"My name is Numa Pompilius," said Bodza, tossing back his head with proud self-consciousness. "Numa Pompilius, ever true to the good cause, fervent in action, lucid in counsel, pitiless in execution, and fearless in peril."
And again they pressed each other's hands in a fiery masonic grip, and all the while Maria was thinking: how I long to seize the dry skinny throat of this fervent, pitiless, and fearless man while he is spouting his finest, and throttle him on the spot.
"So you have raised the standard of revolt, eh?" inquired Maria of the valiant Numa Pompilius, "who gave you the signal?"
"Heaven and Earth," replied the master. "Heaven which sends death down upon the people, and Earth which opens her mouth to receive their dead bodies. Never was there a better opportunity than now. The terrible destroying angel is going from house to house, and striding from village to village, bringing with him wherever he goes sorrow and terror. Men perceive that life is cheap and that it can't last long. Desperation has severed every bond between masters and servants, creditors and debtors, superiors and inferiors. It needs but one spark to ignite the whole mass. That spark has already been kindled."
"How?"
"A blind rumour has begun to circulate among the masses to the effect that the gentry are about to poison their peasants en masse."
Maria looked at the master in amazement.
"But is there anyone who believes such a thing?"
"The tales of wayfarers first spread the rumour, the thoughtless speech of a drunken apothecary's assistant established it, intercepted letters written by the gentry to one another served as confirmatory testimony."
"And the gentry actually wrote to each other that they were about to poison the peasants?"