“Hold, Flachsen, hold! I am not the man that is paid; you are the one that is paid,” retorted the countryman indignantly. “My mouth has not been honey-fed like yours. Nor do I drink your election beer or eat your election sausages. But with my last breath I will maintain that Shund is a scoundrel, a usurer, a villain.”
“Out with the fellow!” cried Flachsen. “He has insulted us all, for we have all been drinking election beer. Out with the helot of the priests!”
The progressionist mob fell upon the unhappy man, throttled him, beat him, and drove him into the street.
“Let us leave this den of cutthroats,” said Gerlach, rising.
Outside they found Holt leaning against a wall, wiping the blood from his face. Seraphin approached him. “Are you badly hurt, my good man?” asked he kindly. The wounded man, looking up, saw a noble countenance before him, and, whilst he continued to gaze hard at Seraphin’s fine features, tears began to roll from his eyes.
“O God! O God!” sighed he, and then relapsed into silence. But in the tone of his words could be noticed the terrible agony he was suffering.
“Is the wound deep—is it dangerous?” asked the young man.
“No, sir, no! The wound on my forehead is nothing—signifies nothing; but in here,” pointing to his breast—“in here are care, anxiety, despair. I am thankful, sir, for your sympathy; it is soothing. But you may go your way; the blows signify nothing.”
TO BE CONTINUED.