seemed so certain, that there was hardly room for doubt. And these were the aims of those social-democrats of whom people were so afraid, thinking they wanted to destroy and annihilate everything!

Of course they were right. Everything would be better then, and more beautiful. And to work for that would be worth one's trouble! One could give one's life for it if need be.

They were on the way back to the prison after their work. Vogt and Wolf stepped along side by side in the ranks. The long lean man seemed to be merely skin and bone; his cheeks had fallen in, the grey prison clothes hung loosely on his limbs. But his eyes glowed and sparkled as though with an inward fever, and a proud smile was on his lips. Vogt nodded to him. The gesture was the expression of a solemn vow.

The troop of prisoners arrived at the gate. A heavy shower of rain drove them to take shelter in the arched doorway, and they stood pressed closely together waiting for the door to open.

Suddenly Vogt felt Wolf's hand seize his own in a firm grip.

"I think we are now at one about this, comrade?" he heard him whisper. And the peasant returned the strong pressure, and answered, "Yes, comrade."

Each day in prison resembled every other; they passed slowly by like a chain of exactly equal links.

When the ground became frozen and neither spade nor pickaxe could be used, the prisoners were given straw mats to plait or sacks to sew.

Then Vogt used to swear to himself. "Damn it all! Why didn't I straighten my knees? What did it matter to me that the lieutenant had such a stuck-up way with him?" Thank God the first three months of the five had passed by, and in January he would return to the garrison. Then there would be two more months to serve; till in March, in the first days of spring, he would be free.

But before that, when December was just beginning, bad news came to him from outside.

His father was dead. And, worse still, he was already buried when the son first heard of the occurrence. But that had been the old man's wish.

It all sounded like an old story, this that was told to the military prisoner Vogt, as he stood in the office by the superintendent of the prison, a little sickly-looking captain of infantry.

The village-elder from home had come himself all this long way to inform the son of his father's death. There he stood, big, fat, and strong, in his sheepskin cloak; a freer breath of air seemed to have come in with him, and he related all there was to tell. It was not even certain when the turnpike-keeper had died.

With the departure of summer the old man had seemed gradually to decay. In spite of that, however, he steadily refused to have any one to help him; and when the cold weather put a stop to work in the field he was seen no more by the neighbours.

The little house looked lifeless with its closed shutters, and only the thin line of smoke which ascended from the chimney at morning and midday betrayed the presence of a living creature.

Then came the hard frost at the beginning of winter. The boy who daily fetched away the milk that Vogt sold reported one day that the pitcher of milk had not been left in the yard for him as usual. But there was nothing extraordinary about that. Perhaps the queer old man had wanted to make butter. The peasants thought it was just some new fancy of his. At midday some one drove past the turnpike-keeper's house, taking corn to the mill, and observed that no smoke was coming from the chimney. Why had old Vogt got no fire? Even if he didn't want to cook food for himself, the cows ought to have their warm meal. On his way home the same peasant heard the cows mooing incessantly in a troubled manner, and he related all this at the ale-house in the evening.

Then the villagers put their heads together. Possibly the old turnpike-keeper was really ill. The more curious among the neighbours left the warm parlour of the inn, and tramped along the high-road in the biting east wind. They knocked at the door of the turnpike-keeper's little house, and tapped on the window shutters. Nothing could be heard but the sighing of the wind; and at last they turned away homewards. But next morning the milk-pitcher was still absent, and there was no smoke from the chimney. The village-elder was then informed. He ordered out the gendarme, and sent a locksmith to force the door. Half the village went after them and crowded round the turnpike-keeper's cottage, so that the gendarme had some trouble in keeping the women and children at a distance.

The village-elder banged on the door with his fist and rattled the handle. "Herr Vogt!" he cried, "Herr Vogt! open the door!" And again: "Herr Vogt! turnpike-keeper! open the door!" Then the gendarme, an old comrade in arms of the turnpike-keeper, called loudly; "August! open the door! or let us know if you are ill!"

All was silent. The shutters were closed; the whole house seemed asleep.

Only the lowing of the cows sounded from their stable, and the rattling of their chains, as if they had heard the cries that could not awaken their old master.

Then the village-elder turned to the locksmith: "We must break the door open."

The lock was soon forced, but the door would only open an inch or two; an iron bar had been fixed across it, but that was soon lifted.

A couple of young men were posted at the door to keep out the crowd, which thronged around the house in silent breathless curiosity.

The two officials stepped into the passage. The gendarme pushed the kitchen-door open; the room was cold as ice. On the hearth a handful of broken sticks had been placed, and the match-box lay beside them ready for kindling the fire.

The front room was darkened by the closed shutters, and a close smell as from a vault met them when the door was opened. There sat the turnpike-keeper at the table dead. His head had fallen forward; the body sat stiff and stark in the narrow arm-chair, and his hand, which had evidently been supporting his chin, was still raised, stiffened by the paralysis of death and by the icy cold. Papers of various kinds were spread out before the dead man: account-books, and gilt-edged testimonials dating from the turnpike-keeper's time in the army. Beside these were cardboard boxes filled with money, each neatly labelled: "Money for milk," "Money for corn," "Money for cattle." The old man had evidently taken them out of a cash-box which stood open before him, and at the bottom of which lay his medals and cross of honour.

The gendarme laid his hand on the shoulder of the dead man and said: "You were just looking at your cross again, old comrade, were you, and then you fell asleep?"

The two men put the money and the papers back into the cash-box, which the village-elder placed in a cupboard that stood open. This he locked, and took possession of the key.

"There is something else," cried the gendarme suddenly; and he pointed to a folded paper lying on a little table by the door.

"My last will and testament. To be opened immediately," was written on the document in the rather shaky but distinct handwriting of the turnpike-keeper. The "immediately" was underlined three times.

Well, the injunction was plain enough; and the two officials did not hesitate to comply with it. They had the legal right to do so, and besides they were extremely curious.

The paper was not even sealed up. It contained nothing at all extraordinary. Old Vogt desired in case of his death that the crippled neighbour who had sometimes helped him to look after the place should keep everything in order until his son returned from his military service. He was to have the money obtained from the sale of the milk as a reward for his trouble. Then the will continued: "Everything I have belongs, of course, to my dear son Franz. The expenses of my burying are to be defrayed from the money contained in the box labelled 'funeral money.' I wish to have a very simple funeral, and desire particularly that my son shall only be informed of my death after the ceremony is over, in case it should happen before February 3rd next year."

"We shook our heads over that," said the village-elder to Franz. "It seemed so funny that he should have fixed upon a date." He coughed and went on in an embarrassed way. "Now of course we know that your father did not want us to hear of your—misfortune, at least as long as he was still above ground. Well, well, it has not been so bad after all, according to what your captain told me."

The superintendent of the prison cut him short rather nervously: "That has nothing to do with the case, sir, has it?"

Thereupon the peasant proceeded with his narrative. After they had left the dead man, of course the first thing was to see to the cows. The pigs had eaten all the straw in their sty and the poultry had rushed like mad things upon the grain that was given them.

Everything was in order, and he, the village-elder, would see to it that it was kept so. Besides, old Wackwitz was an honest, stupid sort of fellow; he was quite to be trusted.

For the funeral, of course, everything had been arranged according to the dead man's desire. But the old sergeant was not buried without having the three salutes fired over his grave. And the lord of the manor, in his uniform, with two old warriors of 1870-71, headed the procession of mourners.

Franz Vogt sat on the bench in his dark cell and wept hot tears for his father's death. The poor fellow had indeed grounds for lamenting his fate. Death had taken from him first his friend and then his father. Was he always to be lonely?

During the frosty days of winter Vogt had hardly set eyes upon his regimental comrade Wolf. But now a few days of damp weather brought the severe frost prematurely to an end. There was a sudden change one night at the end of January, and next morning the smiling sun beamed down from a clear blue sky upon the surprised, drowsy earth.

The military prisoners at once began their daily work again upon the big parade-ground. The snow had to be removed before it could melt and settle in pools upon the ground they had so carefully levelled. In the grey morning twilight, therefore, a little troop of prisoners, with old cloaks over their prison clothes, were set to work as usual, surrounded by the armed sentries.

For Vogt and Wolf it was a meeting after a long separation. The peasant recounted the particulars of his father's death; not without a certain pride in the unusual circumstances under which the old man had met his end in self-appointed loneliness.

"A true man to the last!" said Wolf. But he could not even press his friend's hand in sympathy.

Then Vogt began to speak of the day of release. For him that would soon come. He knew that every word must cut his comrade to the heart, for poor Wolf had still to endure long years of martyrdom in prison; but he could not help it. He could not restrain himself from expressing the great joy that filled his breast. He counted the hours and the minutes as they passed, and could scarcely sleep at night.

Vogt walked with uplifted head and bright eyes; he handled his spade with cheerful zeal, and pushed his heavily-loaded wheelbarrow energetically. Would he not be a free man in a few days?

But Wolf compressed his lips together, and the brighter the sunshine the darker grew the cloud on his brow. His cheeks had fallen in more and more, and at the slightest exertion the sweat poured down his thin face. He looked ready to break down, and his eyes glowed with a feverish light.

"I shall never last it out," he whispered to Vogt one morning. "I shall go all to pieces. I would rather break away altogether and escape."

"You are mad," said Vogt. "Do you not see the sentries? You would not be able to get a hundred yards away."

Wolf looked at him. The chance of escape out of this narrow circle was indeed small. But he stuck to his project, adding: "What does it matter if I am shot down? Would that not be better than going on in this way for three more long years?"

Of a sudden his plan appeared to him in a new light. If his flight were unsuccessful, if a sentry's bullet put a stop to it, would he not equally have suffered for his opinions? Would not this bloody sacrifice to the cause of revolution win new adherents? And would that not be better in the end than if he got free and lived out a painful existence in some foreign country?

Though formerly he had longed to be free at any price, death now shone before him as a desirable goal. Better that than to be crippled merely.

Next day he whispered to Vogt, "Next time that the Jaegers are on duty I shall try it."

Vogt shook his head emphatically with a gesture of protest. His comrade must have gone clean out of his wits. And why should Wolf want to make the attempt just when the Jaegers were mounting guard, the troops that were most proficient in shooting? It looked as if he were courting death.

The kind-hearted fellow set it before himself to dissuade his comrade from his intention. It would never do to let such a brave man commit suicide in a fit of despair. But he must manage it soon; in five days he himself would be free, and before that Wolf must give him his promise to abstain from his folly. Unfortunately the Jaegers would be mounting guard the very next day.

As he pushed his loaded wheelbarrow before him he sought to meet Wolf's eyes; his comrade also had just filled his barrow. Vogt passed close by him, and signed to Wolf to come with him. But Wolf purposely remained behind and shook his head, smiling.

Soon afterwards they were called in. The prisoners put away their tools and their barrows, and Vogt stood waiting in the half-dark shed till the others were ready.

Suddenly he felt his hand gripped, and Wolf whispered in his ear: "Farewell, comrade, and keep true!"

Next minute the tall lean man had glided past him, and others had crowded between; it was impossible to get near him again.

On their way back to the prison he again intercepted a glance from Wolf. His comrade looked cheerful and triumphant, like one who has shaken off a heavy burden, and sees his future lie clear before him.