Some one began to whistle.
Daimon caught Prokop by the arm and dragged him to a door somewhere behind the blackboard.
“Hiss away,” continued Rosso mockingly. “None of you hissed when this foreign gentleman stood in front of you and . . . made room for his moment. Why shouldn’t anyone else try?”
“That’s right,” said a satisfied voice.
The beautiful girl stood in front of Prokop to protect him with her body. He tried to push her away.
“That’s not true,” she shouted with burning eyes. “He . . . he is . . .”
“Be quiet,” said Daimon.
“Anyone can preach,” said Rosso feverishly. “As long as I have this in my hand I can preach too. It’s all the same to me whether I go out or not. Nobody may leave this room! Galeasso, watch the door! So, now we can discuss matters.”
“Yes, now we can discuss matters,” echoed Daimon sharply.
Rosso turned round to him like lightning, but at that moment the blue-eyed giant dashed forward with his head lowered like a ram’s; and, before Rosso could turn round, seized his legs and pulled them from under him. Rosso fell from the platform head first. In the middle of a tense silence he rolled over and struck his head against the floor while the lid of the porcelain box rolled under the benches.
Prokop rushed across to the unconscious body; Rosso’s chest, and face, the floor, the pools of blood
