"Nay, not that man!" cried a voice from the crowd, and the magistrate beheld Thomas Bodza advancing towards him--by the side of the long table. "Whom then?" cried he. "Whom but yourself!" exclaimed Numa Pompilius, accompanying his words with the gesture of a Roman Senator. For the moment it occurred to the magistrate that the worthy rector who was not, as a rule, addicted to strong drink, had actually, for once, taken more of the noble juice of the grape than was quite good for him, so he simply laughed at him. All the more astonished, therefore, was he when, at a sign from the master, two strange men rushed upon him and seized his hands fast. He had never seen their faces before, they were men who did not belong to the village. "What's the meaning of this, eh?" he thundered, giving one of them a rattling box on the ear and knocking the other down. It was of no use. Ten at least instantly threw themselves upon him, seized his hands and feet, threw him to the ground and bound him fast. One or two of his acquaintances tried to defend him but were thrust aside. So long as the tussle lasted, Thomas Bodza stood upon the table with the pose of a capitoline statue, whence he exclaimed in a dictatorial voice: "It is now for me to command." The pinioned magistrate continued to curse and swear, and threaten the rioters till they shoved a gag into his mouth. As for the Leather-bell, he hid himself behind the fireplace partly to avoid blows, partly from a fear that this business would have unpleasant consequences, and he might be called upon to give evidence. He wanted neither to hear nor see anything more. CHAPTER XIV. THE SENTENCE OF DEATH. The candles were burning on the table though it was broad daylight, the bells were tolling though nobody was sick, the coffin had also been made ready though nobody was dead. The hard sentence had been pronounced over the poor sinner, he must die. The law demanded his head. If his dear father and mother and all his brothers and sisters were to plead for him all day long they could not wash away the strict letter of the law with their tears. All those who sat by the long table, the captains, lieutenants, and common soldiers, all of them wished, longed, to avoid uttering the fatal word. The General himself covered his face with his hands as he uttered the words: "With God there is mercy!" In his hand he held a little staff, a little white staff. From time to time he glances at it, it is still whole, still smooth and unbroken. The old sergeant-major approaches him, his shako on his head, his storm-belt strapped down over his shoulder, one hand by his side, the other touching the band of his shako. "Mercy, General, for the poor condemned prisoner!" "With God only there is mercy." Again the sergeant-major raises the tip of his palm to the cord of his shako and makes his petition. "Mercy, General, for the poor condemned criminal!" A third time he utters his appeal.