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:

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 GÜntz, 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. GÜntz 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 lÊse-majestÉ: 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!"