The latter declared himself gladly willing to accept the orders, and to stand security with his whole fortune for their payment.  Both then remained silent, as if fatigued by the long and severe war of words, from which Gotzkowsky had always come out victorious.

The general stood at the window, looking into the street.  Perhaps he was waiting for Gotzkowsky to give vent to his warm and delighted gratitude before he took leave.  But Gotzkowsky did neither the one nor the other.  He remained with folded arms, his countenance full of earnest courage and bold determination.

“I will finish what I have commenced,” said he to himself.  “I will keep my word, and not move from the spot before I have pleaded for all those to whom I promised my assistance.  The general is at liberty to curse my importunity, if I only do my duty toward my fellow-citizens.”  As he still remained silent, Tottleben turned toward him laughingly.

“What,” said he, “are you dumb?  Is your eloquence exhausted?  Indeed, when I think of all that you have got out of me to-day, it almost makes me smile.”  And he broke out into a merry, good-natured laugh.

“Well, laugh, sir,” said Gotzkowsky, “I know you are fond of a laugh.  For example, you have just played a little joke on the Jews, and made them believe that they have to pay an imposition—­”

“Made believe?” interrupted Tottleben, hastily.  “Man! be satisfied that I have remitted two millions to the citizens.  Don’t speak up now for the Jews.”

“But the Jews are a part of the citizens.”

“Are you crazy, man?” cried Tottleben, violently.  “Is the Jew a citizen with you?”

“Yes,” answered Gotzkowsky, “as far as paying goes.  The Jew is obliged honestly to contribute his proportion of the war-tax.  How can you, with any semblance of justice, require of him another further tax, when he has already, in common with us, given up all he possesses?”

“Sir,” cried Tottleben, with suppressed vexation “this is enough, and more than enough!”

“No,” said Gotzkowsky, smiling.  “It is too much.  The Jews are not able to pay it—­”

“I will remit their contribution,” cried the general, stamping violently on the floor, “to please you—­just to get rid of you—­but now—­”

“But now,” interrupted Gotzkowsky, insinuatingly, “one more favor.”

The general stepped back astounded, and looked at Gotzkowsky with a species of comical terror.  “Do you know that I am almost afraid of you, and will thank God when you are gone?”

“Then you think of me as the whole town of Berlin thinks of you,” said Gotzkowsky.

The general laughed.  “Your impudence is astonishing.  Well, quick, what is your last request?”

“They are preparing at the New Market a rare and unheard-of spectacle—­a spectacle, general, as yet unknown in Germany.  You have brought it with you from Russia.  You are going to make two men run the gantlet of rods—­not two soldiers convicted of crime, but two writers, who have only sinned in spirit against you, who have only exercised the free and highest right of man—­the right to say what they think.  You are going to have two newspaper writers scourged, because they drew their quills against you.  Is not that taking a barbarous revenge for a small offence?”