vy folds. With his long, white
naked arm he was stretching a staff far out over the river. It was from
him that the murmuring and whimpering proceeded. At that moment I heard
the sound of marching coming from the town, and I saw the sheen of
arms. The old man cowered down, and began to whimper and lament, in a
pitiful voice, holding out a cap to those who were coming over the
bridge, as if asking for alms. An officer, laughing, cried, "_Voila
St. Pierre, qui veut pecher!_" The one who came next stopped, and said
very gravely, "_Eh bien! Moi, pecheur, je lui aiderai a pecher._"
Several officers and soldiers, quitting the ranks, threw the old man
money, sometimes silently, sometimes with gentle sighs, like men in
expectation of death; and he, then, always nodded from side to side
with his head in a curious way, uttering a sort of hollow cry of a
singular description. At length an officer (in whom I recognized
General Mouton) came so very close to the old man that I thought his
foaming charger would tramp upon him; and, turning quickly to his
aide-de-camp, as he thrust his hat more firmly down on to his head, he
asked him, in a loud excited voice, "_Qui est cet homme?_" "The escort
which was in attendance on him stood motionless; but an old, bearded
sapper, who was passing with his axe on his shoulder, said, calmly and
gravely, "_C'est un pauvre maniaque bien connu ici. On l'appelle St.
Pierre Pecheur._" On that the force passed on across the bridge, not as
at other times, full of foolish jesting, but in dispirited ill-temper
and gloom. As the last sound of them died away, and the last gleam of
their arms disappeared, the old man slowly reared himself up, and stood
with uplifted head and staff outstretched, like some miraculous saint
ruling the stormy water. The waves of the river rose into mightier and
mightier billows, as if stirred from their depths. And I seemed to hear
a hollow voice, coming up from amidst those rushing waters, and saying
in the Russian language.

"Michael Popowicz! Michael Popowicz! Do you not see the fireman?"

The old man murmured to himself. He seemed to be praying. But suddenly
he cried out, "Agafia!" And at that moment his face glowed in blood-red
fire which seemed to be shooting up at him out of the Elbe. On the
Meissner Hills great fluttering flames blazed up into the sky; their
reflection shone into the river, and upon the old man's face. And now,
close beside me upon the bridge, there began