But the Russian general still preserved his German heart, this heart so strong in suffering, so unfaltering in its faith, so faithful in its love, so great in hope, humble in its obedience, modest in its desires; this German heart of his was the cause of much suffering to him, for it could not adapt itself to his Russian instructions, and despite his efforts to render it callous, would insist upon overflowing with pity and sympathy.  He loved Berlin, for in this city he had passed the best years of his youth.  And now he was called on to act as a cruel tyrant, an unfeeling barbarian, to sow broadcast death and destruction in this city, from which he yearned so to win a little love, a little sympathy for her rejected son.

But now his German heart was forced into silence by the exigencies of Russian discipline, and the general had to obey the orders of his superior officer, General von Fermore.  His chief had ordered him to exercise the utmost severity and harshness, and imposed upon him the task of scourging Berlin like a demon of vengeance.  And yet Berlin had committed no other crime than that of remaining faithful to her king, and of not wishing to surrender to the enemy.

A fresh dispatch had just arrived from General von Fermore, and its contents had darkened the brow of Tottleben with anxious care.  He had received orders to blow up the arsenal in Berlin.  This noble and handsome building, which rose in proud splendor in the midst of a populous town, was to be destroyed without reference to the fact that the blowing up of this colossal edifice would scatter death and ruin throughout unfortunate Berlin.

“I will not do it,” said he, pacing up and down the room, and crushing the accursed paper which brought the cruel order in his clinched hand.  “I cannot be such a barbarian.  Fermore may command me to do barbarous actions, but I will not accept such commands!  I will not obey!  No one but myself knows of this order.  I will ignore it.  The Empress Elizabeth has always been very gracious toward me, and will forgive me for not executing an order which certainly never proceeded from her own kind heart.”  At this moment the door opened, and the adjutant entering, announced Count de Lacy.

Tottleben’s countenance assumed a gloomy expression, and, as with hasty step he advanced toward the Austrian general, he muttered to himself, “I perceive the bloodhounds have got the scent, and are eager for blood.”  In the mean time Count de Lacy approached him with a friendly and gracious smile.  He seemed not to be at all aware that Tottleben did not accept the hand which the Austrian general held out to him with a hearty greeting.

“I come to chat for a short quarter of an hour with your excellency,” said Count de Lacy, in very fluent German, but with the hard foreign accent of a Hungarian.  “After a battle won, I know nothing pleasanter than to recall with a comrade the past danger, and to revel again in memory the excitement of the fight.”