Alf swung himself up to the corner stone of a house near the market, held fast to the iron supporters of a pitch-pan, and looked towards the centre of the circle. 'What do you see,' cried the tailor to him above. 'A stout man,' answered Alf, 'clad in a coarse woolen capote. I can scarcely see his face through his disheveled hair and bushy beard. He poises a stout spear over a vigorous burgher who is kneeling before him.' 'That is our great Matthias,' exclaimed the tailor. A fresh multitude at that instant came up and pulled Alf down from his corner stone. The tailor held on with all his might to prevent being borne away by the crowd, and grumbled, 'it is very wrong that one should be hindered by the crowd from seeing what the people do in their sovereign judicial capacity.' 'Thank God! I find one acquaintance here at least!' exclaimed a pale girl, tremblingly seizing the hand of the tailor. 'If you have the heart of a man, my good fellow, help us out of this great difficulty. You have much influence with Johannes Bockhold, the prophet; beg of him, therefore, mercy for my poor uncle!' 'For your uncle, mademoiselle Clara?' inquired he with astonishment. 'What has happened to the worthy master Trutlinger?' 'Trutlinger, Hubert Trutlinger, the armorer?' exclaimed Alf, in great agitation; 'my good old master? What has happened to him?' 'Alas, they have dragged him before the tribunal of the people!' complained the weeping girl; 'he is said to have spoken evil of the prophets.' 'That is a bad case,' said the tailor, 'and in such an unpleasant predicament there is not much to be hoped from any interference.' 'But you must attempt that possibility,' said Alf, 'of serving the upright man and this loving child.' There fell a shot in the midst of the circle, which was directly followed by a horrible cry from the thousand voiced multitude. 'God! what was that?' exclaimed the girl, aghast. 'I fear my intercession comes too late,' said the tailor dubiously. At that moment the circle opened and the doomed one was brought forth, borne in mournful silence upon the halberds of several burghers. The blood was streaming from a spear wound in his side, and from a reeking shot wound in his breast; yet the unhappy man was not dead, but breathed, although with infinite pain, and had his eyes directed imploringly toward heaven. 'Not even to be able to die,' groaned he. 'Thou punishest heavily my foolishness, O God!' 'Be satisfied unhappy man,' exclaimed the terrible prophet, who had followed him. 'Heaven has revealed to me that the hour of thy death has not yet come. God has determined to show thee mercy. Convey him to his dwelling,' said he to the bearers, 'so that he may be taken care of by his own family. The Lord desires not the death of sinners, but that they should be converted and live.'