A few hours later, an emaciated, pale man was conducted into the room of Prime Minister Baron Thugut. The minister received him with a friendly nod, and looked with a smiling countenance at this sick, downcast, and suffering man, whom he had seen only a year ago so bold and courageous at the head of the misguided rioters.
“You have greatly changed, Mr. Wenzel,” he said, kindly. “The prison air seems not to agree with you.”
Wenzel made no reply, but dropped his head with a profound sigh on his breast.
“Ah, ah, Mr. Wenzel,” said Thugut, smiling, “it seems your eloquence is gone, too.”
“I have formerly spoken too much; hence I am now so taciturn,” muttered the pale man.
“Every thing has its time, speaking as well as silence,” said Thugut. “It is true speaking has rendered you very wretched; it has made you guilty of high treason. Do you know how long you will have to remain in prison?”
“I believe for fifteen years,” said Wenzel, with a shudder.
“Fifteen years! that is half a lifetime. But it does not change such demagogues and politicians as you, sir. As soon as you are released you recommence your seditious work, and you try to make a martyr’s crown of your well-merited punishment. Traitors like you are always incorrigible, and unless they are gagged for life they always cry out anew and stir up insurrection and disorder.”
Wenzel fixed his haggard eyes with a sorrowful expression upon the minister.
“I shall never stir up insurrections again, nor raise my voice in public as I used to do,” he said, gloomily. “I have been cured of it forever, but it was a most sorrowful cure.”