"Out with the fellow!" cried Flachsen. "He has insulted us all, for we have all been drinking election beer. Out with the helot of the priests!"
The progressionist mob fell upon the unhappy man, throttled him, beat him, and drove him into the street.
"Let us leave this den of cutthroats," said Gerlach, rising.
Outside they found Holt leaning against a wall, wiping the blood from his face. Seraphin approached him. "Are you badly hurt, my good man?" asked he kindly. The wounded man, looking up, saw a noble countenance before him, and, whilst he continued to gaze hard at Seraphin's fine features, tears began to roll from his eyes.
"O God! O God!" sighed he, and then relapsed into silence. But in the tone of his words could be noticed the terrible agony he was suffering.
"Is the wound deep--is it dangerous?" asked the young man.
"No, sir, no! The wound on my forehead is nothing--signifies nothing; but in here," pointing to his breast--"in here are care, anxiety, despair. I am thankful, sir, for your sympathy; it is soothing. But you may go your way; the blows signify nothing."
CHAPTER V.
Gerlach whispered something to the banker. Holt pressed his pocket-handkerchief to the wound.
"Please yourself!" said the banker loudly, in a business tone. Seraphin again approached the beaten man.