"Brave soldiers," he continued, wiping his eyes, "drink! drink! You must try to forget that this day your honour has been forfeited. Yes, indeed, your case is lamentable--even more lamentable than that of my poor son, to whom it will at least be granted to meet death for honour's sake. But you! faugh, for shame! What will be your feelings to-morrow morning, when you have to march away under the leadership of that son of a traitor, the villain whom our revered _Herr Pastor_ has cursed? It'll be 'Braun, clean my boots!' and 'Bickler, hold my stirrup!' and that sort of thing." The two men mentioned thus by name started up with an oath. "And all you others, however much he may oppress and bully you, you must submit because he is your commander; and if you dare to mutiny, you'll only be shot down like vermin for your pains. Such, my poor dear friends, is your pitiable lot! Therefore I say drink, and bid farewell to your military honour. To-morrow the very dogs will hesitate to take a crust of bread from your hands!" A half-stifled murmur ran through the room, more ominous than a howl of rage. Then the carpenter Hackelberg, who had been loafing about in the neighbourhood of the inn, reeled into the common parlour, half-drunk as usual. He was received in silence. But old Merckel advanced solemnly to meet him, seized him by the hand, and led him to a seat of honour. "You, too, are an unhappy father," he said to him in a voice quivering with emotion. "Your heart, like mine, has been broken by the ruin of your child. You, as well as myself and us all, has the tyrant up yonder, on his conscience. So sit down, you miserable man, and take a drop of something with us!" The drunkard, who was used to being fisticuffed and held up to derision, even by those who bore him no ill-will, scarcely knew what to make of this highly flattering reception. He glanced suspiciously round him with his fishy eyes, and appeared to be considering earnestly whether he should begin to brag or to weep. Meanwhile he drank all he could lay hands on. "Look at this deplorable victim of baronial lust," Herr Merckel continued. "A man who is deprived of the possibility of revenge must lose his self-respect as he has, and degenerate into a sloven. Day and night he broods inwardly on the wrong that has been done him. But even the trodden-on worm turns at last, and who can blame us if we wish with all our hearts that the miscreant should not live to see another day?" "Strike him dead!" spluttered the carpenter, suddenly waxing furious, but there was only a faint echo in response, for to the men who were now soldiers under orders for active service the glibly made suggestion seemed no longer a trifle.