STRAMMFEST. What!
SCHNEIDEKIND. I won't, of course: my own father goes on just like that; but suppose I did?
STRAMMFEST [chuckling]. I should accuse you of treason to the Revolution, my lad; and they would immediately shoot you, unless you cried and asked to see your mother before you died, when they would probably change their minds and make you a brigadier. Enough. [He rises and expands his chest.] I feel the better for letting myself go. To business. [He takes up a telegram: opens it: and is thunderstruck by its contents.] Great heaven! [He collapses into his chair.] This is the worst blow of all.
SCHNEIDEKIND. What has happened? Are we beaten?
STRAMMFEST. Man, do you think that a mere defeat could strike me down as this news does: I, who have been defeated thirteen times since the war began? O, my master, my master, my Panjandrum! [he is convulsed with sobs.]
SCHNEIDEKIND. They have killed him?
STRAMMFEST. A dagger has been struck through his heart—
SCHNEIDEKIND. Good God!
STRAMMFEST. —and through mine, through mine.
SCHNEIDEKIND [relieved]. Oh, a metaphorical dagger! I thought you meant a real one. What has happened?