They were all collected on a grass-plat for target-shooting.  In the midst of the plat rose a pole with a target.  The women and girls were standing around, attentively and curiously watching the men, who, collected under a tent, were shooting with crossbows at the target.  Every lucky shot was greeted with a cheer, every unlucky one with derisive laughter; and the prizes which were assigned to the fortunate marksmen only served to increase the joy and merriment of the happy crowd.

Suddenly loud cries of weeping and lamentation were heard from a distance.  The people looked at each other with anxiety and alarm.  The dismal noise came nearer and still nearer, and then appeared at the entrance gate near by the strange and wild figure of the linen-weaver, accompanied by the two editors, Krause and Kretschmer.

“Pfannenstiel! it is Pfannenstiel, our prophet!” shouted the crowd, while they hastened with joyous laughter and words of greeting toward their beloved seer.

The linen-weaver strode forward with a serious and majestic air, answering the greetings of the workmen with patronizing nods, and from time to time stretching out his hand as if to bless them.  The multitude crowded around him, and seemed to look upon the advent of the prophet as part of the programme of the entertainment.  But Gotzkowsky hastened toward the two editors with a cheerful smile, bidding them a courteous welcome.  They responded to his friendly greeting with a solemn earnestness, and requested a conference with a mysterious and important air.  Gotzkowsky looked at them with astonishment; but as he read in their countenances an expression of deep and anxious concern, he motioned to them and preceded them to a summer-house on the other side of the lawn.

“Here we can talk without being observed,” said he, casting a look across at his workmen.  “You see my guests are still busy with the scarecrow which you brought here; and what business has this man, indeed, among merry people?”

“He maintains that God ordered him to come to you, to warn you in His name, and call upon you to protect Berlin,” said Krause.

“Yes,” continued Kretschmer, “and he entreated us to accompany him, trusting to our influence with our dear friend.”

Gotzkowsky looked at both of the men with astonishment.  “Tell me, my worthy friends, which of us is crazy?” asked he, smiling, partly in derision, partly in pity.  “I am called on to protect Berlin, and from what?”

“Because the Russians are coming,” said Mr. Krause, solemnly.

Gotzkowsky shrugged his shoulders.  “That is an idle rumor,” said he; “two days ago they were still in Frankfort.  You see, therefore, that some wag has amused himself by teasing you and frightening you a little for the thunderbolts which you two, and particularly the Vossian Gazette, have launched against the Russians.”

Mr. Kretschmer shuddered and turned pale.  “I beg you,” cried he, “do not speak of it!  Good Heavens! the Vossian Gazette is the organ of the popular mind, and it is its duty to take each day the exact tone of public opinion.  I abused the Russians, therefore, because—­”