station, our rebel was standing in the front row, having pushed his way
through the seemingly impenetrable mass of humanity.

The train stopped for a few minutes. The Iron Chancellor left his
carriage amid deafening hurrahs from the assembled multitude. He shook
hands with the Mayor and a few high-ranking army officers.

Jason Philip never budged. It never occurred to him to shout his own
hurrah. An acidulous smile played around his mouth, his white beard
quivered when he dropped the corners of his lips in satanic glee. It
never occurred to him to take off his hat, despite the threatening
protests all too audible round about him. "I am consistent, my dear
Bismarck, I am incorruptible," he thought to himself.

And yet--the satisfaction which we have described as satanic seemed
somehow or other to be ill founded: it was in such marked contrast to
the general enthusiasm. What had possessed this imbecile pack? Why was
it raging? It saw the enemy, the hangman, right there before it, immune
to the law, dressed in civilian clothes, and yet it was acting as though
the Messiah had come to town on an extra train!

Jason Philip had the feeling that Bismarck was looking straight at him.
He fancied that the fearfully tall man with the unusually small head and
the enormously blue eyes had taken offence at his silence. He feared
some one had told him all about his political beliefs.

The scornful smile died away. Jason Philip detected a lukewarm impotency
creeping over his body. The sweat of solicitude trickled down across his
forehead. Involuntarily he kneed his way closer to the edge of the
platform, threw out his chest, jerked his hat from his head, opened his
mouth, and cried: "Hurrah!"

He cried hurrah. The Prince turned his face from him, and looked in
another direction.

But Jason Philip had cried hurrah.

He sneaked home shaking with shame. He drew his slippers, "For the tired
Man--Consolation," on his feet. They had become quite worn in the course
of his tempestuous life. He lay down on the sofa with his face to the
wall, his back to the window and against the world.

V

Daniel had been in Berlin for weeks. He had been living a lonely life on
the east side of the gigantic city. One of the managers of Philander and
Sons came to see him. He returned the call, and in the course of two
hours he was surrounded, contrary to his own will, by a veritable swarm
of composers, directors,