help. Old Buck granted his request; he rang his bell incessantly, and even sent some young men down to rescue Diederich from his enemies. No sooner was he free than Diederich pointed his finger at old Buck. "The corruptness of democracy," he shouted, dancing with passion. "I will prove it to him!" "Bravo!" "Let him speak"—and the camp of the loyalists was set in motion, poured over the tables and stood face to face with the revolutionaries. A free fight seemed imminent. The police officer on the platform caught hold of his helmet to protect himself; it was a critical moment. Then a command was heard: "Silence! Let him speak!" It was almost quiet, for people had become aware of an anger greater than any other present. Old Buck, looming above his table on the platform, was no longer a worthy old gentleman. Power seemed to give slenderness to his figure, he was pale with hatred, and he darted a glance at Diederich which caused the onlookers to hold their breath.
"Let him speak," the old man repeated. "Even traitors are allowed to speak before they are condemned. That is what traitors to the nation look like. They have changed only in externals since the time when my generation fought and died, and went to prison and the scaffold."
"Ha! ha!" cried Gottlieb Hornung, filled with superior mirth. Unfortunately for him, he was sitting within arm's reach of a powerful workman, who raised his arm so threateningly that, before the blow struck him, Hornung collapsed together with his chair.
"At that time also," shouted the old man, "there were such people who preferred profit to honour, and who found no domination humiliating, provided their pockets were the better of it. Servile materialism, the fruit and weapon of every tyranny, that was what defeated us, and you also, my fellow-citizens—"
The old man spread out his arms and nerved himself for the final cry of his conscience.
