"Do not let yourselves be befogged by those tedious maunderings that would reason away the strife of the classes. Oh, true! To such the gentlemen of the safety-box listen eagerly enough, for they are, oh, so afraid of the War of the Classes! But if they were to hear this gentleman talk, they would shout their approval. Take notice, this gentleman will do much to further it. Of course, they have his medal all ready for him." "And a pension," said Hakkema, while the audience laughed. "He is an unfrocked priest," said he in the Manchester suit. "Damn ye, are ye a workman?" cried a voice at the back of the hall. "And do ye mean to say it's my fault that my children perish with hunger, and not the fault of those cursed blood-suckers? You 're a God-forsaken hypocrite, no laborer!" Markus sat very still, gazing straight before him into the flame of a gas-jet. But Johannes saw that he was deathly pale, and that his eyes seemed to sink deeper into their sockets. Beads of perspiration were standing on his temples. Hakkema stood up. "Now I chance to know, fellow-laborers, that this man has escaped from a madhouse. That is a mitigating circumstance. Otherwise," Hakkema went on, drawing his clenched hand from his pocket, and thrusting it out in front of him, "otherwise I would have my fist at his jaw, and ask him if he had no feeling at all in his accursed carcass, that he begrudged the laborer his pittance of the good things of life. It's an enormous amount of pleasure, isn't it--glorious pleasure--you've been able to get on two hundred cents a day!" "You cad!" cried the young typographer, to Markus--the very same youth who had recited the poem about Golgotha. "I'll invite you sometime to my home--with my six children, and a seventh one coming, and the clothes in the pawn-shop, and no warm food for three days--then you can see what a fine time of it the laborer has." "Vile, hateful traitor!" "Hireling socialist!" "I'll ring yer neck for ye!" "I'll guzzle yer blood, ye hateful cur!" Such cries as these rang from various sides, and the uproar steadily increased. The man in the brown suit shrieked invectives without cessation--"Cad! Carrion! Thief!" and the worst ones he could think of; while, in his excitement, the tears ran down his pale, drawn cheeks. The din was deafening. Johannes clenched his fists, and stared at the pale, passionate faces with their evil, flashing glances, which threatened them on every side. He saw Marjon beside him, her eyes distended with terror. Markus sat immovable. The drops of moisture were so thick upon his forehead and cheeks that Johannes took his handkerchief and wiped them away. Jan van Tijn stood up, but he felt he could do nothing to stem that tide. He began, "Say, are you people--" But he was shouted down, with threats of a broken head; and already fists and chairs were upraised.