his shoulders.

The people, delighted with the dexterity and strength of the
herculean man, broke into a loud cheer, and applauded the brewer,
whom all knew, and who was a popular personage in the city. But
Marat, too, the horse-doctor of the Count d'Artois, as he called
himself derisively, the doctor of poverty and misfortune, as his
flatterers termed him--Marat, too, was known to many in the throng,
and after Santerre had been applauded, they saluted Marat with a
loud vivat, and with boisterous clapping of hands.

He turned his distorted, ugly visage toward the Tuileries, whose
massive proportions towered up above the lofty trees of the gardens,
and with a threatening gesture shook his fist at the royal palace.

"Have you heard it, you proud gods of the earth? Have you heard the
sacred thunder mutterings of majesty? Are you not startled from the
sleep of your vice, and compelled to fall upon your knees and pray,
as poor sinners do before their judgment? But no. You do not see and
you do not hear. Your ears are deaf and your hearts are sealed!
Behind the lofty walls of Versailles, which a most vicious king
erected for his menus plaisirs, there you indulge in your lusts, and
shut out the voice of truth, which would speak to you here in Paris
from the hallowed lips of the people."

"Long live Marat!" cried the cobbler Simon, who, drawn by the
shouting, had left the Franciscan, and joined the throng in whose
midst stood Santerre, with Marat on his shoulders. "Long live the
great friend of the people! Long live Marat!"