From the other shore, the people of Buda came running. And on the bridge over the Danube the two towns fell into each other’s arms.
At the foot of the hill there was a crush. A heavy yellow cart turned into the road. A thin, yellow-faced man was on the driver’s seat. His moustaches hung in a black fringe on either side of his mouth. The cart was covered with canvas. The canvas was bespattered with dirty red spots. Human legs and arms protruded from it, swaying helplessly according to the movements of the cart.
The crowd had stopped singing. Men took their hats off. Those in front shouted in horror at the driver.
The jerks caused a corpse to slip slowly from under the canvas. Indifferent, the yellow coachman whipped his horses and the cart went on at a greater speed. The corpse’s head now reached the ground. It struck the protruding stones of the roadway, jumped up with a jerk, and with glaring open eyes fell back into the street.
The crowd passed by in speechless horror.
Springless carts brought the wounded. The courtyards of decaying houses were full of red-caps, bayonets. On the pavement, shiny blue flies swarmed over a dead horse. From the ditch of the canal, the soles of two boots protruded. Carts covered with canvas everywhere. Their lifeless load swayed slowly in the sun.
Christopher Ulwing turned the corner of Holy Trinity Square. People stood in front of the clockmaker’s shop. The first storey jutting over the street cast a deep shadow in the glaring white sunshine.
The builder recognised Brother Sebastian’s friends. The lame wood-carver leaned against the wall and wiped his eyes. The censor was there too. He pressed his hand against his face as if he had a toothache. Those behind him stood on tiptoe and stretched their necks. When they perceived him they all took their hats off.
The chaplain’s pointed, bird-like face appeared in the open door. He walked with important steps to meet the builder. He spoke at length, with unction, pointed several times to the sky and shook his head sideways.
The big bony hands of Christopher Ulwing clasped each other over his chest, like two twisted hooks.