a had, and all Germany. Many of us of
the Burschenschaft will bear to the grave the marks of his Schlager. Von
Kalbach went to Bonn, that university of the aristocrats, where he was
worshipped. When he came to Berlin with his sister, crowds would gather
to look at them. They were like Wodan and Freya. 'Donner'!" exclaimed
Herr Korner, "there is something in blood, when all is said. He was as
straight and strong as an oak of the Black Forest, and she as fair as a
poplar. It is so with the Pomeranians.

"It was in the year '47, when Carl Richter was gone home to Berlin before
his last semester, to see his father: One fine morning von Kalbach rode
in at the Brandenburg gate on a great black stallion. He boasted openly
that day that none of the despised 'Burschenschaft' dare stand before
him. And Carl Richter took up the challenge. Before night all Berlin had
heard of the temerity of the young Liberal of the Jena 'Burschenschaft'.
To our shame be it said, we who knew and loved Carl likewise feared for
him.

"Carl chose for his second Ebhardt, a man of our own Germanian Club at
Jena, since killed in the Breite Strasse. And if you will believe me, my
friend. I tell you that Richter came to the glade at daybreak smoking his
pipe. The place was filled, the nobles on one side and the Burschenschaft
on the other, and the sun coming up over the trees. Richter would not
listen to any of us, not even the surgeon. He would not have the silk
wound on his arm, nor the padded breeches, nor the neck covering
--Nothing! So Ebhardt put on his gauntlets and peaked cap, and his apron
with the device of the Germanians.

"There stood the Count in his white shirt in the pose of a statue. And
when it was seen that Richter likewise had no protection, but was calmly
smoking the little short pipe, with a charred bowl, a hush fell upon all.
At the sight of the pipe von Kalbach ground his heel in the turf, and
when the word was given he rushed at Richter like a wild beast. You, my
friend, who have never heard the whistle of sharp Schlager cannot know
the song which a skilled arm draws from the blade. It was music that
morning: You should have seen the noble's mighty strokes--'Prim und
Second und Terz und Quart'. You would have marked how Richter met him at
every blow. Von Kalbach never once took his eyes from the blue smoke from
the bowl. He was terrible in his fury, and I shiver now to think how we
of the Burschenschaft trembled when we saw that o