Fischer threw a wild glance around him as if for a weapon with which to avenge this insult; then with his hand to his forehead he staggered, turned round with a strangled cry and fell in a heap, killed by the bursting of a blood vessel in the brain.
The general went to him, pushed him with his foot, and seeing that he was dead:
"Throw this rascal into a corner," said he to his soldiers, "until his family comes to fetch him."
The soldiers dragged the corpse into a corner of the ante-room.
Meanwhile, Fellner, fearing that harm would befall his friend, had run to Hannibal Fischer, the journalist's father, and had told him of the general's orders. Hannibal Fischer was an old man of eighty, he went to the headquarters and asked for his son. The son had been seen going up to the first floor where General Falkenstein held his audiences, but no one had seen him leave. The old man went up and asked for the general. He had gone to lunch and his door was closed.
"Sit down there," said some one, "he may return."
"Cannot you tell him that it is a father who claims his son?"
"What on?" asked one of the soldiers.
"My son, Councillor Fischer, who was arrested this morning."
"Why, it is the father," said the soldier to his comrade.