We studied history together that autumn; not the dull record of facts that was forced upon us at Gross Lichterfelde, but rather a history of glorious national achievement, of ambitions attained and enemies scattered—a history that had the tone of prophecy. And I would sit there in the soft autumn sunlight viewing the Fatherland with new eyes; as a knight in shining armor, beset by foes, but ever triumphing over them by virtue of his righteousness and strength of arm. Then I would return to Gross Lichterfelde and its discipline. Yet even at Gross Lichterfelde, we contrived to amuse ourselves, chiefly by violating regulations. That is generally the result of walling any person inside a set of rules; his attention becomes centered on getting outside. Your own cadets at West Point, so I have been told, have their traditional list of deviltries, maintained with admirable persistence in the face of severe penalties. At Gross Lichterfelde one proved his manliness by breaking bounds at least once a week, to drink beer, and flirt with maids none the less divine because they were hopelessly plebian. In the prevailing lawlessness, I bore my share, and in the course of my escapades, I formed an offensive and defensive alliance with a cadet of my own age against that common enemy of all our kind, the Commandant of the school, Willi von Heiden, I will call my chum, because that was not his name. We became close friends. And through our friendship there came an event which I shall remember to my last day. It gave me a glimpse into the terrible pit of secret diplomacy. Often at the present, I find myself living it over in my mind. If I have learned to take a lighter view of life than most men, my attitude dates from that time when a careless word of mine, spoken in innocence, condemned a man to death. I will try to tell very briefly how it came about. The Christmas after my excursion to St. Petersburg I was invited by Willi von Heiden to visit him at his home. His father was a squireling of East Prussia, one of the _Junkers_. He had an estate in that rolling farm land between Goldap and Tilsit, which was the scene of countless adventures of Willi’s boyhood. Just before we left Gross Lichterfelde—yes, even there they allow you a few days vacation at Christmas—Willi received a letter and came to me with a joyous face. “Good news,” he cried, “we are sure to have a lively holiday. Brother Franz is getting a few days’ leave, too.” I had heard much of Willi’s older brother, Franz. He was a young man in the middle twenties, an officer of a famous fighting regiment of foot, one of the Prussian Guards. Willi had dilated upon him in his conversation with me. Franz was his younger brother’s hero. From all accounts Franz von Heiden was possessed of a mind of that rare sort which combines unremitting industry with cleverness. His future as a soldier seemed brilliant and assured. “Where is Franz?” was Willi’s first question when we reached his home.