On the following morning there was a large crowd collected in front of the cathedral.  The image, instead of standing in the centre of the church, where, upon all former occasions, it had been accustomed during the week succeeding the ceremony to receive congratulatory, visits, was now ignominiously placed behind an iron railing within the choir.  It had been deemed imprudent to leave it exposed to sacrilegious hands.  The precaution excited derision.  Many vagabonds of dangerous appearance, many idle apprentices and ragged urchins were hanging for a long time about the imprisoned image, peeping through the railings, and indulging in many a brutal jest.  “Mayken!  Mayken!” they cried; “art thou terrified so soon?  Hast flown to thy nest so early?  Dost think thyself beyond the reach of mischief?  Beware, Mayken! thine hour is fast approaching!” Others thronged around the balustrade, shouting “Vivent les gueux!” and hoarsely commanding the image to join in the beggars’ cry.  Then, leaving the spot, the mob roamed idly about the magnificent church, sneering at the idols, execrating the gorgeous ornaments, scoffing at crucifix and altar.

Presently one of the rabble, a ragged fellow of mechanical aspect, in a tattered black doublet and an old straw hat, ascended the pulpit.  Opening a sacred volume which he found there, he began to deliver an extemporaneous and coarse caricature of a monkish sermon.  Some of the bystanders applauded, some cried shame, some shouted “long live the beggars!” some threw sticks and rubbish at the mountebank, some caught him by the legs and strove to pull him from the place.  He, on the other hand, manfully maintained his ground, hurling back every missile, struggling with his assailants, and continuing the while to pour forth a malignant and obscene discourse.  At last a young sailor, warm in the Catholic Faith, and impulsive as mariners are prone to be, ascended the pulpit from behind, sprang upon the mechanic, and flung him headlong down the steps.  The preacher grappled with his enemy as he fell, and both came rolling to the ground.  Neither was much injured, but a tumult ensued.  A pistol-shot was fired, and the sailor wounded in the arm.  Daggers were drawn, cudgels brandished, the bystanders taking part generally against the sailor, while those who protected him were somewhat bruised and belabored before they could convey him out of the church.  Nothing more, however, transpired that day, and the keepers of the cathedral were enabled to expel the crowd and to close the doors for the night.

Information of this tumult was brought to the senate, then assembled in the Hotel de Ville.  That body was thrown into a state of great perturbation.  In losing the Prince of Orange, they seemed to have lost their own brains, and the first measure which they took was to despatch a messenger to implore his return.  In the mean time, it was necessary that they should do something for themselves.  It was evident that a storm was brewing.  The pest which