Now that he had seen his son again, this brave honest lad, a change seemed to have come over the old man. The boy had been a willing dutiful soldier, everybody said so, and yet they were going to shut him up in prison for five long months, all because of a piece of fiddle-faddle! Devil take them all! What was the use of being a good soldier? And at a stroke every trace disappeared of the obedient and respectful old sergeant who had worn the uniform so proudly; he was peasant pure and simple, hard-headed and stiff-necked, a peasant who would stand up for what he thought right and defend it through thick and thin.
"You are right" he said, "and you were right all along."
But the son was more discriminating than the father, even though the punishment affected himself.
"You are not in earnest, father," he remonstrated; "I know I was in fault. But the punishment is too hard, even so; and I can appeal."
The turnpike-keeper laughed softly.
"Yes, you can be a fool," he said, "and get yourself into a worse mess! No, boy, if you take my advice you will leave appealing alone. If they have been unjust to you then you must put up with the injustice proudly, it won't last for ever! but never beg for justice!"
Franz Vogt looked disappointed. He had hoped that the higher courts might mitigate his sentence, but his father's advice must be best.
The inspector turned round from the window. The visitor's time was up.
Once more the son regarded with loving pride the venerable appearance of his father.
"Why, you have put on all your medals, father!" he said, smiling a little.