Vértessy recognised in the horseman that mysterious Pole whom the condemned man could not recollect, and by this time he was a trifle suspicious of the fellow himself. After all, he began to think, there might be some coherency in the words of the prisoner, though only an hour ago he had looked upon them as the mere ravings of a lunatic. "Where is the leader of the people?" cried Kamienszka, urging on the sweating horse towards the nearest open space. Master Matthias proudly pointed to the warm swelling bosom which lay beneath his leather apron, by way of indicating that he was the man. With an air of pathetic dignity Kamienszka handed to the worthy patriot the proclamation of Numa Pompilius, in which that worthy confided to the tailors, cobblers, and bakers of the city the honourable task of making, stitching, and baking some thousands of boots, hose, and rolls for headquarters to be delivered immediately. "What are you doing?" cried the General in French. "At the very first movement I shall scatter these men." "I am pouring oil upon the waters," replied the young horseman in the same language. "Within an hour every man of them will go home." Master Matthias seized the document with both hands, pressed his musket betwixt his knees, and read the proclamation attentively from beginning to end. The impression it made upon him could be imagined from the conduct of his moustache, which gradually lost its martial fierceness, and at last hung meekly down. "Six thousand pairs of boots--whew!" Meantime, a skinny fellow-citizen, buttoned up to the chin, kept on stretching his scraggy neck a monstrous distance across the heads of three rows of other burghers standing in front of him, with his eyes glued all the time upon the distant document in Master Matthias' hands. This was Master Csihos, known by the token over his shop as a member of the honourable guild of tailors. "There it is!--read it for yourself!" cried Master Matthias. The long arm stretched all the way across three rows of fellow-citizens standing in front of it, and a little group of tailors having put their heads together around the master-tailor, he read out the proclamation in a loud voice. "Three thousand pairs of trousers!" The head of the guild of bakers had not heard all that had been said, but the words "bread" and "rolls" had tickled his ears uncomfortably. The fatal proclamation had in a few moments made the round of the assembly, gradually disappearing among the back rows of the mob. And, wherever it passed, it left behind it long faces and gaping, speechless mouths; the tumult subsided into a low murmur and an uneasy whispering. Master Matthias, Master Csihos, and the chief of the Guild of Bakers held counsel together cheek by jowl. Those in the rear began to edge away along the wall as if it was no concern of theirs.