"And that will be?"
"God knows."
"I am going to him. Come with me. We will take his horses."
"Oh, dear Miss, dear Miss," cried Manske, wringing his hands, "they will not let us see him—you they will not let in under any circumstances, and me only across mountains of obstacles. The official who conducted the arrest, when I prayed for permission to visit my dear patron, was brutality itself. 'Why should you visit him?' he asked, sneering. 'The prison chaplain will do all that is needful for his soul.' 'Let it be, Manske,' said my dear patron, but still I prayed. 'I cannot give you permission,' said the man at last, weary of my importunity, 'it rests with my chief. You must go to him.'"
"Who is the chief?"
"I know not. I know nothing. My head is in a whirl."
"He must be somewhere in Stralsund. We will find him, if we have to ask from door to door. And I'll get permission for myself."
"Oh, dearest Miss, none will be given you. The man said only his nearest relatives, and those only very seldom—for I asked all I could, I felt the moments were priceless—my dear patron spoke not a word. 'His wife, if he has one,' said the man, making hideous pleasantries—he well knew there is no wife—or his Braut, if there is one, or a brother or a sister, but no one else."
"Do his brothers and Trudi know?"
"I at once telegraphed to them."