"We should not forget," said Wilhelmi, "the significance of the fact that the German people, so long bound down by a system of police espionage, has at last become aroused; nor will its oppressors forget it. Now they are furious against the evil-doers; but a second generation will not find so much to blame in their deeds, and, as you well know, my dear friend, for you are a forester, there is an old proverb which tells us that 'vermin cannot destroy a healthy tree.' The May beetles would rather prey on the oak than on any other tree, but although they destroy every leaf, and cause the tree to look like a dry broom, it renews its leaves with the following year." In olden times when men swore eternal friendship, a man would sometimes say, "This is my friend, and without knowing what he intends to say, I will swear that it is the truth, for he cannot tell a lie." In my own heart I had just such faith in Wilhelmi. I found it as sad to part from him as from Ludwig, and this circumstance overshadowed the grief I felt when saying "farewell" to my son. "What does fate intend by driving such men away from home, and far beyond the seas?" These were the parting words of my friend Wilhelmi. They moved me deeply; but I could not answer his question. I felt as if beholding a hail-storm beating down a field of ripened grain. How many a full ear must have fallen to the ground? I also met a young schoolmaster by the name of Funk. Although there had been no real reason for his leaving home, he had fled with the rest. I easily persuaded him to return with me. He was full of gratitude and submissiveness. In spite of this, however, my daughter even then, with true foresight, concluded that he was deceitful. I was for a long while unwilling to believe this, but was at last forced to do so. Funk had done nothing more than attend to some of the writing in the ducal palace which the revolutionists had taken possession of. But it was with great self-complacency that he spoke of his having dwelt in the very palace which, during his student years, he had never passed without a feeling of awe. I often thought of my son, but quite as frequently of that good old fellow, Rothfuss. Ludwig is free, but how does Rothfuss endure his captivity? And as it was just harvest time, it was doubly inconvenient to be without him. We were bringing home our early barley. I had walked on ahead and the loaded wagon was to follow. I opened the barn door, the wagon approached, and on it was seated Rothfuss, who call out at the top of his voice, "Here I am on a wagon full of beer. So far it is only in the shape of barley. Hurrah for freedom!" As Rothfuss had been imprisoned by mistake, he was soon set at liberty, and it was both affecting and diverting to listen to his accounts of his experience as a prisoner.