At that moment a confused drumming alarm rattled in the city, and a desolate thrilling cry of the raging populace answered the warlike call; an icy chill diffused itself through every member of Alf's body, as it seemed to him as if the people were roaring for blood.
'The prophets are calling the people together,' said the tailor, dragging Alf forward. 'Come, we must hear what they have to say to us; we belong to the mass, and can give our opinions upon public affairs whenever it may seem good to us.'
They hastened toward the market, where the human tide, as if agitated by the wildest storms, waved to and fro, thundering and roaring.
The thickest crowd was about St. Lambert's church, and the mass, armed with clubs and spears and muskets, seemed here to form a large circle, from the centre of which a single commanding voice occasionally rose above the general bustle of the crowd.
Alf swung himself up to the corner stone of a house near the market, held fast to the iron supporters of a pitch-pan, and looked towards the centre of the circle.
'What do you see,' cried the tailor to him above.
'A stout man,' answered Alf, 'clad in a coarse woolen capote. I can scarcely see his face through his disheveled hair and bushy beard. He poises a stout spear over a vigorous burgher who is kneeling before him.'
'That is our great Matthias,' exclaimed the tailor.
A fresh multitude at that instant came up and pulled Alf down from his corner stone. The tailor held on with all his might to prevent being borne away by the crowd, and grumbled, 'it is very wrong that one should be hindered by the crowd from seeing what the people do in their sovereign judicial capacity.'
'Thank God! I find one acquaintance here at least!' exclaimed a pale girl, tremblingly seizing the hand of the tailor. 'If you have the heart of a man, my good fellow, help us out of this great difficulty. You have much influence with Johannes Bockhold, the prophet; beg of him, therefore, mercy for my poor uncle!'