He had arrived before the court-room door just as the witnesses were leaving. He had recognised Captain von Wegstetten immediately--his boy had so often described the little man with his gigantic red moustache and sparkling eyes--and he was not afraid of addressing him on the spot.

Wegstetten was at first not particularly pleased at this encounter; but the honest troubled face of the old soldier touched him, and he listened patiently.

The turnpike-keeper had not much to say; it only amounted to an earnest representation of how well-conducted his son had always. .h.i.therto been; of how glad he had been to be a soldier; and he ended with a bitter lamentation that all this should have happened to such a good, brave lad; the boy must have gone clean out of his senses. The old man said it all with the most touching self-restraint. He took great pains to preserve a soldierly bearing, and omitted none of the customary tokens of respect, just as if he had been still clad in his old sergeant's uniform, and standing before an officer of the most severe type. Yet all the time the tears ran down his weather-beaten furrowed cheeks and his snow-white beard, and as he tried to draw up his bent shoulders the medals clinked together on his breast.

Wegstetten had but little comfort for the poor old man. He told him how favourably all the witnesses had spoken of his son, both officers and non-commissioned officers; how he as captain of the battery had always been glad to have such a capable man under him; and how the whole wretched business had come about through the mismanagement of an officer who had only lately returned to the regiment.

The face of the turnpike-keeper lighted up as he listened to the captain's words. He breathed again. Thank G.o.d! things could not go so badly with the boy. A few weeks under arrest--and the affair would be at an end.

But Wegstetten proceeded to tell him of the continued obstinacy of his son, and at last was forced to impart to the old man the severe sentence that had been pa.s.sed.

Five months' imprisonment! It struck the old turnpike-keeper like a blow. He staggered, and the captain was obliged to support him.

But the weakness soon pa.s.sed, and Vogt begged the officer's pardon.

He could not, however, listen to Wegstetten's explanation of the harsh verdict. This was a terrible, a crying piece of injustice; on the one side was an offence, a perfectly trivial offence, committed by a brave well-behaved soldier (as by common consent his boy had been p.r.o.nounced), who had been driven into it moreover by the "mismanagement" of his superior; and on the other side was this heavy punishment of five months' imprisonment! The disproportion between crime and sentence was incomprehensible to his mind.

He walked in silence beside Wegstetten, who was speaking to him earnestly the while. At the door of the court-house the old man stood still and saluted, meaning to take leave of the captain.

Then the officer asked him: "Would you not like to speak to your son? I will get you a permit."

"Thank you, sir," said the turnpike-keeper, "if you would have the kindness, sir."

This was soon done. Wegstetten exchanged a few words with the superintendent of the military prison and returned with the pa.s.s. He himself conducted the old man to the gate of the prison building.

"Don't take all this too hard, Herr Vogt," he said in farewell. "Your son has committed an excusable offence, and has been very severely but not unjustly punished. He remains an honourable soldier all the same."

"Yes, sir," answered the turnpike-keeper. He looked darkly after the little officer. What sort of talk was that? Was it any comfort to be told that his boy was not a dishonourable rascal? He knew himself what his boy was; none knew better! Bravery and honour, that was Franz all over. n.o.body need tell him that.

And the poor lad had been punished as if he had stolen something! Many thieves, indeed, got off easier. They had condemned his boy to a dishonourable punishment,--and why? because he had too much sense of honour!

He rang violently at the entrance gate of the prison. A sentry opened the door, took the permit, and ushered him into the waiting-room. "I will tell the inspector you are here," he said, and left the room.

After a few moments the door of the waiting-room opened again and an inspector appeared on the threshold, a dried-up looking man with a leathery complexion. He looked at the permit through his spectacles, and turned curious eyes towards the medals on the breast of the veteran. He shook his head deprecatingly, and called out an order from the door.

Shortly afterwards a grenadier announced: "Bombardier Vogt is here, sir."

"Let him come in," said the inspector. Then he turned away, and stood looking out of the window.

Franz Vogt went quietly up to his father and looked into his face with his frank honest eyes.

"Good-day, father," he said simply.

The turnpike-keeper took his son's hand in both his own. The tears came into his eyes and he looked at him as through a veil. Thank G.o.d, the boy still wore his artillery uniform! The old man was spared the sight of him in the grey prison garb.

As the father was silent the son began to speak. He described in his plain hearty way how the whole unfortunate business had played itself out, and related truthfully everything that was in his own favour, while acknowledging his fault without further excuse. "Do you know, father," he concluded, "what the sentence is?"

The turnpike-keeper nodded. Franz cast his eyes down and said in a troubled voice: "It seems to me very hard, father."

He felt a spasmodic pressure of his hand, and his father nodded his head in a.s.sent.

"The corporal said I had only myself to thank for it," the prisoner went on. "They asked me if I was sorry, and I said 'no.' The corporal said that was stupid. But I couldn't say otherwise. And I should have to say the same if they asked me again."

Then the turnpike-keeper opened his mouth for the first time since he had entered the room.

"You were _right_!" he said, so loudly and emphatically that the inspector at the window started and gave a warning cough.

Now that he had seen his son again, this brave honest lad, a change seemed to have come over the old man. The boy had been a willing dutiful soldier, everybody said so, and yet they were going to shut him up in prison for five long months, all because of a piece of fiddle-faddle! Devil take them all! What was the use of being a good soldier? And at a stroke every trace disappeared of the obedient and respectful old sergeant who had worn the uniform so proudly; he was peasant pure and simple, hard-headed and stiff-necked, a peasant who would stand up for what he thought right and defend it through thick and thin.

"You are _right_" he said, "and you were right all along."

But the son was more discriminating than the father, even though the punishment affected himself.

"You are not in earnest, father," he remonstrated; "I know I was in fault. But the punishment is too hard, even so; and I can appeal."

The turnpike-keeper laughed softly.

"Yes, you can be a fool," he said, "and get yourself into a worse mess!

No, boy, if you take my advice you will leave appealing alone. If they have been unjust to you then you must put up with the injustice proudly, it won't last for ever! but never beg for justice!"

Franz Vogt looked disappointed. He had hoped that the higher courts might mitigate his sentence, but his father's advice must be best.

The inspector turned round from the window. The visitor's time was up.

Once more the son regarded with loving pride the venerable appearance of his father.

"Why, you have put on all your medals, father!" he said, smiling a little.

"Yes," replied the turnpike-keeper. "I put on all my medals when I came to see you." And, in a loud voice, that the inspector might hear, he repeated: "I put them on for you, my dear good boy, and for you only."

And for the first time in his life he embraced his son, took the boy's head between his hands, and kissed him on the forehead. Franz Vogt felt the trembling of the old man's lips, and choked back his own tears. As the warder was taking him back down the long pa.s.sage he looked round once more. His father was just going out of the door, and a ray of sunlight fell on the venerable white head. Then the folding-doors closed, and shut in the grey twilight of the corridor.

The villagers had always regarded the turnpike-keeper as rather an eccentric person; but henceforth they began to look upon him as downright crazy. The old widow who had hitherto done his housekeeping was the first to spread this rumour.

The old man took to shutting himself up more and more. n.o.body was ever allowed to cross his threshold.

The peasants, however, let him go his way. Every one has a right to do as he likes; and the turnpike-keeper's manner of life was beginning to be looked on as a matter of course, when suddenly he drew upon himself universal attention.

There was to be a fresh election for the Reichstag in the district, the conservative candidate's victory having been disallowed. He had only been successful after a second ballot, in which the votes of the two parties had held the balance almost even; and the election had just been declared null and void, in consequence of the protest made by the social-democrats. The two rival parties, social-democrats and conservatives, were now preparing anew for battle. Every single vote was of consequence, and canva.s.sing went on busily. Election literature flooded the const.i.tuency; it was thrown in at open windows and pushed under door-sills.

The turnpike-keeper had hitherto always placed himself at the disposal of the conservative candidate.

The conservative party liked to display names of the "small people" of the neighbourhood on the list of their supporters, in addition to signatures of councillors of state, burgomasters, landlords, &c.

And now suddenly Friedrich August Vogt came and demanded to have his name taken off the list.

The president of the election committee, a cavalry officer in the reserve and the lord of the manor, attempted to make him reconsider his determination. He wanted to know the reasons for this sudden change of conviction, and asked pathetically if the old soldier was going to be unfaithful at this time of day to the motto: "G.o.d, King, and Country"?

Vogt stuck to his demand, but he declined to give any reasons.

On the day of the election the turnpike-keeper was troubled with a feverish unrest. Ten times and more he put on his hat and stood at the house door with his big stick in his hand, but he always turned back again.