"Ah, lad, it was terrible, terrible, going home that afternoon and thinking of Karl lying there in the cold ground. The sun could no longer shine for me, and even Barbara and the little grandchild, our Barbara's little Gretchen, couldn't cheer me. Karl was a great philosopher, as Engels said there at the graveside, but he was a greater man, a greater comrade and friend. They talk about putting up a bronze monument somewhere to keep his memory fresh, but that would be foolish. Little men's memories can be kept alive by bronze monuments, but such men as Karl need no monuments. So long as the great struggle for human liberty endures Karl's name will live in the hearts of men. "_Aye, and in the distant ages--when the struggle is over--when happy men and women read with wondering hearts of the days of pain which we endure--then Karl's name will still be remembered. Nobody will know then that I, poor old Hans Fritzsche, went to school with Karl; that I played with him--fought with him--loved him for nearly sixty years. But no matter; they can never know Karl as I knew him._" Tears ran down the old man's cheeks as he lapsed into silence once more, and the Young Comrade gently pressed one of the withered and knotted hands to his lips and went out into the night. * * * * *