Part 17 (2/2)

”Oh, what happiness! my dear Kretschmer!”

And they shook each other's hands and repeated their a.s.severations of friends.h.i.+p and esteem, but, at the same time, breathed in their hearts their curses and execrations. But the two editors were not the only persons who had sought the Kottbuss Gate at this early hour. An Austrian officer with a guard of soldiers, in his search after the two editors, had also reached the spot, and was marching with his men from the corner near the gate, looking eagerly right and left and up at all the windows. His eye fell upon these two men who were shrinking from his sight, uttering pious e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns to Heaven. The officer approached them and demanded their names. Neither answered. The officer repeated his question, and accompanied it with such threats as convinced Mr. Krause of the imperative necessity of answering it. He bowed, therefore, respectfully to the officer, and pointing to his friend, said, ”This is Mr. Kretschmer, the editor of the _Vossian Gazette_.”

Kretschmer cast upon him a look full of hatred and revenge. ”And this,” said he, with a wicked smile, ”is Mr. Krause, editor of _Spener's Journal_.”

An expression of joyous triumph shone in the countenance of the officer: ”You are my prisoners, gentlemen,” said he, as he beckoned to his soldiers to arrest them.

Pale did Mr. Krause grow as he drew back a step. ”Sir, this must be a mistake. We are quiet, peaceable citizens, who have nothing to do with the war, but only busy ourselves with our pens.”

”Our arrest is contrary to all national law,” cried Mr. Kretschmer, at the same time endeavoring to defend himself from the weapons which were pointed at him.

The officer laughed. ”In war we know no national law. You are my prisoners.” And disregarding their struggles and cries for help, they dragged the two editors as prisoners to the guard-house at the New Market.

CHAPTER II.

THE CHIEF MAGISTRATE OF BERLIN.

After a short interval of quiet and lonesomeness at the Kottbuss Gate, there appeared, first far down the street, then approaching nearer and nearer, a solemn procession. Foremost staggered the chief burgomaster, Von Kircheisen, in full uniform, adorned with his golden chain, which rustled as it rose and sank with his hurried, feverish respiration.

He was followed by the second burgomaster, with the Town Council, and deputation of merchants, headed by Gotzkowsky. With solemn, serious air, these gentlemen took up their position at the gate.

The chief burgomaster then beckoned Gotzkowsky to his side. ”Stand by me, my friend,” said he, with a groan, and offering his hand to Gotzkowsky with a dismal air. ”I am suffering terribly, and even the two bottles of Johannisberger are not sufficient to inspire me with courage. Is it not terrible that the honorable Council should be obliged to attend in person? It is an unheard-of indignity!”

”Not only for you, but for the Berlin citizen is the insult equally great,” said Gotzkowsky.

Herr von Kircheisen shook his head in a most melancholy manner. ”Yes,”

said he, ”but the Berlin citizen does not feel it so deeply. It does not affect his honor as it does that of the magistracy.”

Gotzkowsky smiled scornfully. ”Do you think,” asked he, ”that the magistrates possess a different kind of honor from that of any citizen of the town? The sense of honor is keener among the people than it is among the n.o.blest lords.”

The chief burgomaster frowned. ”These are very proud words,” replied he, with a shrug of his shoulders.

”Pride belongs to the citizen!” cried Gotzkowsky. ”But believe me, n.o.ble sir, my heart to-day is not as proud as my words. It is sore with pain and grief over our deep, unmerited degradation.”

”Silence, silence!” whispered the chief magistrate, leaning tremblingly on Gotzkowsky's arm. He heard a noise behind the closed gates, and his mind misgave him that the dreaded enemy was at hand.

Suddenly there sounded on the other side of the walls the loud notes of a trumpet, and the warder hastened to throw open the gate. A rare and motley mixture of Russian uniforms now came in sight. There were seen Cossacks, with their small horses and sharp lances; body-guards, with their gold-adorned uniforms; hussars, in their jackets trimmed with costly furs, all crowding in in confused tumult and with deafening screams and yells, that contrasted strangely with the silence inside the gates, with the noiseless, deserted streets, the closed windows of the houses, whose inhabitants scorned to be witnesses to the triumphal entry of the enemy. Only the ever-curious, ever-sight-loving, always-thoughtless populace, to whom the honor has at times been accorded of being called ”the sovereign people,” only this populace had hurried hither from all the streets of Berlin to see the entry of the Russians, and to hurrah to the conqueror, provided he paraded right handsomely and slowly in. And now a deep silence took place in the ranks of the enemy; the crowd opened and formed a lane, through which rode the Russian General Bachmann and his staff. As he reached the gate he drew in his horse and asked, in a loud, sonorous voice, in French, whether the magistrates and deputation of merchants were present.

The chief magistrate felt unable to answer; his knees tottered and his teeth chattered convulsively. He could only wag his head in silence and point with trembling hand to his companions.

”Is the merchant, John Gotzkowsky, one of your deputation?” asked the general.

Gotzkowsky stepped out of the crowd and approached the general with a proud step. ”I am he, sir.”

”I am glad to meet you,” said the general, with a gracious smile. ”I bring you greetings from General Sievers. He commissioned and ordered me to show you all possible favor. If I can be of service to you in any possible way, pray command me. I am General von Bachmann, and during our presence here have been appointed to the command of Berlin.”

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