tottering the gray-headed Mr. Krause, slowly and sadly; then came Mr.
Kretschmer, formerly the brave, undaunted hero of the quill--now a
poor, trembling, crushed piece of humanity. They stood in the middle
of the square, and, bewildered with terror, their help-imploring looks
swept over the gaping, silent multitude, who gazed at them with eager
countenances and malicious joy, and would have been outrageously
mad if they had been denied the enjoyment of seeing two of their
brother-citizens scourged by the enemy's soldiers.

"I cannot believe it!" whimpered Mr. Krause; "it is impossible that
this is meant in earnest. They cannot intend to execute so cruel a
sentence. What would the world, what would mankind say, if two writers
were scourged for the articles they had written? Will the town of
Berlin suffer it? Will no one take pity on our distress?"

"No one," said Mr. Kretschmer, mournfully. "Look at the crowd which is
staring at us with pitiless curiosity. They would sooner have pity on
a murderer than on a writer who is going to be flogged. The whole town
has enjoyed and laughed over our articles, and now there is not one
who would dare to beg for us."

At this moment another solemn procession came down the Bishop Street
toward the square. This was the Town Council of Berlin. Foremost came
the chief burgomaster Von Kircheisen, who had recovered his speech and
his mind, and was memorizing the well-set speech in which he was
to offer to the general the thanks of the town and the ten thousand
ducats, which a page bore alongside of him on a silken pillow.

Behind the Council tottered trembling and broken-hearted the elders of
the Jews, including those of the mint, in order to receive their final
condemnation or release from General Tottleben.

The people took no notice of the Council or of the Jews. They were
busy staring with cruel delight at the journalists, who were being
stripped by the provost-marshals of their outer clothing, and prepared
for the bloody exhibition. With a species of barbarous pleasure they
listened to the loud wailing of the trembling, weeping Krause, who was
wringing his hands and imploring the Russian officer who had charge of
the execution, for pity, for mercy.

The Russian officer was touched by the tears of sorrow of the editor;
he did have pity on the gray hairs and bowed form of the old man, or
perhaps he only acted on instructions received from General Tottleben.
He motioned to the provo