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, nÉe 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. BÜchsenstein, 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 manoeuvres, 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 JÄgers 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 JÄgers 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 JÄgers 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.

The guard that came on duty next morning in the parade-ground wore the green JÄger uniform. One of the sentries, a smart young fellow with a carefully waxed black moustache and quick eyes, had on his breast the mark of distinction for shooting. He was doing this duty evidently for the first time, and he looked the prisoners up and down with a curious glance, as if they were some queer sort of wild beast. Then he took up his position, and marched stiffly beside the procession as they left the gate.

A thin mist covered the broad expanse of the big ground, but the sun soon dispelled the damp vapour, and shone down warm and unclouded.

Vogt looked anxiously at Wolf. But his comrade seemed to have given up his intention; he was bending diligently over his work, and had not even taken his place in the outside rank of workers, but was digging busily among the others. At a little distance from the prisoners the sentries strolled up and down their beat.

Presently an orderly from head-quarters came riding by on a dark-brown horse, which he was making step high in a stately manner as if on parade.

The JÄger with the black moustache held his gun negligently on his shoulder and looked on with an interested expression. It was very boring to be always watching the prisoners messing about in the dirt.

Suddenly a lean figure detached itself from the little group of workmen--it was Wolf. With long strides he fled behind the sentry in the direction of the forest. The JÄger had not even remarked his flight, and it was only the cry of the sergeant that drew his attention.

Then he hastily took the gun from his shoulder, made ready to fire, and cried the first "Halt!"

Wolf ran on without stopping. Then something happened which decidedly bettered the chances of the fugitive: the mounted orderly felt called upon to give chase. He set his horse to a gallop and dashed after the escaping prisoner.

Wolf heard the hoofs behind him and glanced round hastily. The rider was between himself and the sentry. Only a few more steps and he would be in the forest and under cover, if the horse did not reach him before that. At a stroke the despairing wish for a martyr's death had vanished. He no longer wished to die; he wanted to live and be free. Freedom was awaiting him, there in the forest towards which his hurrying feet were carrying him. How would they ever be able to find him in that thick labyrinth of young pine-trees? He would break through the undergrowth at the forest's edge and take a lateral direction; then he would lie crouching on the ground and let the bullets whistle over his head.

From behind him sounded the second "Halt!" The sentry's voice rang more sharply and insistently.

Yes, shout as you like! He was only a few paces from the forest's edge; a little ditch separated it from the parade-ground, but it was only about a yard wide and easy to leap.

Wolfs plan was made.

He knew that the forest extended to the outskirts of the town. The first houses of the suburb were built among the trees. Workmen dwelt there--iron-founders and metal-workers--members of his party. They or some compassionate woman would certainly give the fugitive some cast-off clothes, and then he thought he could make for the frontier.

From behind came the third warning "Halt!"

The mounted orderly had apparently perceived the hopelessness of his efforts, and had reined in his horse; the sound of hoofs was no more to be heard. Now for the ditch!

He sprang. He thought he could smell already the powerful odour of the fir-trees. There, a little to the left, was an opening in the thicket; he could slip in there and be safe.

Then, midway in his leap, a bullet struck him in the nape of the neck. He stumbled forward with his face buried in the haven of the undergrowth, his eyes gazing forwards towards the land of freedom.

Some weeks later the head physician of the military hospital in the capital gave a lecture, with illustrations, before the Medical Society, "Upon an interesting case of the effects of small bore ammunition."