ring with a shudder, "The Russians are coming!"

The people crowded around the prophet in still narrower circles, and
in more piercing tones wept and cried out: "What shall we do? What
shall we do to be saved? Have mercy, O God! Have mercy on Berlin, for
the Russians are coming!"

"Yes, they are coming!" cried Pfannenstiel. "God told me so in the
roll of His thunder and the lightning of His eyes; and he said to me:
'Go and say to the people of Berlin, "The Russians are coming!" and
thou shalt see in the same hour how their hearts will shrink, and how
cast down they will be; how their eyes will run tears, and their
lips utter prayers, for the Russian is the sworn enemy of the Berlin
people; and as often as the cry, "The Russians are coming," sounds
through the streets of Berlin, there will be wailing and lamentation
in every house and every heart; and they will bow down in timid
contrition and abject obedience. Speak, therefore, to them, and say,
"The Russians are coming!" that they may become humble and quiet; that
the proud word may be silenced on their lips, and that they may submit
in peace.'"

"What shall we do?" asked the people. "Help us, advise us, for thou
art our prophet."

Pfannenstiel drew himself up to his utmost height, and an expression
of triumphant cunning sparkled in his eyes. "Do you not understand
the voice of God? God commands you to withdraw in silence and peace to
your own dwellings, to weep and pray. Go, then! Let the word of your
mouth and the rebelliousness of your hearts be silent. Go home to your
huts, shut the doors and windows, and do not venture out, for without,
death and the Russians await you!"

Obedient to the voice of their prophet, the crowd separated in
different directions, and dispersed quietly.

Pfannenstiel looked after them with a smile of scorn; then silently
rolled up his pictures, threw his gray cloak over his shoulders, and,
casting a serious and significant look up at Mr. Kretschmer's window,
strode down the street slowly and with an air of majestic dignity.

* * * * *

CHAPTER VI.

THE COWARDS' RACE.

The warning sounded loud and threatening in Mr. Kretschmer's
ears--"The Russians are coming!" A cold chill ran through him, and
he could not prevent an involuntary shudder. But he tried to rouse
himself from this despondency, and laughed at himself for this
credulous fear.

"This Pfannenstiel is a fool, and I would he a gr