“DECLARE WAR!”
“The confounded low Schwerenöther of a Prussian!” yelled Holzert at last, crimson with passion, and quivering on his little bow-legs. “Declare war, Bloemstein! declare war!” he went on. “Let them come, the low canaille! we’ll blow up the mine as soon as they get on top of it, and then there’ll be an end of them!” and suddenly turning to the Minister of War, he added, “Bauer, how many men have you?”
“HASTENED TO THE COUNCIL-CHAMBER.”
“A hundred and twenty-three, counting the band,” was the answer.
“That’s not one to a thousand,” suggested Conrads; “and besides that, we’ve got the war with Holland on our hands,—it won’t do—it won’t do! What do you think yourself, Bauer?”
“What I think? I think you’re a coward, Conrads, to talk so—a coward, do you understand? Conquer or die, that’s our cry!”
“Yes, but we can’t conquer, and dying isn’t much good. Holzert won’t get his Marieke by it if we do!”
“But in that case the Prussian pig-dog won’t have her either!” shouted Holzert, banging the table with his fists.