“I cannot believe it!” whimpered Mr. Krause; “it is impossible that this is meant in earnest.  They cannot intend to execute so cruel a sentence.  What would the world, what would mankind say, if two writers were scourged for the articles they had written?  Will the town of Berlin suffer it?  Will no one take pity on our distress?”

“No one,” said Mr. Kretschmer, mournfully.  “Look at the crowd which is staring at us with pitiless curiosity.  They would sooner have pity on a murderer than on a writer who is going to be flogged.  The whole town has enjoyed and laughed over our articles, and now there is not one who would dare to beg for us.”

At this moment another solemn procession came down the Bishop Street toward the square.  This was the Town Council of Berlin.  Foremost came the chief burgomaster Von Kircheisen, who had recovered his speech and his mind, and was memorizing the well-set speech in which he was to offer to the general the thanks of the town and the ten thousand ducats, which a page bore alongside of him on a silken pillow.

Behind the Council tottered trembling and broken-hearted the elders of the Jews, including those of the mint, in order to receive their final condemnation or release from General Tottleben.

The people took no notice of the Council or of the Jews.  They were busy staring with cruel delight at the journalists, who were being stripped by the provost-marshals of their outer clothing, and prepared for the bloody exhibition.  With a species of barbarous pleasure they listened to the loud wailing of the trembling, weeping Krause, who was wringing his hands and imploring the Russian officer who had charge of the execution, for pity, for mercy.

The Russian officer was touched by the tears of sorrow of the editor; he did have pity on the gray hairs and bowed form of the old man, or perhaps he only acted on instructions received from General Tottleben.  He motioned to the provosts to lead the other editor to the lane first, and to spare Mr. Krause until Mr. Kretschmer had been chastised.  The provost seized hold of Mr. Kretschmer and dragged him to the terrible lane; they pushed him in between the rows of soldiers, who, with rude laughter, were flourishing the rods in their hands.

Already the first, the second, the third blow has fallen on the back of the editor of the Vossian Gazette, when suddenly there sounds a powerful “Halt!” and General Count von Tottleben appears, with Gotzkowsky at his side, and followed by his brilliant staff.

With a wild scream Kretschmer tears himself loose from the hands of the provost-marshals, and rushes toward the general, crying out aloud; Mr. Krause awakens from his heavy, despairing brooding, and both editors sink down before the Russian general.

With a mischievous smile, Tottleben looked at Mr. Kretschmer’s bleeding back, and asked, “Who are you?”

“I am the Vossian Gazette” whined out Mr. Kretschmer, “whom you have accused of such cruel things.  Ah! we have suffered great injustice, and we have been represented as worse than we really are.  Oh, believe me, your excellency, I have been belied.  I never hated Russia!”