Part 31 (1/2)

A regiment of Russian soldiers marched past the corner of the Bishop Street, toward the market-place. They ranged themselves in two long lines, leaving a lane between them, just wide enough for a man to pa.s.s through. Then came two provost-marshals, and walked slowly down the lane, delivering to each soldier one of the long slender rods they carried under their arms.

The Russian soldiers were now armed, and awaited the victims they were to chastise. These were dragged out of the guard-house. First came tottering the gray-headed Mr. Krause, slowly and sadly; then came Mr.

Kretschmer, formerly the brave, undaunted hero of the quill--now a poor, trembling, crushed piece of humanity. They stood in the middle of the square, and, bewildered with terror, their help-imploring looks swept over the gaping, silent mult.i.tude, who gazed at them with eager countenances and malicious joy, and would have been outrageously mad if they had been denied the enjoyment of seeing two of their brother-citizens scourged by the enemy's soldiers.

”I cannot believe it!” whimpered Mr. Krause; ”it is impossible that this is meant in earnest. They cannot intend to execute so cruel a sentence. What would the world, what would mankind say, if two writers were scourged for the articles they had written? Will the town of Berlin suffer it? Will no one take pity on our distress?”

”No one,” said Mr. Kretschmer, mournfully. ”Look at the crowd which is staring at us with pitiless curiosity. They would sooner have pity on a murderer than on a writer who is going to be flogged. The whole town has enjoyed and laughed over our articles, and now there is not one who would dare to beg for us.”

At this moment another solemn procession came down the Bishop Street toward the square. This was the Town Council of Berlin. Foremost came the chief burgomaster Von Kircheisen, who had recovered his speech and his mind, and was memorizing the well-set speech in which he was to offer to the general the thanks of the town and the ten thousand ducats, which a page bore alongside of him on a silken pillow.

Behind the Council tottered trembling and broken-hearted the elders of the Jews, including those of the mint, in order to receive their final condemnation or release from General Tottleben.

The people took no notice of the Council or of the Jews. They were busy staring with cruel delight at the journalists, who were being stripped by the provost-marshals of their outer clothing, and prepared for the b.l.o.o.d.y exhibition. With a species of barbarous pleasure they listened to the loud wailing of the trembling, weeping Krause, who was wringing his hands and imploring the Russian officer who had charge of the execution, for pity, for mercy.

The Russian officer was touched by the tears of sorrow of the editor; he did have pity on the gray hairs and bowed form of the old man, or perhaps he only acted on instructions received from General Tottleben.

He motioned to the provosts to lead the other editor to the lane first, and to spare Mr. Krause until Mr. Kretschmer had been chastised. The provost seized hold of Mr. Kretschmer and dragged him to the terrible lane; they pushed him in between the rows of soldiers, who, with rude laughter, were flouris.h.i.+ng the rods in their hands.

Already the first, the second, the third blow has fallen on the back of the editor of the _Vossian Gazette_, when suddenly there sounds a powerful ”Halt!” and General Count von Tottleben appears, with Gotzkowsky at his side, and followed by his brilliant staff.

With a wild scream Kretschmer tears himself loose from the hands of the provost-marshals, and rushes toward the general, crying out aloud; Mr. Krause awakens from his heavy, despairing brooding, and both editors sink down before the Russian general.

With a mischievous smile, Tottleben looked at Mr. Kretschmer's bleeding back, and asked, ”Who are you?”

”I am the _Vossian Gazette_” whined out Mr. Kretschmer, ”whom you have accused of such cruel things. Ah! we have suffered great injustice, and we have been represented as worse than we really are. Oh, believe me, your excellency, I have been belied. I never hated Russia!”

”You are both of you accused of libel,” said Tottleben, sternly.

”If we are guilty of libel, it is without our knowledge,” said Mr.

Krause. ”Besides, we are very willing to recall every thing. I confess we were in error. We did not know you and your army, and we spoke ignorantly, as the blind man does about colors. Now we are better able to judge. You are the n.o.blest among n.o.ble men, and finer soldiers than the Russians, and a chaster woman than the Empress Elizabeth, are not to be found anywhere. Oh, yes, your excellency, _Spener's Journal_ is ready to eat its words. Only don't let me be flogged, sir, and I will sing your praises everlastingly, and proclaim to all the world that the Prussian has no better friend than the Russian, and that G.o.d has ordained them to be brothers.”

”Only don't let us be flogged,” implored Mr. Kretschmer, rubbing his sore back, ”I promise your excellency that the _Vossian Gazette_ shall be as tame as a new-born infant. It shall never indulge in bold, outspoken language; never have any decided color. I swear for myself and my heirs, that we will draw its fangs. Have, therefore, mercy on us!”

The general turned away with a smile of contempt. ”Enough, gentlemen,”

said he, roughly, and laying his hand on Gotzkowsky's shoulder, he continued: ”I pardon you, not in consequence of your idle talk, but for the sake of this n.o.ble gentleman, who has begged for you. You are free, sirs!” As the two editors were about to break out into expressions of gratefulness, Tottleben said to them, ”It is Gotzkowsky alone that you have to thank for your liberty.”

They threw themselves into Gotzkowsky's arms; with solemn oaths they vowed him eternal, inviolable grat.i.tude; they called him their savior, their liberator from shame and disgrace.

Gotzkowsky smiled at their glowing protestations of friends.h.i.+p, and withdrew himself gently from their ardent embraces. ”I did not do it for the sake of your thanks, and personally you owe me therefore no grat.i.tude.”

”Gotzkowsky, have you entirely forgotten us?” said a plaintive voice near him. It was Itzig, one of the rich Jews of the mint, to whom Gotzkowsky had promised a.s.sistance.

”Ask the general,” said the latter, smiling.

”He has spoken for you, and his intercession has freed you from the special tax,” said Count Tottleben.

”He has saved us, the great Gotzkowsky has had pity on our wretchedness,” cried the Jews, crowding around Gotzkowsky to press his hand, to embrace him, and with tears of grateful emotion to promise him their unalterable attachment.

”You have saved my life,” said Itzig, ”for I had determined to die rather than pay any more money. For what is life to me without money?