“In 1849 it was; my brother and I, students, were in Heidelberg.  Then broke out the Revolution.  Two years less of age was I, so to him was due my father’s title and most of the estate.  ‘What is Revolution?’ five of us students asked.  ‘We know not; we will study,’ we all said, and we did.  For King and Fatherland our study make us jealous, but my brother was not so.

“‘I am revolutionist!’ he says, and we are mad to make him different.

“‘The King is one,’ he said, ’and the people are many, and they are oppressed.’

“I hate my brother, and curse him, till in our room he weeps for sorrow.  I curse him until he leaves.

“By and by in the barricades he finds himself fighting against the King.  In the fight the rebels are defeated and my brother escapes.  Many are condemned and shot.  Not knowing my heart, my mother writes me that my brother is at home.

“I lie in my bed, thinking—­thinking.  Many students have been shot for treason.  Love of King and Fatherland and desire to be Graf, are two thoughts in my heart.

“I inform.  My brother is arrested, and in fortress is he put to be shot.

“Four of us students of patriotism go to see.  My heart sinks to see my brother, so white is he and fearless.  His eyes are bright like fire, and he stands so cool and straight.

“‘I have nothing but love,’ he says; ’I love the cause of truth and justice.  To kill me is not to kill the truth; where you spill my blood will Revolution grow as flowers grow by water.  I forgive.’

“Then he sees me.  ‘Hans!’ he says, ‘Hans!’ He holds out his arms.  ’I want to kiss my brother,’ he says.  The General he says, ‘All right.’

“But I love the King.  ’No!  I have no brother!  I will not a traitor kiss!’

“My Gott! how my brother looks!  He looks already dead—­so full of sorrow is he.

“A sharp crack of guns!  They chill my heart, and down dead falls my brother.

“I go away, outside glad, but in my heart I feel burn the fires of hell.  Father and mother in one year die for sorrow.  Then I am Graf.

“I desire to be of society, but society will not—­it is cold.  Guests do not come to my table.  Servants do not stay.  They tell that they hear my mother weep for sorrow in the night.  I laugh at them, but in my heart I know them true.  Peasants in the village hide from me as I come to them.

“But my mind is worse.  Every night I hear the crack of the rifles—­the sound of the volley that was my brother’s death.  Soldiers I get, men of the devil-dare kind, to stay with me.  They do not come back; they tell that they hear tramp, tramp, tramp of soldiers’ feet.

“One night, with the soldiers, I take much wine, for I say, ’I shall be drunk and not hear the guns at night.’

“We drink in our noble hall.  Heavy doors are chained, windows barred, draperies close arranged, and the great lamp burns dim.  We drink, we sing, we curse God und das Gesindel.  ‘We ourselves,’ we say, ’are gods.’