In the little public room of the total-abstainers' coffee-house, "The Future," a large circle of congenial spirits sat waiting. Jan van Tijn was there, his wife, an infant, and the oldest girl. Marjon was there also, a neighbor having volunteered to care for the other Van Tijn children. Besides those named, there were about twenty other men and women in the little hall with its dirty, dingy hangings. On small tables in front of the visitors were cups of tea and chocolate. Many mothers had brought their infants. There was a dearth of talking and a deal of smoking; for it would have been too much, at the outset, to put a ban upon both alcohol and tobacco. "Well, what did they find with their examination?" asked Jan van Tijn, as Johannes entered the smoky hall. "He is not free yet," replied Johannes, "but he talked with them so finely and sanely they are bound to let him go." "Good!" said Jan. "Come here, Jo. Here's a cup of comfort for you, then," said Vrouw Roodhuis. "But all the same," cried a man with a hoarse voice, a sallow face, and black beard, dressed in a brown Manchester suit, with a loose scarf around his sweater, and a pair of sandals on his bare feet, "you needn't think he will be set free. As soon as you begin to oppose that pest of hypocrites, you'll have the whole crew at your throat. That sort knows it all, every time--whether it be the pastor, or the dominie, or the general, or the professor--always the same pack; and if they once get you into their clutches you never get out again, whether in jail or in the madhouse or in the hospital; you never get out till they've given you a good start toward kingdom-come." "Are they goin' to poison 'im?" asked a woman, in alarm. "What with? Ratsbane?" "They'll poison him, for sure," answered the man in brown, "or they'll nag him to death, or starve him. They have methods and tricks enough--the villains!" It was scarcely half-past eight o'clock yet, and the indignation meeting was to begin at nine. So it was proposed to shorten the time with recitations and singing. And this was done. First some one sang alone--the song of a poor conscript who was forced to go to war, and had conscientious scruples about it. Then they all sang a song of freedom. After that, a very young typographer recited, with great fervor, a poem describing the way the Jews made merry at the crucifixion of Jesus on Golgotha; how they even took their little children with them, and hoped the anguish would be prolonged, that they might have the more pleasure. The description of that cruelty, vehemently expressed, made a deep impression, and they sat listening with open mouths notwithstanding that they had heard it many times before. When it was over they all stamped uproariously on the floor. At that moment the door opened, and Markus stood at the threshold of the little hall.