ilent, and a flaming blush mantled for a moment his
delicate, innocent face. "According to my father's wishes, I shall
become there a merchant's apprentice," he said, in a low and embarrassed
voice.

"What! Feeling so generous an enthusiasm for the fatherland and its
soldiers, you want to become a merchant?" asked Schill, in surprise.

The youth raised his blue eyes to him; they were filled with tears.

"I am ordered to become a merchant," he said in a low voice. "My father
is a pious preacher, and hates and detests warfare; he says it is sinful
for men to raise their weapons against their brethren, as though they
were wild beasts, against which you cannot defend yourself but by
killing them. My mother, in former days, became familiar with the
horrors of war; she fears, therefore, lest her only son should fall prey
to them, and wishes to protect him from such a fate. With bitter tears,
with folded hands, nay, almost on her knees, she implored me to desist
from my purpose of becoming a soldier, and not to break her heart with
grief and anguish. My mother begged and wept, my father scolded and
threatened, and thus I was obliged to yield and be a dutiful son. Three
days ago my father administered the sacrament to me, and I swore an oath
to him at the altar to remain faithful to the avocation he had selected
for me, and never to become a soldier!"

He paused, and the tears which had filled his eyes rolled like pearls
over his cheeks.

"Poor friend!" murmured Pueckler.

"Poor brother!" said Schill, indignantly. "To be doomed to wield the
yardstick in place of the sword! How can a father be so cruel as to make
his son take such a pledge at the present time?"

"My father is not cruel," said the youth, gently; "his only aim is my
happiness, but he wishes to bring it about in his own way, and not in
mine. It behooves a son to yield and obey. Accordingly, I shall not
become a soldier, but God knows whether it will be conducive to my
happiness. Many a one has already been driven to commit a crime by his
despair at having chosen an unsuitable avocation. But let us speak no
more of myself," he added, shaking his head indignantly, as if he wanted
to drive the tears from his eyes; "let us speak no more of my petty,
miserable grief, but of your great sorrow, which all Germany shares with
you. You know now every thing concerning my affairs, and it only remains
for me to mention my name. It is Staps; 'Frederick Staps' will be my