Instead of answering, Kottys lifted up the heavy iron rod--the long bolt which he had torn from his own slave prison--and screamed:
"Dost thou think we wish to change our masters? We will be free, and masters ourselves. And all shall be destroyed on this whole earthly ball that reminds us of the time of our slavery. Come on, ye barbarians, if you want to fight with desperate men."
And now a furious rage threatened to break forth.
Suddenly a loud, powerful voice cried: "Stop. Peace be with you all!" Between the combatants stepped the venerable form of Johannes; behind him appeared his ecclesiastical brethren; they, assisted by some of the burghers of Juvavum, were carrying on barrows and litters, wounded slaves, Moors, Isaurians, and also some Germans.
"Make way for us! Let us take these wounded--they belong to you all who are here fighting--to my church."
The words, the look, had immediately a silencing, an appeasing effect. At the sign of their Duke, the Bajuvaren lowered their lifted weapons; most of the slaves did the same. Fearlessly Johannes walked into the thickest part of the crowd; all reverently shrunk back. The women--for there were many women amongst the mob--knelt down and kissed the hem of his garment. He stepped straight towards the door which had now caught fire.
Kottys alone tried to turn him away.
"Back, priest!" he cried, and threw the iron bar; and as Johannes quietly walked on, the iron struck him on the shoulder. He sank--his blood flowed on the ground.
"Woe to thee, brother!" cried Këix. "Thou hast murdered the only protector of the poor and miserable--our father's best friend!"
And the wild man knelt by the priest, holding him in his arms.