"Are you crazy, man?" cried Tottleben, violently. "Is the Jew a citizen with you?"
"Yes," answered Gotzkowsky, "as far as paying goes. The Jew is obliged honestly to contribute his proportion of the war-tax. How can you, with any semblance of justice, require of him another further tax, when he has already, in common with us, given up all he possesses?"
"Sir," cried Tottleben, with suppressed vexation "this is enough, and more than enough!"
"No," said Gotzkowsky, smiling. "It is too much. The Jews are not able to pay it—"
"I will remit their contribution," cried the general, stamping violently on the floor, "to please you—just to get rid of you—but now—"
"But now," interrupted Gotzkowsky, insinuatingly, "one more favor."
The general stepped back astounded, and looked at Gotzkowsky with a species of comical terror. "Do you know that I am almost afraid of you, and will thank God when you are gone?"
"Then you think of me as the whole town of Berlin thinks of you," said
Gotzkowsky.
The general laughed. "Your impudence is astonishing. Well, quick, what is your last request?"
"They are preparing at the New Market a rare and unheard-of spectacle—a spectacle, general, as yet unknown in Germany. You have brought it with you from Russia. You are going to make two men run the gantlet of rods—not two soldiers convicted of crime, but two writers, who have only sinned in spirit against you, who have only exercised the free and highest right of man—the right to say what they think. You are going to have two newspaper writers scourged, because they drew their quills against you. Is not that taking a barbarous revenge for a small offence?"