What the boy wrote was all very clear and straightforward honestly and truthfully put. One could not help believing what was there on the paper; and, of course, it was easy to understand how the thing had come about. After all, every man has his feelings, whether he be a gunner or a senior-lieutenant. The devil! he himself would have done exactly as Franz did; though, of course, in his case life in a charity-school had made him used to giving in to people. But the boy had always been so independent, no one could help feeling for him. And after all, when one looked at it rightly, it was a clumsy thing for Lieutenant Brettschneider to have done, and his son's fault had been the outcome of an unfortunate set of circumstances,--not a very serious fault either, though the poor lad would have to pay for it dearly enough! Wilful disobedience--what sort of punishment would there be for that? It had such an imposing, ceremonious sound! He racked his brains to think whom he could ask about it. But there was no one in the village who would be of any use. After a sleepless night he rose from his bed with his decision made. He milked the cow, and asked a neighbour to see to the animals during the day. Then he put on his old-fashioned black Sunday coat and the top hat which he only wore on great occasions, such as the king's birthday. On his breast he fastened his medal and cross. Over all he wore his old cloak, and he put some pieces of bread and sausage in his pocket. He was ready for travelling. On the way to the station he passed a field of barley. It was ripe for cutting, and he had meant to begin reaping that morning. But what did it matter about the barley? He had got to see after his boy and petition for him. He would go straight to the right person: he would go to the garrison and seek out the head of his son's battery, Captain von Wegstetten. Throughout the whole journey he was alone in the railway carriage; other people did not travel so early. He looked stupidly out of the window. It was all one to him to-day what the fields looked like and how the harvest was getting on. He could only think of what he should say for his boy. Perhaps it was still possible to make them give up the charge against him. In the capital he sat for an hour and a half in the waiting-room, waiting for his train. He got a cup of coffee, and ate his breakfast from the provisions in his pocket. It was close and hot in the big room. He felt uncomfortable in such an atmosphere, as every one must do who is accustomed to work in the open air, and at last he threw back his cloak to relieve his oppression. People stared at his medals, nudged one another, and would not take their eyes off him, looking curious but respectful. The turnpike-keeper sighed and buttoned his cloak again. Oh, if people only knew in what trouble he was!