"The devil take your swipes!" exclaimed the dutiful son, smashing the bottle with his sabre-hilt. "I don't intend to sacrifice my honour for any Judas reward. My honour is not to be bribed into silence. My honour dictates that I should tear the hound's heart out of his breast. And I'll do it. The Fatherland must be rid of such a scandalous reproach once for all. This plague-spot in the Prussian staff of officers must and shall be branded out. I'll see that it is. So sure as I am a brave soldier I will do it, even if I die for honour's sake.... Good-bye for the present, father; I must go now and bid my little sweetheart farewell." And rounding his lips for a defiant whistle, the half-inebriated young man swaggered out, his sabre-blade clanking the ground at every step. Boleslav, as he entered the village shortly after four, found the street full of women and old people, who ran from under the horse's hoofs, maintaining a glum silence, and then followed like evil spirits in his wake. He felt for the pistols in his side pockets, and loosened the scabbard of his sabre; then he fully expected a skirmish of some sort. "Even if they have no other officer with a soldier's coat on, they may be planning to attack me from the front this time," he reflected, and his breast expanded proudly at the thought. The crowd was denser in the churchyard square, and he was obliged to rein in his horse to give it time to get out of his way. Here and there a smothered laugh or a half-whispered imprecation fell on his ear. Otherwise total silence was the order of the day. Close to the church, some twenty paces from its flight of stone steps, he saw the troops drawn up in double line, about fifteen or sixteen squadrons in strength. Lieutenant Merckel was parading up and down, giving first one and then another--as it seemed--a word of encouragement. His face was aflame, his gait uncertain; once or twice his cavalry sabre got entangled with his legs and nearly tripped him up. Boleslav cast one rapid, searching glance at the parsonage. Its windows were closely curtained, and in the garden too there was no sign of life. He drew a deep breath, and rode into the heart of the crowd, which closed behind him. Once again he stood single-handed, face to face with the Schrandener wolves, but this time he was master. The sense of iron calm and perfect coolness, which he had always experienced at moments of life and death issues, did not forsake him now. "I am waiting for your salute, _Herr Lieutenant_" he cried in a threatening tone. He was answered by a drunken, jeering laugh. So they intended to mutiny! His suspicions had not been ill founded. He tore his sabre from the scabbard. "Halt!" he commanded. There was a murmur of dissent. Two or three stepped out of the ranks, and Lieutenant Merckel, with an abusive epithet, drew his sabre and rushed at Boleslav.