The general stepped up to him, and grasped his hand.  “God be my witness that I will not!  But is this so certainly?  Do you speak the truth?”

“Yes, it is the truth!”

“Can you swear to it?”

“Yes, with the most sacred oath.”

The general paced the room in silence several times, and then, pausing before Gotzkowsky, laid his hand on his shoulder.  “Listen,” said he.  “I have often been reproached at home for being too soft and pitiful.  But never mind!  I will once more follow my own inclination, and act in spite of the orders which I have received.  You must help me.  Put all that you have just stated down on paper.  Write down that these buildings are not the property of the king, but of the orphan-house.  Swear to it with a sacred oath, and affix your signature and seal.  Will you do this?”

“Gladly will I do it,” cried Gotzkowsky, his face radiant.  “Never have I signed my name with a happier heart than I will have when I sign it to this affidavit, which will procure for us both the heart-felt blessings of so many children.”

He stepped to the general’s writing-table, and, following his direction, seated himself and wrote.

Tottleben in the mean while walked up and down pensively, his arms folded.  His features wore a thoughtful and mild expression.  No trace of the late angry storm was visible.  Once he stopped, and murmured in a low voice:  “Orphans one dare not plunder.  Elizabeth has a tender heart, and if she learns the reason of my disobedience, she will be content.  Yes, my course is the right one.”

“I have finished, sir,” said Gotzkowsky, standing up and handing him the paper on which he had written.

Tottleben read it over carefully, and laid it alongside of the dispatches to his empress.  He then called to his adjutant and ordered him immediately to place strong safeguards over the gold and silver manufactories and the warehouse, and to protect these against any attack.

Gotzkowsky clasped his hands, and directed his eyes to heaven with joyful gratitude, and in the deep emotion of his heart he did not perceive that the general again stood before him, and was looking at him with inquiring sympathy.  His voice first awakened him from his reverie.  “Are you contented now?” asked Tottleben, in a friendly tone.

“Content, general,” said Gotzkowsky, shaking his head, “only belongs to him who lies in his coffin.”

Again the general’s brow grew dark.  “What is troubling you now?  Don’t hesitate—­”

“To speak on, your excellency?” inquired Gotzkowsky, with a gentle smile.

“No—­to put yourself in your coffin,” answered the other, rudely.

“I have not time for that, as yet,” replied Gotzkowsky, sadly.  “Both of us, general, have still too much to do.  You have to add fresh laurels to your old ones—­I have to clear thistles and thorns from the path of my fellow-men.”

“Ah! there are more thorns, then?” asked Tottleben, as he sank down into a chair, and regarded Gotzkowsky with evident benevolence.