There was instantly a great commotion among the peasants drinking in the room.
"This much is certain," cried the pastor with great emphasis, "that every misfortune comes, directly or indirectly, from the Hartwich!"
"Yes, yes," resounded from all parts of the room. "Whom has she benefited in any way?"
"No one, no one!"
"Has she not tried to sow among you the seeds of her sinful doctrines? has she not, like the serpent of Eden, hissed into the ear of the sufferers to whose bedside she was admitted dreadful doubts, instead of pouring into them the balm of divine consolation?"
"Yes, yes,--she always spoke disrespectfully of our pastors and their office."
The clerical gentlemen looked mournfully at each other.
"She has tried to stir up rebellion against the Church!" cried the priest. "She even turned me ignominiously from the doors when I went, in all the dignity of my office, to administer extreme unction to her servant Kunigunda, and she pretended in excuse that the maid was not going to die, and the ceremony would excite her and make her worse. She could not bear the sight of the Crucified beneath her roof. She is an outcast from God and His Church. Centuries ago, such as she were burnt alive; there was good reason for it. But we all suffer, and must continue to suffer, from their presence among us. The devil has put on the cloak of philanthropy, beneath which he hides all such sinners, so that we cannot touch them."
"She is a poisonous sore in our flesh," added the Protestant pastor, "and it stands written, 'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out;' but we dare not cut out this sore that offends us."
"Why not?--what is to hinder us?" shouted the excited peasants.