interpret to them.  The prophet possessed more than a hundred of these pictures, given him by celestial apparitions.  He had them carefully pasted together, and rolled up always with him.  These pictorial sheets, roughly painted on coarse paper, served the linen-weaver in lieu of cards or coffee-grounds, for the purpose of prophesying to the people and announcing the future to them; and the good folks of Berlin believed in these prophecies with firm faith, and listened with devout confidence to the words of their prophet.

Pfannenstiel was in the act of unrolling his pictures, and the multitude, which, just before, had been shouting and screaming, became suddenly silent, and gazed up at the weaver with intense expectation.  A breathless silence ensued, and, far down the street, sounded the prophet’s loud and sonorous voice.  He pointed to the last of his pictures, which, in coarse, clumsy drawing, represented a town, from the houses of which flames arose in the most variegated colors.

“Behold! behold!” cried the prophet, “and fall on your knees and pray!  Yes, pray! for I tell you the Holy Ghost appeared to me, His wings dripping with blood, and in His burning and flaming beak He held this picture which I now show you.”

“Well, then, how is it that the picture is not burnt too, if the Holy Ghost held it in His burning beak?” asked an impudent shoemaker’s boy.

A low laugh ran through the crowd, but this was soon suppressed by angry, threatening voices, commanding silence and quiet.

The prophet turned with an air of majestic composure toward the questioner:  “Why was not this picture burnt?  Because God wished to perform a miracle, to manifest Himself to me in His glory, and to prove to me that this vision was from Him, and not from the devil.  Yes, indeed, God gave me this picture that we might be warned—­not to terrify us.  Listen, therefore, to my voice, and learn what God announces to you from my mouth.”

“I would like indeed to hear what the stupid rascal is going to announce to these poor foolish devils,” muttered Mr. Kretschmer, leaning out of the window and listening attentively.

Pfannenstiel continued:  “Behold these columns of fire rising from the houses of this town.  This town is Berlin, and the fire will burst out of the roofs of your houses.  Woe! woe! will sound in your streets, and weeping and lamentation will fill the air.  I say unto you, watch and pray!  Strew ashes on your heads, and fall down on your knees and pray to God for mercy, for the enemy is before your gates, and ere the sun sets the Russians will enter your town!  I say unto you, verily I say unto you, God spoke to me in a voice of thunder, and said, ‘The Russians are coming!’ Fall down and pray, for the Russians are coming!”

“The Russians are coming!” cried the terrified multitude and some among them turned pale.  The weeping women folded their hands in prayer; the men looked around timidly, and the frightened children clung to their mothers in dread of the Russians, whose name was synonymous with that of savages and cannibals.  Even Kretschmer could not help feeling somewhat terrified.  He drew back thoughtfully from the window, muttering with a shudder, “The Russians are coming!”