s, towards the western sky, with a sudden grave
wistfulness. He was thinking of some one in the west. It was assuredly
not of war that this soldier wrote. Then, again, his attention would be
attracted to some passer in the street below. He only gave half of his
attention to his letter. He was, it seemed, a man who as yet touched
life lightly; for he was quite young. But, nevertheless, his pen, urged
by only half a mind that had all the energy of spring, flew over the
paper. Sowing is so much easier than reaping.

Suddenly he threw his pen aside and moved quickly to the window which
stood open. The shoemaker had gone out, closing the door softly behind
him.

It was to be expected that he would turn to the left, upwards towards
the town and the Langgasse, but it was in the direction of the river
that his footsteps died away. There was no outlet on that side except by
boat.

It was almost dark now, and the trees growing close to the window
obscured the view. So eager was the lodger to follow the movements of
his landlord that he crept in stocking-feet out on to the roof. By lying
on his face below the window he could just distinguish the shadowy form
of a lame man by the river edge. He was moving to and fro, unchaining a
boat moored to the steps, which are more used in winter when the Pregel
is a frozen roadway than in summer. There was no one else in the Neuer
Markt, for it was the supper hour.

Out in the middle of the river a few ships were moored: high-prowed,
square-sterned vessels of a Dutch build trading in the Frische Haaf and
in the Baltic.

The soldier saw the boat steal out towards them. There was no other boat
at the steps or in sight. He stood up on the edge of the roof, and after
carefully measuring his distance, with quick eyes aglow with excitement,
he leapt lightly across the leafy space into the topmost boughs, where
he alighted in a forked branch almost without sound.

At dawn the next morning, while the shoemaker still slept, the soldier
was astir again. He shivered as he rose, and went to the window, where
his clothes were hanging from a rafter. The water was still dripping
from them. Wrapt in a blanket he sat down by the open window to write
while the morning air should dry his clothes.

That which he wrote was a long report--sheet after sheet closely
written. And in the middle of his work he broke off to read again the
letter that he had written the night before. With a quick, impulsive
gest