“‘Tis but a fool farmer,” said a man, “who came from the country with his load of vegetables. ‘Tis safer to enter a lion’s den unarmed than to come into Frankfort with food while people are starving. He has been plundered to the last leaf.”
Roland shouldered his way through the crowd, and touched the frantic man on the shoulder.
“What was the value of your load?” he said.
“A misbegotten liar told me this morning that a market had opened in Frankfort, and that there was money to be had. No sooner am I in the town than everything I brought in is stolen.”
“Yes, yes; I know all about that. My question is, How much is your merchandise worth?”
“Worth? Thirty thalers I expected to get, and now—”
“Thirty thalers,” interrupted the Prince. “Here is your money. Get you gone, and tell your neighbors there is prompt payment for all the provender they can bring in.”
The man calmed down as if a bucket of water had been thrown on him. He counted the payment with miserly care, testing each coin between his teeth, then mounted his cart without a word of thanks, and, to the disappointment of the gathering mob, drove away. Roland, seething with anger, walked directly to the house of Herr Goebel, and found that placid old burgher seated at his table.
“Ten thousand curses on your indolence!” he cried. “Where are your committee, and the emissaries empowered to carry out this scheme of relief I have ordered?”
“Committee? Emissaries?” cried the astonished man. “There has been no time!”