“The Council of Berlin has come to thank you.  For it is an unparalleled example for a man to undertake and go through what you have done for us, without any interest, without any ulterior object.”

“You make me out better than I am,” replied Gotzkowsky, smiling at Herr von Kircheisen’s pompous words.  “I had an ulterior object.  I wished to gain the love of my fellow-citizens.  If I have succeeded, I am more than rewarded, and I pray you say no more on the subject.”

The chief burgomaster shook his head majestically.  “You have exercised toward us the virtue of philanthropy.  Allow us to exercise toward you in return the virtue of gratitude.”  He took from the hands of the assistant burgomaster a dark-red etui, from which he a wreath of oak-leaves, worked in silver, which he presented to Gotzkowsky.  “John Gotzkowsky,” said he, solemnly, “the Council and citizens of Berlin request you, through me, to accept this memorial of their love and gratitude.  It is the civic crown of your magnanimity.  Receive it from our hands, and accept also our vow that we will never forget what you have done for the town of Berlin.”

Tears of delight, of heart-felt joy stood in Gotzkowsky’s eyes as he took the oaken crown from his hands, and glowing words of gratitude poured from his lips.

Not far off, in a niche of a window of the hall, stood Messrs. Krause and Kretschmer, with sullen looks, witnessing the homage paid to Gotzkowsky, their souls filled with envy and rage.  They, too, had come to thank him, but with unwilling hearts, because they could not be well absent from the festivities which the whole town offered him.  But they were vexed to see this man, whom they hated from the bottom of their hearts, because of their obligations to him, so universally honored and beloved.  It annoyed them to see the pleasant and affable smile with which the otherwise proud burgomaster conversed with him; to see with what cordial friendship the senators and councilmen surrounded him.

“I came hither,” said Mr. Krause, softly, “to thank Gotzkowsky for saving us, but I must confess it worries me to see him so glorified.”

Mr. Kretschmer shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.  “Let them praise him,” said he; “the Vossian Gazette will not notice it, and I will not write the smallest article on this occasion.  As for the service he rendered us—­well, certainly, it would have been unpleasant to have been flogged, but then we would have been martyrs to our liberal opinions; the whole world would have admired and pitied us, and the king would not have refused us a pension.”

“Certainly,” whispered Mr. Krause, “he would have granted us a pension, and the whipping would have made us famous.  It has never been forgotten of the English poet, Payne, that King Charles the First had his ears cut off, because he wrote against him.  He is not celebrated for his writings, but for his chopped ears.  We, too, might have become famous if this Gotzkowsky had not, in the most uncalled-for manner, interfered, and—­but look!” cried he, interrupting himself, “the interview with the Council is finished, and it is now our turn to thank him.”