The magistrates, who were the first to have notice of the fray, despatched a messenger to ask military aid of the commander of the castle, which was then called, from the gate, Giovia; and he forthwith detached a troop, which arrived when the house was encompassed with the throng, and undergoing its tremendous assault; and was therefore obliged to halt at a distance from it, and at the extremity of the crowd. The officer who commanded it did not know what course to pursue; at the order to disperse and make way, the people replied by a deep and continued murmur, but no one moved. To fire on the crowd appeared not only savage, but perilous, inasmuch as the most harmless might be injured, and the most ferocious only irritated, and prepared for further mischief; and moreover his instructions did not authorise it. To break the crowd, and go forward with his band to the house, would have been the best, if success could have been certain; but who could tell if the soldiers could proceed united and in order? The irresolution of the commander seemed to proceed from fear: the populace were unmoved by the appearance of the soldiers, and continued their attacks on the house. At a little distance there stood an ill-looking, half-starved old man, who, contracting an angry countenance to a smile of diabolical complacency, brandished above his hoary head a hammer, with which he said he meant to nail the vicar to the posts of his door, alive as he was.
“Oh, shame! shame!” exclaimed Renzo. “Shame! would you take the hangman’s business out of his hand? to assassinate a Christian? How can you expect God will give us bread, if we commit such iniquity? He will send us his thunders, and not bread!”
“Ah! dog! ah! traitor to the country!” cried one who had heard these words, turning to Renzo with the countenance of a demon. “It is a servant of the vicar’s disguised like a countryman; it is a spy!” A hundred voices were heard exclaiming, “Who is it? where is he?”—“A servant of the vicar’s—a spy—the vicar himself, escaping in the disguise of a peasant!”—“Where is he? where is he?”
Renzo would have shrunk into nothingness,—some of the more benevolent contrived to help him to disappear through the crowd; but that which preserved him most effectually was a cry of “Make way, here comes our help, make way!” which attracted the attention of the throng.
This was a long scaling ladder, supported by a few persons who were endeavouring to penetrate the living mass, and by which they meant to gain entrance to the house. But, happily, this was not easy of execution; the length of the machine precluded the possibility of its being carried easily through such a multitude; it came, however, just in time for Renzo, who profited by the confusion, and escaped to a distance, with the intention of making his way, as soon as he could, to the convent, in search of Father Bonaventura.
Suddenly a new movement began at one extremity, and diffused itself through the crowd:—“Ferrer, Ferrer!” resounded from every side. Some were surprised, some rejoiced, some were exasperated, some applauded, some affirmed, some denied, some blessed, some cursed!
“Is he here? It is not true; it is not true. Yes, yes, long live Ferrer, he who makes bread cheap.—No, no! He is here—here in a carriage! Why does he come?—we don’t want him.—Ferrer! long live Ferrer! the friend of the poor! he comes to take the vicar prisoner.—No, no, we would revenge ourselves, we would fight our own battles; back, back.—Yes, yes, Ferrer! Let him come! to prison with the vicar!”
At the extremity of the crowd, on the side opposite to that where the soldiers were, Antonio Ferrer, the high chancellor, was approaching in his carriage, who, probably condemning himself as the cause of this commotion, had come to avert at least its most terrific and irreparable effects, to spend worthily a popularity unworthily acquired.
In popular tumults there are always some who, from heated passion, or fanaticism, or wicked design, do what they can to push things to the worst; proposing and promoting the most barbarous counsels, and assisting to stir the fire whenever it appears to slacken. But, on the other hand, there are always those who, perhaps with equal ardour, and equal perseverance, employ their efforts for the production of contrary effects; some led by friendship or partiality for the persons in danger, others without other impulse than that of horror of bloodshed and atrocity. The mass, then, is ever composed of a mixed assemblage, who, by indefinite gradations, hold to one or the other extreme; prompt to rage or compassion, to adoration or execration, according as the occasion presents itself for the developement of either of these sentiments: life and death are the words involuntarily uttered, and with equal facility; and he who succeeds in persuading them that such an one does not deserve to be quartered, has but little more to do, to convince them that he ought to be carried in triumph.
While these various interests were contending for superiority in the mob, before the house of the vicar, the appearance of Antonio Ferrer gave instantly a great advantage to the humane, who were manifestly yielding to the greater strength of the ferocious and blood-thirsty. The man himself was acceptable to the multitude, from his having previously favoured their cause, and from his heroic resistance to any arguments against it. Those already favourably inclined towards him were now much more affected by the courageous confidence of an old man, who, without guards or retinue, came thus to confront an angry and stormy multitude. The announcement that his purpose was to take the vicar prisoner, produced at once a wonderful effect; and the fury against that unhappy person, which would have been aggravated by any attempt at defiance, or refusal of concession, now, with the promise of satisfaction, and, to speak in the Milanese fashion, with this bone in the mouth, became in a degree appeased, and gave place to other opposite sentiments, which began to prevail over their minds.