"Yes, yes, we will do so! That will be glorious!" shouted the men, and their eyes flashed, and they lifted up their arms as if they were grasping their swords. "Yes, we will march out to the ramparts—we will become brave soldiers, and fight for our city and for our king!"
"And you will lose your limbs," cried a sneering voice from the crowd; "you will be crippled—die of hunger—ruin yourselves and your children; and it will be in vain, after all! You will be unable to save Breslau, for the odds are too great, and we ourselves have already been weakened too much."
"Alas, he is right!" lamented the people, and those who were about to rush to the walls stood still, and their courage seemed to disappear.
"No!" exclaimed Count Pückler, ardently—"no, he is not right! It is not true; but even if it were true that we are too weak to hold out, would it not be much more honorable to be buried under the ruins of the city, than to live in disgrace and bow to a new master? Think of the shame of Magdeburg; remember that a cry of indignation was uttered by the whole of Prussia at the treachery and cowardice of that city! Citizens of Breslau, do you want to be talked of in the same manner? Do you desire to act so pusillanimously that your children one day will have to blush for their fathers? Do you want to behave so ignominiously, that your wives and sweet-hearts will deride you and call you cowards?"
"No, no!" shouted the people. "We will fight—fight for our honor and our king."
"Clear the way!" cried loud and imperious voices at that moment, and a procession of over a hundred citizens marched up Ohlau Street; it was headed by an old man with flowing silvery hair, who held a large folded paper in his hands.
The crowd, that hitherto only had had eyes and ears for Count Pückler, now bent inquiring glances on the newcomers, and looked searchingly and wonderingly at the old man, whom every one knew to be one of the most venerable and respectable citizens of Breslau.
"Where are you going, Mr. Ehrhardt?" asked many at the same time. "What is the object of your procession? What is the paper you hold in your hands?"
Mr. Ehrhardt held it up. "This paper," he said, "is a petition drawn up by the citizens who are following me. In it we depict the sufferings and privations we have undergone, and pray that a speedy end may be put to them. Matters cannot go on in this way any more; the distress is too great; we have borne all we can—we must think of ourselves for the sake of our wives and children. We have done enough to save our honor; self-preservation is also a duty. We have stated all this in our petition, and are about to take it to the city hall, in order to deposit it there by permission of the authorities, so that every one may sign it. This afternoon it will be presented to the governor. Hasten, then, to add your signatures, for the more the better. When the governor sees that the citizens are united, he will have to comply with our demands and enter into a capitulation. The enemy sent a flag of truce this morning; the bearer, I have been told, imposes very rigorous terms on the commander of the fortress. He threatens also that the city, if it do not surrender to-day, will be bombarded with red-hot shot long enough to set fire to all the buildings. Come, my friends, let us go. All good and sensible citizens will sign this petition."
The procession moved on. Profound silence ensued. Count Pückler was still standing on the curb-stone and looking in breathless suspense at the people that, a moment ago, had surrounded him. He saw now that many left him and joined those marching to the city hall.