[_Laughs bitterly._] It's true enough--no one knows what'll be the end of it. You may be right yet. [_Bursts out in fury._] But if it does come to that, I know who I've got to thank for it, who it is that's blabbed to the manufacturers an' all the gentlemen round, an' blackened my character to that extent that they never give me a hand's turn of work to do--an' set the peasants an' the millers against me, so that I'm often a whole week without a horse to shoe or a wheel to put a tyre on. I know who's done it. I once pulled the damned brute off his horse, because he was givin' a little stupid boy the most awful flogging for stealin' a few unripe pears. But I tell you this, Kutsche, and you know me--if you get me put into prison, you may make your own will. If I hears as much as a whisper of it. I'll take the first thing as comes handy, whether it's a horseshoe or a hammer, a wheel-spoke or a pail; I'll get hold of you if I've to drag you out of bed from beside your wife, and I'll beat in your brains, as sure as my name's Wittig. [_He has jumped up and is going to rush at KUTSCHE._] OLD AND YOUNG WEAVERS [_Holding him back._] Wittig, Wittig! Don't lose your head! KUTSCHE [_Has risen involuntarily, his face pale. He backs towards the door while speaking. The nearer the door the higher his courage rises. He speaks the last words on the threshold, and then instantly disappears._] What are you goin' on at me about? I didn't meddle with you. I came to say somethin' to the weavers. My business is with them an' not with you, and I've done nothing to you. But I've this to say to you weavers: The superintendent of police herewith forbids the singing of that song--Dreissiger's song, or whatever it is you calls it. And if the yelling of it on the streets isn't stopped at once, he'll provide you with plenty of time and leisure for goin' on with it in gaol. You may sing there, on bread an' water, to your hearts' content. [_Goes out._ WITTIG [_Roars after him._] He's no right to forbid, it--not if we was to roar till the windows shook an' they could hear us at Reichenbach--not if we sang till the manufacturers' houses tumbled about their ears an' all the superintendents' helmets danced on the top of their heads. It's nobody's business but our own. [_BECKER has in the meantime got up, made a signal for singing, and now leads off, the others joining in._ The justice to us weavers dealt Is bloody, cruel, and hateful; Our life's one torture, long drawn out; For Lynch law we'd be grateful. [_WELZEL attempts to quiet them, but they pay no attention to him. WIEGAND puts his hands to his ears and rushes off. During the singing of the next stanza the weavers rise and form, into procession behind BECKER and WITTIG, who have given pantomimic signs for a general break-up._