Nobody knew.
A street boy, looking up at the official, ingenuously cried, “'Twas a Tartar.”
Seicht looked down upon the obstreperous little informant.
“A Tartar—do you know him?”
“No; but these here know him,” pointing to the captives.
“What is the name of your comrade?”
“We don't know him,” was the surly reply.
“Never mind, he will become known in the judicial examination. Off to jail with these rebellious ultramontanes,” the official commanded.
Bound in chains, and guarded by a posse of police, these honest men, whose religious sense had been so wantonly outraged as to have occasioned an outburst of noble indignation, were marched through the streets of the town and imprisoned. They were treated as criminals for a crime, however, the guilt of which was justly chargeable to those very rioters who were enjoying official protection.
The procession moved on to the ground selected for the barbecue. A motley mass, especially of factory-men, were hard at work upon the scene. The booths, spread far and wide over the common, were thrown open, and around them moved a swarm of thirsty beings drawing rations of beer and sausages, with which, when they had received them, they staggered away to the tables. Degraded-looking women were also to be seen moving about unsteadily with brimming mugs of beer in their hands. There were several bands of music stationed at different points around the place.