The multitude shouted. The multitude hurled itself around. The multitude made to lay hold of the son of Joh Fredersen.
He did not resist. He stood pressed against the wall. He stared at the girl with a gaze in which belief in eternal damnation was to be read. It seemed as if he were already dead, and as though his lifeless body were falling, ghost-like upon the fists of those who wished to murder him.
A voice roared:
“Dog in white-silken skin—!!”
An arm shot up, a knife flashed out....
Upon the billowing neck of the multitude stood the girl. It was as if the knife came flying from out her eyes....
But, before the knife could plunge into the white silk which covered the heart of the son of Joh Fredersen, a man threw himself as a shield before his breast, and the knife ripped open blue linen. Blue linen was dyed purple-red....
“Brothers...!” said the man. Dying, yet standing upright, he was covering the son of Joh Fredersen with his whole body. He turned his head a little to catch Freder’s glance. He said with a smile which was transfigured in pain:
“Brothers....”
Freder recognised him. It was Georgi. It was number eleven thousand eight hundred and eleven which was now going out, and which, going out, was protecting him.