THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
“In any case, you, Herr Pastor, are in my power,” I answered, drawing my pistol from my belt and cocking it. The priest would have continued to smile if he had known that the pistol was not loaded. He evidently thought it was a dangerous weapon, and his smile disappeared suddenly.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I want you,” I said with a show of coolness which, however, I did not really feel; “I want you to step at once to this window and to admonish your peasants to return to their homes without delay. You will add that you have affairs with the provisional government in the interest of your parishioners; that you will go to the city in the company of your friend here—that means me—to transact that business, and that these armed volunteers have come to protect you on the way against all danger and annoyance. While you make this speech to your peasants I stand with this pistol behind you. Do your business well, my friend; the provisional government will remember it.” The priest looked at me for a moment with an expression of surprise, and smiled again, but it was an embarrassed smile; the pistol in my hand evidently did not please him. Then he rose, stepped to the window and was received by the peasants with loud exclamations. He commanded silence, and said exactly what I had prescribed to him. He did his business finely. The peasants obeyed without hesitation, and quiet reigned again in the streets. The priest and I then emptied our bottle of wine with all comfort. At dusk we left the house by the back door and wandered together toward the city like two old friends in merry conversation, my armed escort a hundred paces behind us. On the way I toyed with my pistol, throwing it into the air and catching it again with my hand.
“Take care,” said the priest, “the pistol might go off.”
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