“The Russians are at the gates!” cried they.  “All the citizens are arming themselves.  We have no arms.  Give us arms, master!”

The cry was taken up by those who had just been listening to Pfannenstiel’s words.  “Yes, give us arms, give us arms.  We are no cowards, we will fight!” Gotzkowsky’s flashing eye flew across the multitude, and he saw in the earnest countenances of the men that they were serious in their demand, and in their desire to fight.  “Well, then, if you will fight, you shall not want for weapons,” cried he, joyfully.  “I have, as you know, in my house, a collection of costly arms.  Follow me, my children; we will go to the armory, and each one shall take what he likes best.  On such a day as this, arms do not belong to any one in particular, but are the property of him who can find and make use of them.  That is the sacred right of manhood.  The country is in danger!  Come to my armory and arm yourselves!”

The men shouted for joy at Gotzkowsky’s words, and pushed after him with wild impetuosity into the house, and the large hall, in which the costly weapons were tastefully grouped and ornamentally arranged against the walls.  With eager haste the men possessed themselves of these arms, and Gotzkowsky saw with glad pride his rare Damascus blades, his delicately carved silver-mounted pistols, his daggers inlaid with gold, his costly ornamented sabres and guns in the hands of his warlike workmen.  He then armed himself, and his men, always accustomed to look upon him cheerfully and willingly as their leader, fell into line behind him in a long military procession.

“Now, then, my children,” cried he, “let us go to the town-hall and offer our services to the magistrates.”

And at the head of his workmen he left the house.  Soon deep silence reigned in these rooms, so lately filled with noise and tumult.  The garden, too, had become deserted and empty.  Pfannenstiel alone remained in his elevated position, gazing pensively, as in a dream, on his collection of pictures.

After this silence had lasted some time, Krause and Kretschmer crept, cautiously looking around them, out of the summer-house in which they had secreted themselves up to this moment.  Their countenances were pale and angry.

“Gotzkowsky is a puffed-up fool,” exclaimed Krause, with a dark frown.  “With his swaggering phrases he has seduced these workmen away from us, to rush into the fight like wounded wild boars, and to bring the Russians down upon us.”

“We must not give up all hope,” said Kretschmer; “the people are timid and fickle, and whoever will give them the sweetest words wins them over to his side.  Come, let us try our luck elsewhere.  Every thing depends upon our being beforehand with this braggart Gotzkowsky, and getting first the ear of the people.  You, Pfannenstiel, come with us, and get up your words strong and spirited, so that the stupid people may believe you.”