The linen-weaver, wholly possessed by his prophetic god, had in the mean while unrolled another picture, and holding it up high with solemn countenance, exclaimed with a screaming voice: "The day of judgment is at hand, and destiny is at your door! In my dream I saw a face like unto no other face, and I heard a voice, and the voice was like unto no other voice!"
"And yet you heard it! What ears you must have!" said Gotzkowsky, laughing.
The prophet answered calmly, "Yes! for then were seen invisible things, and then were heard inaudible sounds!" And showing a fresh picture to the crowd, he continued: "Look at this picture, which I found this morning on my sheet. It contains the history of your future, and God announced it to me as I sat at my loom weaving. I heard a voice crying, 'Pfannenstiel, my beloved son, dost thou hear me?' And I fell on my knees and answered, 'Yes, I hear.' 'Dost thou know what thou art weaving?' asked the voice. 'Yes,' said I, 'it is linen shirting for the almshouse.' 'No,' said the voice, 'it is a cloth of weeping for the town of Berlin, for the daughters of your fathers will shed tears, and there will be moaning and weeping.'"
These last words he accompanied with a sobbing and plaintive howl, in which his trembling hearers joined. They assured each other in uncomfortable whispers that Pfannenstiel's prophecies usually came true, and that, even before the war, he had predicted the coming of this day of terror.
But soon Pfannenstiel raised his voice, and its hoarse croaking sounded above the loud conversation and anxious cries of the multitude. "Woe unto Berlin!" cried he, with shrieking pathos. "Blood will flow within her walls! The voice said unto me, 'I will look upon red, but it will not be a scarlet cloak, and when the red banner waves thrones will tremble, and there will be no end to the lamentation. And the cock will crow, and the heavens will shine blood-red, and everywhere and in all places men will cry, "Blood! blood is the drink of new life; blood makes young what is old; blood wipes out sworn debts; blood makes the proud humble. Let us drink blood!"'"
Here the prophet was interrupted by the loud cries and wailing of the multitude. The women broke out in tears, sank on their knees and prayed, or clung trembling and weeping to their moody-looking husbands.
Pfannenstiel looked with an air of proud triumph on this evident effect of his speech, and then continued in a more subdued tone: "But the voice said to me, 'Hope, and every thing will turn out well, and the blood which flows will transform itself into a purple robe, and men will call it freedom. Out of death will arise life.' Therefore fall down on your knees, for the hour of judgment has come, and prayer alone, but not the sword, can save you."
The multitude, carried away by the deception, were in the act of obeying this order, when Gotzkowsky, who could no longer restrain himself, stepped rapidly forward, his countenance radiant, and his eyes sparkling with anger.
"Listen not to this hypocritical set, this lying prophet, my people!" cried he, with a voice of thunder. "He will make cowards of you all, cowards who will submit to the yoke, howling and whining. You would not have this ignominy put upon you. You will be men, who will defend their liberty with noble courage to the last drop of their blood, against the invading hordes of barbarians. For the barbarians are coming, and their fierce wrath threatens your wives and children. Will you submit to the Russians with a humble whine?"
"No, no!" cried the men, and many a clinched fist was raised, and many a wild but muttered oath was heard.