Presently there was a change in the lighting of the scene, the gloom had become trying to his sight.  Not only were two lamps lit on the small bridge, one at each end in the ornate iron scroll work, which Quintin Matsys would not have disavowed, but, overhead, the sky was reddened by the reflection of the thousands of gas jets in the north and west; the gay and spendthrift city was awakening to life and mirth while the working town was going to bed.  This glimmer gave a fresh attraction to the architectural features, and still longer detained the spectator.

“Superb!” he muttered, in excellent German, without local peculiarity, as if he had learned it from professors, but there was a slight trace of an accent not native.  “It has even now the effect which Gustavus Adolphus termed:  ‘a gilded saddle on a lean jade!’” Then, shivering again, he added, struck as well by the now completely deserted state of the ways as by the cold wind:  “How bleak and desolate!  One could implore these carved wooden statues to come down and people the odd, interesting streets!”

He was about to leave the spot, when, as though his wish was gratified, a strange sound was audible in the narrow and devious passages, between tottering houses, and those even more squalid in the rear, a commingling of shuffling and stamping feet, the smiting of heavy sticks on uneven stones and the dragging of wet rags.

Struck with surprise, if not with apprehension, he shrank back into the over-jutting porch of an old residence, with sculptured armorial bearings of some family long ago abased in its pride.  Here he peered, not without anxiety.

By the exact programme carried out in cities by the divisions of its population, a new contingent were coming from their resting-places to substitute themselves for the honest toilers on the thoroughfares; each cellar and attic in the rookeries were exuding the horrible vermin which shun the wholesome light of day.

The spruce trees, stuck in tubs of sand at a beer-house beyond the bridge, shuddered as though in disgust at this horde of Hans hastening to invade the district of hotels, supper-houses and gaming clubs, to beg or steal the means to survive yet another day.

For ten or fifteen minutes the stranger watched the beggars stream individually out of the mazes and, to his horror, form like soldiers for a review, along the street before him, up to the end of the bridge at one extremity and far along at the other end of the line.  Some certainly spied him, for these wretches could see as lucidly as the felines in the night—­their day from society having reversed their conditions.  But, though these whispered the warning to one another, and he was the object of scrutiny, no one left his place, and soon as their backs were turned to him, he had no immediate uneasiness as regarded an attack, or even a challenge upon his business there.

Probably the good citizens were not ignorant that this meeting of the vagrants took place each evening, for not only were all store-doors closed hermetically, but the upper windows no longer emitted a scintillation of lamplight.  The spy by accident concluded that he would raise his voice for help all in vain as far as the tradesmen were concerned.  But he was brave, and he let increasing curiosity enchain him continuously.