“You are both of you accused of libel,” said Tottleben, sternly.

“If we are guilty of libel, it is without our knowledge,” said Mr. Krause.  “Besides, we are very willing to recall every thing.  I confess we were in error.  We did not know you and your army, and we spoke ignorantly, as the blind man does about colors.  Now we are better able to judge.  You are the noblest among noble men, and finer soldiers than the Russians, and a chaster woman than the Empress Elizabeth, are not to be found anywhere.  Oh, yes, your excellency, Spener’s Journal is ready to eat its words.  Only don’t let me be flogged, sir, and I will sing your praises everlastingly, and proclaim to all the world that the Prussian has no better friend than the Russian, and that God has ordained them to be brothers.”

“Only don’t let us be flogged,” implored Mr. Kretschmer, rubbing his sore back, “I promise your excellency that the Vossian Gazette shall be as tame as a new-born infant.  It shall never indulge in bold, outspoken language; never have any decided color.  I swear for myself and my heirs, that we will draw its fangs.  Have, therefore, mercy on us!”

The general turned away with a smile of contempt.  “Enough, gentlemen,” said he, roughly, and laying his hand on Gotzkowsky’s shoulder, he continued:  “I pardon you, not in consequence of your idle talk, but for the sake of this noble gentleman, who has begged for you.  You are free, sirs!” As the two editors were about to break out into expressions of gratefulness, Tottleben said to them, “It is Gotzkowsky alone that you have to thank for your liberty.”

They threw themselves into Gotzkowsky’s arms; with solemn oaths they vowed him eternal, inviolable gratitude; they called him their savior, their liberator from shame and disgrace.

Gotzkowsky smiled at their glowing protestations of friendship, and withdrew himself gently from their ardent embraces.  “I did not do it for the sake of your thanks, and personally you owe me therefore no gratitude.”

“Gotzkowsky, have you entirely forgotten us?” said a plaintive voice near him.  It was Itzig, one of the rich Jews of the mint, to whom Gotzkowsky had promised assistance.

“Ask the general,” said the latter, smiling.

“He has spoken for you, and his intercession has freed you from the special tax,” said Count Tottleben.

“He has saved us, the great Gotzkowsky has had pity on our wretchedness,” cried the Jews, crowding around Gotzkowsky to press his hand, to embrace him, and with tears of grateful emotion to promise him their unalterable attachment.

“You have saved my life,” said Itzig, “for I had determined to die rather than pay any more money.  For what is life to me without money?  If the Jew has not money, he is nobody.  In saving my money you saved my life.  If ever you should be without money, Gotzkowsky, come to me; I will lend you some at very low interest.”