"He is the poor father so much to be pitied," he said, with a mock pathetic air, "whose sad story I related to your Hochwohlgeboren."
At the same time he watched uneasily some Schrandeners, who seemed to be waiting for a signal to take the drunkard into custody.
"Have you nothing to say, Hackelberg?" asked the pastor.
"What should I have to say, Herr Pastor?" he lisped, beginning to cringe again, and drawing the lappets of his tattered coat over his naked breast.
"Have you no accusation to make?"
"Let me go," he growled. "I haven't----"
"Not even against him?" and he pointed to Boleslav.
A glimmer of intelligence came into the dull, glazed eyes. He understood his cue. Old Merckel nodded at him encouragingly, and he began to play his favourite rôle. Floods of tears that the besotted inebriate can always command so easily, poured over his cheeks. He rubbed his wet face with his black hands, till it resembled some hideous mask.
"Poor fellow! poor outraged father!" crooned Herr Merckel, senior, wiping his own eyes.
"What is the meaning of this absurd farce?" asked Boleslav, with a scornful laugh. But his face had become visibly paler.