He walked in silence beside Wegstetten, who was speaking to him earnestly the while. At the door of the court-house the old man stood still and saluted, meaning to take leave of the captain.
Then the officer asked him: "Would you not like to speak to your son? I will get you a permit."
"Thank you, sir," said the turnpike-keeper, "if you would have the kindness, sir."
This was soon done. Wegstetten exchanged a few words with the superintendent of the military prison and returned with the pass. He himself conducted the old man to the gate of the prison building.
"Don't take all this too hard, Herr Vogt," he said in farewell. "Your son has committed an excusable offence, and has been very severely but not unjustly punished. He remains an honourable soldier all the same."
"Yes, sir," answered the turnpike-keeper. He looked darkly after the little officer. What sort of talk was that? Was it any comfort to be told that his boy was not a dishonourable rascal? He knew himself what his boy was; none knew better! Bravery and honour, that was Franz all over. Nobody need tell him that.
And the poor lad had been punished as if he had stolen something! Many thieves, indeed, got off easier. They had condemned his boy to a dishonourable punishment,--and why? because he had too much sense of honour!
He rang violently at the entrance gate of the prison. A sentry opened the door, took the permit, and ushered him into the waiting-room. "I will tell the inspector you are here," he said, and left the room.
After a few moments the door of the waiting-room opened again and an inspector appeared on the threshold, a dried-up looking man with a leathery complexion. He looked at the permit through his spectacles, and turned curious eyes towards the medals on the breast of the veteran. He shook his head deprecatingly, and called out an order from the door.
Shortly afterwards a grenadier announced: "Bombardier Vogt is here, sir."