“Because we are too thoroughly drilled in the habit of obedience. That habit is grooved deep into our brains. Were any of us so rash as to start a revolution, the government could stop it with a single word.”
“A single word?”
“Yes—‘verboten’!” retorted Bloem, with a short laugh. Then he pushed back his chair and rose abruptly. “I must say good-by. My orders are awaiting me at Elberfeld.”
Stewart rose too, his face still mazed with incredulity.
“You really mean——”
“I mean,” Bloem broke in, “that to-morrow I go to my depot, hang about my neck the metal tag stamped with my number, put on my uniform and shoulder my rifle. I cease to be an individual—I become a soldier. Good-by, my friend,” he added, his voice softening. “Think of me sometimes, in that far-off, sublime America of yours. One thing more—do not linger in Germany—things will be very different here under martial law. Get home as quickly as you can; and, in the midst of your peace and happiness, pity us poor blind worms who are forced to slay each other!”
“But I will go with you to the station,” Stewart protested.
“No, no,” said Bloem; “you must not do that. I am to meet my cousin. Good-by. Lebe wohl!”
“Good-by—and good luck!” and Stewart wrung the hand thrust into his. “You have been most kind to me.”
Bloem answered only with a little shake of the head; then turned resolutely and hastened from the terrace.