The Landrath drew a small black case from the depths of his coat pocket, and presented it to Boleslav with an exaggeratedly obsequious bow. The cover sprang back. The black smoothly polished scrap of iron, on its background of blue velvet, seemed surrounded by a halo of shimmering light. Boleslav grasped it with one hand in growing excitement, while he offered his other to the Landrath. The latter retreated a step or two, closely regarding his long, white, skinny hands, as if the act of handing over the case had done them some injury. Then he deliberately hid them behind his back. "_Herr Landrath_, I offered you my hand," cried Boleslav threateningly, flushing darkly at this new insult. "According to his Majesty's wishes I have discharged my duty. My instructions did not include a shake of the hand." At this moment a cross, like the one Boleslav had just received, flew through the air and alighted at his feet Felix Merckel had torn it from his breast. Swelling with righteous indignation, he swaggered up to the official, whom he now felt sure he had no reason to be afraid of, and cried-- "There it may lie. I don't want it now. Any decent soldier would be ashamed to wear it when such as _he_ is decorated with it." A cry of mingled pain and fury escaped Boleslav's lips, and with raised fists he turned fiercely on his enemy. Felix Merckel unsheathed his sabre, as if with the intention of hewing down the unarmed man. But the old landlord threw his corpulent form between them. The Landrath confined himself to waving his hands soothingly; and the pastor vigilantly kept watch on his Schrandeners. He knew his flock, and read murder in their glance. "Back there! keep back!" he shouted to the tumultuous throng in a voice of brass. With outstretched arms he sprang into the doorway, where already a line of pikes appeared, ready to fell the victim from behind. Boleslav looked round and saw with a shudder how near he stood to death. The pastor, clinging to the roof of the doorway, endeavoured to stem the murderous tide. Would that frail and venerable frame be able to repulse this onslaught of unmuzzled wolves? Would it not be swept away on the crest of this bloodthirsty wave? A weak shield to rely on, indeed! Yet his was the only authority not swamped by the tumult. The Landrath's protesting hands waved impotently above the seething heads, like limp towels; the gentle flutelike tones in which he declared the ringleaders of the disturbance should be turned out and bludgeoned were totally ignored. His parasite, the little portfolio bearer, had taken the precaution to creep under the table. A voice within Boleslav cried, "What! You will let this old man protect you? Cannot you protect yourself?" And a wild resolve consumed him. This seemed a moment given him to balance his account with fate--a moment of all others in which cowardice was to be avoided. He caught hold of the old pastor in a grip of iron and drew him aside.