“Do you know what that means?”

“It means to deprive the poor man of the morsel of bread which, by the sweat of his brow, he has earned for his wife and children!  It means to rob him who possesses nothing but the craft of his hands and his body, of his only right—­the right to work.  You are going to destroy the gold and silver manufactories, to burn the warehouse, to tear down the brass works in the New Town Eberswald!  And why all this?  Why do you intend to leave behind you this memorial of your vandalism?  Because your empress is angry with our king!”

“Because enemies wish to revenge themselves on enemies,” interrupted the general.

“Do that!” cried Gotzkowsky, warmly.  “Revenge yourself on your enemy, if you consider the destruction of his property a noble revenge.  Destroy the king’s palaces; rob him, if you choose, of his most ennobling enjoyment!  Rob him of his pictures; do like the Saxons, who yesterday destroyed Charlottenburg.  Send your soldiers to my house; there hang splendid paintings bought by me in Italy by the king’s order.  I know that our noble king anticipates much pleasure in carrying them some day to Sans Souci.  But revenge yourself, take these pictures, set fire to these noble works of art, but spare what belongs to the poor man!”

He spoke with noble warmth, with glowing eloquence, and against his will Tottleben’s German heart was touched, and moved him to clemency and compassion.  But he would not listen to it.  General Fermore’s dispatches lay before him, and compelled him to be harsh.

“You think you speak wisely, and yet you talk nothing but impudent nonsense,” said he, with assumed severity.  “Who thinks of destroying the poor man’s property?  The royal property shall be destroyed, and nothing else.”

“But the gold and silver manufactories and the warehouse are not the property of the king,” said Gotzkowsky quickly.  “Not a penny goes thence into the king’s treasury.”

The general’s countenance brightened up considerably.  “Not into the king’s treasury?” said he; “where, then, does it go?”

“The money, your excellency, which is earned at the gold and silver factories and at the warehouse is devoted to a praiseworthy and touching purpose.  Perhaps you are a father—­have children; and when you go into battle you think of them, and utter a silent prayer, intrusting them to God’s care, and praying that they may not be left orphans.”

Count Tottleben muttered some untelligible words, and stretched out his hand deprecatingly.  His lips trembled, and to conceal his agitation he turned away.

Gotzkowsky cried out joyously:  “Oh, I see in your eyes that you are vainly trying to compel yourself to look at me in anger.  Yes, you are a father.  Well, then, father, spare the orphans!  From the proceeds of the gold and silver factories, and the warehouse, the new, large orphan-house in Potsdam is supported.  Oh, you cannot be so cruel as to deprive the poor children, whom the pitiless war has rendered fatherless, of their last support, of their last refuge!”