“A great many yet, sir,” answered Gotzkowsky, sighing.  “Our whole body is bloody from them.”

“Then call on the regimental surgeon to cure you,” said Tottleben, with a coarse laugh.

“You only can cure us,” said Gotzkowsky, seriously, “for only you are able to inflict such severe wounds.  You are not satisfied with having conquered and humiliated us, but you wish to tread us in the dust, and make our cheeks, which were pale with sadness, now redden with shame.  You have ordered that the citizens of Berlin should be disarmed.  You are a brave soldier, sir, and honor courage above all things.  Now, let me ask you, how could you bear to exhibit the certificate of your cowardice?  Could you survive it?  You look at me in anger—­the very question makes you indignant; and if that is your feeling, why would you subject the citizens of Berlin to such disgrace?  With our weapons we have fought for our just rights and our liberty.  God has willed it that we should be subdued nevertheless, and that you should be the conquerors.  But methinks it would redound more to your honor to be the conquerors of honorable men than of cowardly slaves!  And when you require of us, the conquered, that we shall give up our manly honor, our weapons, you convert us into abject cowards, and deprive yourselves of all honor in having conquered us.  Let us then, sir, keep our weapons; leave us this one consolation, that on our tombstones can be inscribed:  ‘Freedom died, but with arms in her hand!’” and Gotzkowsky, quite overcome by his painful emotions, leaned back against the wall, breathless, his imploring looks fixed upon the general.

But the latter avoided meeting his eyes, and directed his own darkly toward the ground.

Gotzkowsky perceived the indecision, the wavering of the general, and he felt that he must now risk every thing to overcome his resistance.  “Leave us our weapons.  Oh, you are a German! spare your German brethren.”

Tottleben sprang from his seat as if a venomous snake had stung him.  Dark and terrible were his features, his eyes flashed fire, and raising his right hand threateningly, he cried out:  “You remind me in an evil hour that I am a German.  Germany drove me out to find in a foreign land the appreciation which my own country refused me!  Had I been a foreigner, Germany would long ago have proclaimed my fame; but, being the son of the family, the mother drives me out among strangers—­and that they call German good-nature!” and he broke out into a bitter, scornful laugh.

“It is but too true,” said Gotzkowsky, sadly.  “Our mother Germany is fond of sending her greatest sons out from home on their pilgrimage to fame.  For her great men she has but the cradle and the grave.  But show your unfeeling mother that you are better than she is; prove to her how unjust she has been.  Be magnanimous, and leave us our weapons!”

“I cannot, by Heaven!  I cannot do it,” said Tottleben, sadly, in a low tone.  “I must obey the higher authorities above me—­the empress and the commander-in-chief, General Fermore.  My orders are very strict, and I have already yielded too much.  It is written in these dispatches that the arms must be given up.”