severely but
not unjustly punished. He remains an honourable soldier all the same."

"Yes, sir," answered the turnpike-keeper. He looked darkly after the
little officer. What sort of talk was that? Was it any comfort to be
told that his boy was not a dishonourable rascal? He knew himself what
his boy was; none knew better! Bravery and honour, that was Franz all
over. Nobody need tell him that.

And the poor lad had been punished as if he had stolen something! Many
thieves, indeed, got off easier. They had condemned his boy to a
dishonourable punishment,--and why? because he had too much sense of
honour!

He rang violently at the entrance gate of the prison. A sentry opened
the door, took the permit, and ushered him into the waiting-room. "I
will tell the inspector you are here," he said, and left the room.

After a few moments the door of the waiting-room opened again and an
inspector appeared on the threshold, a dried-up looking man with a
leathery complexion. He looked at the permit through his spectacles,
and turned curious eyes towards the medals on the breast of the
veteran. He shook his head deprecatingly, and called out an order from
the door.

Shortly afterwards a grenadier announced: "Bombardier Vogt is here,
sir."

"Let him come in," said the inspector. Then he turned away, and stood
looking out of the window.

Franz Vogt went quietly up to his father and looked into his face with
his frank honest eyes.

"Good-day, father," he said simply.

The turnpike-keeper took his son's hand in both his own. The tears came
into his eyes and he looked at him as through a veil. Thank God, the
boy still wore his artillery uniform! The old man was spared the sight
of him in the grey prison garb.

As the father was silent the son began to speak. He described in his
plain hearty way how the whole unfortunate business had played itself
out, and related truthfully everything that was in his own favour,
while acknowledging his fault without further excuse. "Do you know,
father," he concluded, "what the sentence is?"

The turnpike-keeper nodded. Franz cast his eyes down and said in a
troubled voice: "It seems to me very hard, father."

He felt a spasmodic pressure of his hand, and his father nodded his
head in assent.

"The corporal said I had only myself to thank for it," the prisoner
went on. "They asked me if I was sorry, and I said 'no.' The corporal
said that was stupid. But I couldn't say otherwise. And I s