CHAPTER LV. A GERMAN BOOKSELLER AND MARTYR.
It was long after nightfall; in the narrow, gloomy streets of the ancient free city of Nuremberg all noise had long since died away, and all the windows of the high houses with the gable-ends were dark. Only on the ground-floor of the large house in the rear of St. Sebald’s church a lonely candle was burning, and the watchman, who was just walking past with his long horn and iron pike, looked inquisitively into the window, the shutters of which were not entirely closed.
“H’m!” he said to himself in a low voice, “the poor woman is kneeling and weeping and praying; I am sure it is for her husband. In her grief she did not notice, perhaps, that it is already midnight. I will remind her of it, so that she may go to bed.”
He placed himself on the street in front of the house, blew his horn noisily, and then sang in a ringing voice:
“Hort, Ihr Herren, und lasst euch sagen, Die Glock hat zwolf geschlagen; Ein Jeder bewahr sein Feuer und Licht, Dass dieser Stadt kein Harm geschicht!”
[Footnote: The ancient song of the German watchman.—“Listen, gentlemen, and let me tell you: the clock has struck twelve; every one must take care of his fire and light, that no harm may befall this city!”]
“So, now she knows it,” muttered the watchman; “now she will go to bed.”
And he sauntered down the long and tortuous street, to repeat his song on the next corner.