“The arms?” said Gotzkowsky, hastily.  “Yes, but not all arms.  Take some of them—­we have three hundred inferior rifles—­take them, sir, and fulfil the letter of your orders, and save our honor.”

General von Tottleben did not answer immediately.  Again he paced the room, from time to time casting sharp, piercing glances at Gotzkowsky, whose firmness and animation seemed to please him.  He stopped suddenly, and asked in a voice so low that Gotzkowsky was scarcely able to distinguish the words—­“Do you think the Germans will praise me, if I do this thing?”

“All Germany will say, ’He was great in victory, still greater in his clemency toward the conquered,’” cried Gotzkowsky, warmly.

The general dropped his head upon his breast in deep meditation.  When he raised it again, there was a pleasant smile upon his face.  “Well, then, I will do it.  I will once more remember that I am a German.  Where are the three hundred rifles?”

“In the armory, sir.”

The general made no reply, but stepped toward his writing-table hastily.  He wrote off a few lines, and then with a loud voice called his adjutant again to him.  As the latter entered, he handed him the writing.  “Let the disarming take place.  There are not more than three hundred muskets.  Let the citizens bring them to the Palace Square.  There they will be broken up, and thrown into the river.”

“O general!” cried Gotzkowsky, his countenance radiant with delight, when the adjutant had left the room, “how I do wish at this moment that you were a woman!”

“I a woman!” cried Count Tottleben, laughing, “why should I be a woman?”

“That I might kiss your hand.  Believe me, I never thanked any man so truly and sincerely as I now do you!  I am so proud to be able to say, ‘Berlin is conquered, but not dishonored!’”

Tottleben bowed amicably toward him.  “Now, after this proof of my generosity, the town will hasten to pay its war-tax, will it not?” Then seeing the dark cloud which gathered on Gotzkowsky’s brow, he continued with more vehemence, “You are very dilatory in paying.  Be careful how you exhaust my patience.”

“Pray let me know, sir, when it is exhausted,” said Gotzkowsky.  “It is cruel to drive an exhausted animal beyond his strength.  Do you not think so?”

The general nodded his assent in silence.

“You are of my opinion,” cried Gotzkowsky.  “Well, then, you will be just, and not exact of this exhausted city, wearied unto death, more than she can perform.”

With glowing words and persuasive eloquence he explained to the general how impossible it was for the city to pay the demanded war contribution of four millions.

Tottleben let himself again be persuaded.  In the presence of this ardent, eloquent German patriot, his German heart resumed its power, and compelled him to mercy and charitableness.  He consented to reduce the tax to two millions of dollars, if Gotzkowsky would guarantee the punctual payment of the bonds given by the body of merchants, and give two hundred thousand of it in cash down, as hush-money to the Austrians.