Mr. Martin Csicseri was so far moved by the piteous lamentations of the Leather-bell as to promise not to cast him into irons and send him to the county jail as a fomenter of sedition.
"But you shall, at any rate, sit in the stocks till morning, my friend!" added he. "Hie, you sworn jurymen, come forward and convey him thither."
"Nay, not that man!" cried a voice from the crowd, and the magistrate beheld Thomas Bodza advancing towards him—by the side of the long table.
"Whom then?" cried he.
"Whom but yourself!" exclaimed Numa Pompilius, accompanying his words with the gesture of a Roman Senator.
For the moment it occurred to the magistrate that the worthy rector who was not, as a rule, addicted to strong drink, had actually, for once, taken more of the noble juice of the grape than was quite good for him, so he simply laughed at him. All the more astonished, therefore, was he when, at a sign from the master, two strange men rushed upon him and seized his hands fast.
He had never seen their faces before, they were men who did not belong to the village.
"What's the meaning of this, eh?" he thundered, giving one of them a rattling box on the ear and knocking the other down. It was of no use. Ten at least instantly threw themselves upon him, seized his hands and feet, threw him to the ground and bound him fast. One or two of his acquaintances tried to defend him but were thrust aside.
So long as the tussle lasted, Thomas Bodza stood upon the table with the pose of a capitoline statue, whence he exclaimed in a dictatorial voice:
"It is now for me to command."