"Let him come in," said the inspector. Then he turned away, and stood looking out of the window.
Franz Vogt went quietly up to his father and looked into his face with his frank honest eyes.
"Good-day, father," he said simply.
The turnpike-keeper took his son's hand in both his own. The tears came into his eyes and he looked at him as through a veil. Thank God, the boy still wore his artillery uniform! The old man was spared the sight of him in the grey prison garb.
As the father was silent the son began to speak. He described in his plain hearty way how the whole unfortunate business had played itself out, and related truthfully everything that was in his own favour, while acknowledging his fault without further excuse. "Do you know, father," he concluded, "what the sentence is?"
The turnpike-keeper nodded. Franz cast his eyes down and said in a troubled voice: "It seems to me very hard, father."
He felt a spasmodic pressure of his hand, and his father nodded his head in assent.
"The corporal said I had only myself to thank for it," the prisoner went on. "They asked me if I was sorry, and I said 'no.' The corporal said that was stupid. But I couldn't say otherwise. And I should have to say the same if they asked me again."
Then the turnpike-keeper opened his mouth for the first time since he had entered the room.
"You were right!" he said, so loudly and emphatically that the inspector at the window started and gave a warning cough.