"Oh, shame! shame!" exclaimed Renzo. "Shame! would you take the hangman's business out of his hand? to assassinate a Christian? How can you expect God will give us bread, if we commit such iniquity? He will send us his thunders, and not bread!"
"Ah! dog! ah! traitor to the country!" cried one who had heard these words, turning to Renzo with the countenance of a demon. "It is a servant of the vicar's disguised like a countryman; it is a spy!" A hundred voices were heard exclaiming, "Who is it? where is he?"—"A servant of the vicar's—a spy—the vicar himself, escaping in the disguise of a peasant!"—"Where is he? where is he?"
Renzo would have shrunk into nothingness,—some of the more benevolent contrived to help him to disappear through the crowd; but that which preserved him most effectually was a cry of "Make way, here comes our help, make way!" which attracted the attention of the throng.
This was a long scaling ladder, supported by a few persons who were endeavouring to penetrate the living mass, and by which they meant to gain entrance to the house. But, happily, this was not easy of execution; the length of the machine precluded the possibility of its being carried easily through such a multitude; it came, however, just in time for Renzo, who profited by the confusion, and escaped to a distance, with the intention of making his way, as soon as he could, to the convent, in search of Father Bonaventura.
Suddenly a new movement began at one extremity, and diffused itself through the crowd:—"Ferrer, Ferrer!" resounded from every side. Some were surprised, some rejoiced, some were exasperated, some applauded, some affirmed, some denied, some blessed, some cursed!
"Is he here? It is not true; it is not true. Yes, yes, long live Ferrer, he who makes bread cheap.—No, no! He is here—here in a carriage! Why does he come?—we don't want him.—Ferrer! long live Ferrer! the friend of the poor! he comes to take the vicar prisoner.—No, no, we would revenge ourselves, we would fight our
