The polling was to end at six o'clock. Shortly before that hour he strung himself up to a resolve. He left the house hastily, and hurried to the ale-house, in the garden of which the polling-booth had been erected.

Before the door stood the two men who were distributing voting-papers.

Tired with their day's work, they were leaning against the paling in front of the tavern. One of them, employed by the conservatives, was a superannuated farm labourer from the manor; the socialist was an invalided stonemason, who had lost a leg in consequence of a fall from some scaffolding. They were chatting together in a friendly fashion, notwithstanding the antagonism of their employers.

The one-legged man did not even give himself the trouble to offer Vogt one of his voting-papers. Everybody knew old Vogt. The blood of an old soldier ran in his veins, he was conservative to the bone.

The farm labourer held out a conservative voting-paper, and said:

"You are nearly too late, Herr Vogt. Here is your vote."

But the turnpike-keeper turned away with a lowering look. He stretched out his hand to the other man and demanded a voting-paper, with which the stonemason hastened to furnish him; and Friedrich August Vogt stumped heavily up the steps into the polling-station.

The magistrate of the district was taking charge of the proceedings.

Beside him sat the schoolmaster of the church schools, and the inspector of the manor. A few peasants and a workman from the fire-clay factory, his clothes covered with lime, were standing about.

The schoolmaster announced the name: "Vogt, Friedrich August, retired turnpike-keeper, registered number 41."

The old man stretched out the folded voting-paper with a hesitating movement; the magistrate took it and placed it in the tin-box which served as a receptacle for the votes. He nodded familiarly to the elector; this was a certain vote for the conservatives.

But the turnpike-keeper did not respond to the greeting. He stood stiffly by the table looking at the box that contained the voting-papers; suddenly his erect figure seemed to collapse, and the old man slunk out of the polling-station almost like an evil-doer.

The results of the election were known in the village by seven o'clock.

One hundred and fifty-three votes had been registered: seventy-seven for the social-democrats, seventy-six for the conservatives. It was the first time there had been a socialist majority in this place. The social-democrats had, therefore, every reason for rejoicing. They sat in the little inn at the end of the village, which was only able to maintain itself through the political disagreements of the villagers, and drank success to their party in the ultimate result of the election throughout the whole const.i.tuency. The peasants in the bar of the big inn were not less hopeful; they comforted themselves by declaring that the result in such a small place was of no real consequence.

Nevertheless, it was a disgrace to think that there were now in the village more red revolutionists than loyal subjects.

The morning of August the 10th dawned bright and glorious; the day on which Plettau, after so many long years, came once more under the jurisdiction of civil law. It was one of those mornings when it is a joy to be a soldier; when every wearer of the uniform feels heartily thankful that his day's work is to be done out in G.o.d's free open world of nature, and not behind a desk or in some overheated factory.

The inspection of the battery was fixed for half-past seven. Lieutenant Brettschneider had had his men out since six, and had already robbed them of their last remnants of good temper. Here he had discovered a helmet the polish of which was not bright enough to please him, there a coat the sleeves of which were too long; or he had waxed wroth over some head of hair that he considered insufficiently cropped. And all this, while "stand at attention" was the order; so that the men got cramp in their legs, and sneezing fits from staring the whole time in the face of the morning sun.

At last the battery was drawn up on the parade-ground, and Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider was ready to do himself credit. The colonel was seen slowly approaching, accompanied by Major Schrader on one side, and by Captain von Wegstetten on the other. Brettschneider hastened towards them to report that the battery was in position.

The colonel received his announcement graciously. "Let the men stand at ease," he commanded. And when Brettschneider had called out the order, he returned to his place to begin the parade.

Then occurred something very startling.

A shout was heard: "Holdrio, hoho!" And then again: "Holdrio--yoho-hoho o!" And again a third time: "Holdrio--yoho--yoho--hoho--o--o!"

The yodel was evidently sounding from the slope of the opposite hill.

Every one looked that way; and, behold, on the hillside appeared the figure of Count Egon Plettau, still dressed as for his discharge, in the grey drill trousers and much-patched coat.

He waved his cap to the battery; then he lowered his hands, while the eyes of the onlookers followed in suspense his every movement.

He let down the grey drill trousers; and there in the full blaze of the morning sunshine he went through a certain performance which even the Scythians--suggesting though they did to Greek art the original conception of the centaur--could certainly not have achieved without descending from horseback.

If Plettau, like Ja.n.u.s, had had eyes in the back of his head, down below in the parade-ground he would have seen an array of wide-open eyes and gaping mouths.

After a short interval he arose, picked up a big piece of white cardboard from the ground, and pointed to it as he brandished it in the air. Then he laid it down again, and once more he yodelled gaily: "Holdrio--yoho--yoho--hoho--o--o!" He then bowed politely, and vanished precipitately among the bushes.

Down on the parade-ground every one was speechless. The men looked sheepish; they longed to burst into peals of laughter, but were afraid of getting into trouble. So they took great pains not to commit themselves, and tried to look as if something perfectly ordinary had been happening.

Wegstetten was beside himself with anger and resentment. "I beg you will allow me, sir," he said to the colonel, "to send a couple of non-commissioned officers to arrest that fellow. This is an unheard-of insult to the whole army--a scandal a disgrace!"

Falkenhein's lips twitched. He, too, thought this piece of impudence quite beyond a joke. But he held the same opinion as did the Grand Duke of Oldenburg concerning _lese-majeste_: that the insult of a fool is no insult.

"Be calm, my dear Wegstetten," he said. "Let your count take himself off. But you had better just send some one up there--one of the non-coms, upon whom you can rely--to fetch down that placard before any of the men can get hold of it. Who knows what impertinence the fellow may not have scrawled?"

Corporal von Frielinghausen was charged with the mission, and ascended the hillside. The exercises were begun meanwhile.

Frielinghausen found the piece of cardboard neatly placed against a bank beside the last traces of Count Egon Plettau. Carrying the placard with its back carefully turned to the battery, he descended the slope again, and returned to the three officers. With the tips of his fingers the colonel took the doc.u.ment from him. The inscription was short enough:

"Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider," cried Major Schrader suddenly, "please be good enough to come here for a moment."

Brettschneider advanced in haste: "You called me, sir?"

Schrader pointed to the placard. "A few words in elucidation of the demonstration up yonder!" he said, shaking with suppressed laughter.

On the cardboard was neatly written in gigantic letters, coloured artistically with red and blue: "A farewell greeting to Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider!"

"A reminiscence of 'Ekkehard,'" said the colonel. "This Count Plettau has read a certain amount. One must give the devil his due!"

But Major Schrader, who in his leisure hours occupied himself with modern literature, who had seen "Die Weber" and "Seine Kleine" in Berlin, and was even acquainted with "Rosenmontag," murmured softly to himself; "A farewell to the regiment!"

CHAPTER XV

"Freedom, that I sing--"

(_Von Schenkendorf._)

In August Corporal von Frielinghausen was ordered to the Fire-workers'

College in Berlin. The young fellow made a good appearance in his neat uniform; his figure had filled out and become more manly, and on his upper lip a slight moustache had begun to show. But his bronzed visage had retained the old frank boyish expression, and altogether he was a fine-looking lad, after whom the women already turned to gaze.

After two years had pa.s.sed, his friends received a formal notification of his marriage; it was sent with the greetings of Baron Walther von Frielinghausen and Baroness Minna Victoria von Frielinghausen, _nee_ Kettke.

Frielinghausen had obtained his discharge from the army. Minna Victoria was the only child and heiress of the manager of a large place of entertainment, and Baron Walther von Frielinghausen played the part of manager in place of his father-in-law, the rather impossible Papa w.i.l.l.y Kettke. He went about attired in an unimpeachable black coat, and with a well-bred little bow would himself usher into their places any specially distinguished-looking guests. Then he would stand with the air of a young prince in the neighbourhood of the bar, and the waiters and cooks, barmaids and kitchenmaids, had a mighty respect for him. He waxed portly in figure, and Minna Victoria often felt herself obliged to call him over the coals for paying too much attention to some one of the elegant ladies who patronised the establishment.

The sixth battery of the 80th regiment, Eastern Division of the Field Artillery, had occasion, however, to send another non-commissioned officer to the Fire-workers' College--Gustav Weise.

Captain von Wegstetten was very well pleased with Weise; he considered he had made him a permanent convert to the cause of king and country, But Weise was rather inclined to domineer over his subordinates--which was not what might have been expected of a former social-democrat--and on that account his captain had hit upon the idea of persuading him to be a fire-worker. The non-commissioned officer had a clear head, and it might be hoped he would make a career for himself.

Under these circ.u.mstances Weise began more and more to curse the day when he had had tattooed upon his arm that ridiculous jingle about Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. It caused him serious annoyance if one of his comrades noticed a sc.r.a.p of the motto peeping out from under his sleeve, and wanted to see the whole inscription.

One day when he was out walking in the town he noticed on a door a bra.s.s plate bearing the announcement: "Dr. Buchsenstein, specialist in skin diseases, &c." It occurred to him that this gentleman might be of a.s.sistance to him, and he put in an appearance at the hour of consultation.

The little dark-haired doctor could not entirely restrain his intense amus.e.m.e.nt when the patient bared his arm and came out with the request that the tattooing might be sc.r.a.ped away.