There he met the sergeant-major of his squadron. “Your invalid claims, Schmitz, have been disallowed. The colonel says you would have had to make a report at the time. Now it is too late. Just as I thought. Here is something for you,--the bill of your attorney, who has asked the regiment to collect the amount due him. It’s a matter of sixty marks; and if you are unable to pay it he threatens to seize your property.” Schmitz had almost forgotten about that. “Within an hour I shall have the money,” said he, after reflecting a moment. Then he went down to the city and entered the store of a watchmaker. He laid on the counter his watch and chain and asked in a firm voice: “What will you give me on this? I need money!” The watchmaker examined both, and then said, with something of a sneer: “Twenty marks. That is all I can give you.” Schmitz calculated silently. He still had thirty-five, and twenty more made fifty-five. So he needed another five marks. He removed a ring from his finger, a little gift from his mother. “What is this worth to you?” “Ten marks!” “Good, give it to me!” Schmitz pocketed silently the two gold pieces, then went to the barracks, paid the sergeant-major the sixty marks, and took his trunk away. He was just in time to catch the evening train. Those who saw this pale, downcast man, with his small trunk, seated in the car, scarcely supposed that he was until recently a royal Prussian sergeant, dismissed in disgrace from long service because of a small offence, without a penny, but with rheumatism in all his bones, and with his patriotism destroyed, thrust into the street to seek a new and precarious means of living, after spending his best strength, his health, and his youth in the service of his country. On the summit of the hill, whence he could discern the barracks, the snow glistening on its roof, he cast a last look at the spot where he had spent so many years. He raised his arms with a threatening gesture, and a curse escaped his lips. In the train which carried him off there were numerous soldiers of his regiment, singing and joking, on their way home for the holidays. Christmas Eve had come. All the world--thousands, millions--were happy. They felt the charm of this most beautiful Christian festival,--a day which moves to softness the hardest hearts. But Schmitz, an outcast, felt nothing but bitterness and shame. His glance dwelt on the lighted windows where all these happy people were celebrating, and he vowed vengeance. * * * * * Friedrich Röse meanwhile occupied a badly warmed cell, undergoing a fortnight’s confinement because of his alleged inattention while on duty as sentinel.