“Not only for you, but for the Berlin citizen is the insult equally great,” said Gotzkowsky.

Herr von Kircheisen shook his head in a most melancholy manner.  “Yes,” said he, “but the Berlin citizen does not feel it so deeply.  It does not affect his honor as it does that of the magistracy.”

Gotzkowsky smiled scornfully.  “Do you think,” asked he, “that the magistrates possess a different kind of honor from that of any citizen of the town?  The sense of honor is keener among the people than it is among the noblest lords.”

The chief burgomaster frowned.  “These are very proud words,” replied he, with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Pride belongs to the citizen!” cried Gotzkowsky.  “But believe me, noble sir, my heart to-day is not as proud as my words.  It is sore with pain and grief over our deep, unmerited degradation.”

“Silence, silence!” whispered the chief magistrate, leaning tremblingly on Gotzkowsky’s arm.  He heard a noise behind the closed gates, and his mind misgave him that the dreaded enemy was at hand.

Suddenly there sounded on the other side of the walls the loud notes of a trumpet, and the warder hastened to throw open the gate.  A rare and motley mixture of Russian uniforms now came in sight.  There were seen Cossacks, with their small horses and sharp lances; body-guards, with their gold-adorned uniforms; hussars, in their jackets trimmed with costly furs, all crowding in in confused tumult and with deafening screams and yells, that contrasted strangely with the silence inside the gates, with the noiseless, deserted streets, the closed windows of the houses, whose inhabitants scorned to be witnesses to the triumphal entry of the enemy.  Only the ever-curious, ever-sight-loving, always-thoughtless populace, to whom the honor has at times been accorded of being called “the sovereign people,” only this populace had hurried hither from all the streets of Berlin to see the entry of the Russians, and to hurrah to the conqueror, provided he paraded right handsomely and slowly in.  And now a deep silence took place in the ranks of the enemy; the crowd opened and formed a lane, through which rode the Russian General Bachmann and his staff.  As he reached the gate he drew in his horse and asked, in a loud, sonorous voice, in French, whether the magistrates and deputation of merchants were present.

The chief magistrate felt unable to answer; his knees tottered and his teeth chattered convulsively.  He could only wag his head in silence and point with trembling hand to his companions.

“Is the merchant, John Gotzkowsky, one of your deputation?” asked the general.

Gotzkowsky stepped out of the crowd and approached the general with a proud step.  “I am he, sir.”

“I am glad to meet you,” said the general, with a gracious smile.  “I bring you greetings from General Sievers.  He commissioned and ordered me to show you all possible favor.  If I can be of service to you in any possible way, pray command me.  I am General von Bachmann, and during our presence here have been appointed to the command of Berlin.”