"No! let's wait!" roared a grey-beard, with a shake of his shaggy head, using his broad shoulders and sharp elbows to force a way through the crowd.
"We won't go to the King! We'll go straight to the other King, the vagabond and traitor Kuthen. We will take his treacherous head to our own good King!"
"Good! good!" cried the mob.
"It is not good!" shouted Barkó. "It is for the King to command, it is for us to ask. If I am to be your leader, trust the matter to me."
"Let us trust it to Mr. Barkó," cried some voices again.
"So then, I am the leader, and if we want to go before the King's Majesty, let us do it respectfully, not as if we were a rabble going to a tavern. Here! make room for me! put me down!"
And Barkó puffed and panted, and shook himself, as if he had swum across the Danube.
Then he called three or four of the crowd to him to help in forming up some sort of procession.
"There! I go in the middle, as the leader, and you, the army, will march in two files after me."
"But we are here, too, Mr. Barkó!" cried some shriller voices.