Suddenly he stopped in astonishment, thinking he must be mistaken. But no, Wolf was there too--Wolf, the social-democrat, whose whole existence as a soldier was a cynical mask, the revolutionist who was only waiting for the moment when, free from the green uniform, he might preach his faith again! And he, Schumann, had never been at any pains to conceal what he thought of such disgraceful opinions.
Wolf had not exactly run up, but had come with the rake over his shoulder with which he had been raking the riding-ground, and was at any rate associating himself with the others.
"What, you too, Wolf?" Schumann involuntarily exclaimed.
"Yes, sir," answered the soldier. "You never were hard on any-one. You were always just."
Schumann was just a little bit shamefaced at this obviously sincere praise. Generally speaking, he had honestly tried to deserve it; but with regard to this social-democrat, he knew quite well he had many times been lacking in justice. He remembered how often, when Wolf's turn came, he had ordered him to perform some specially unpleasant work.
Embarrassed and hesitating, he replied: "Well, well, and you have always been a good soldier yourself, at any rate in externals. Only that you--well, there was no getting at you there!"
It was a good thing that after Wolf others came up to grasp his hand in farewell; or else, notwithstanding order, watch, and sabre, he would have left the barracks with a bad conscience.
The last, who kept on moving further down in order to be the very last to say good bye, was Niederlein, a smart little gunner, who had polished his accoutrements for him during the last year.
The sergeant-major pressed his hand with special heartiness, and breathed freely: Thank God, Niederlein made up for Wolf! Once when ill, and left alone in the dormitory, Niederlein had broken open a locker and appropriated a piece of sausage therefrom. Schumann had caught him red-handed. Thieving from a comrade was a serious offence, entailing severe punishment and public disgrace; but Schumann knew Niederlein was only thoughtless and greedy, and it had been more a stupid prank than a crime, for the money which lay near the sausage was untouched. So he had held the boy across the table and given him five-and-twenty strokes with his leather belt. He was not quite clear in his mind whether this had been entirely in order--it might have been technically an assault; at any rate it turned out right. Niederlein was now about the best soldier in the whole battery, and would have, gone through fire and water for the sergeant-major.
The lad watched awhile how Schumann went slowly out through the back gateway and disappeared into the little wood. Then he hurried off to his quarters, for the battery was collecting for foot-drill.