It was Karl’s last visit to the consulate.  He appeared to have spoken truly, and the consul presently learned that he had indeed been transferred, through some high official manipulation, to the personal service of the governor of Rheinfestung.  There was weeping among the Dienstmadchen of Schlachtstadt, and a distinct loss of originality and lightness in the gatherings of the gentler Hausfrauen.  His memory still survived in the barracks through the later editions of his former delightful stupidities,—­many of them, it is to be feared, were inventions,—­and stories that were supposed to have come from Rheinfestung were described in the slang of the Offiziere as being “colossal.”  But the consul remembered Rheinfestung, and could not imagine it as a home for Karl, or in any way fostering his peculiar qualities.  For it was eminently a fortress of fortresses, a magazine of magazines, a depot of depots.  It was the key of the Rhine, the citadel of Westphalia, the “Clapham Junction” of German railways, but defended, fortified, encompassed, and controlled by the newest as well as the oldest devices of military strategy and science.  Even in the pipingest time of peace, whole railway trains went into it like a rat in a trap, and might have never come out of it; it stretched out an inviting hand and arm across the river that might in the twinkling of an eye be changed into a closed fist of menace.  You “defiled” into it, commanded at every step by enfilading walls; you “debouched” out of it, as you thought, and found yourself only before the walls; you “reentered” it at every possible angle; you did everything apparently but pass through it.  You thought yourself well out of it, and were stopped by a bastion.  Its circumvallations haunted you until you came to the next station.  It had pressed even the current of the river into its defensive service.  There were secrets of its foundations and mines that only the highest military despots knew and kept to themselves.  In a word—­it was impregnable.

That such a place could not be trifled with or misunderstood in its right-and-acute-angled severities seemed plain to every one.  But set on by his companions, who were showing him its defensive foundations, or in his own idle curiosity, Karl managed to fall into the Rhine and was fished out with difficulty.  The immersion may have chilled his military ardor or soured his good humor, for later the consul heard that he had visited the American consular agent at an adjacent town with the old story of his American citizenship.  “He seemed,” said the consul’s colleague, “to be well posted about American railways and American towns, but he had no papers.  He lounged around the office for a while and”—­

“Wrote letters home?” suggested the consul, with a flash of reminiscence.

“Yes, the poor chap had no privacy at the barracks, and I reckon was overlooked or bedeviled.”

This was the last the consul heard of Karl Schwartz directly; for a week or two later he again fell into the Rhine, this time so fatally and effectually that in spite of the efforts of his companions he was swept away by the rapid current, and thus ended his service to his country.  His body was never recovered.