On the following morning there was a large crowd collected in front of
the cathedral. The image, instead of standing in the centre of the
church, where, upon all former occasions, it had been accustomed during
the week succeeding the ceremony to receive congratulatory, visits, was
now ignominiously placed behind an iron railing within the choir. It had
been deemed imprudent to leave it exposed to sacrilegious hands. The
precaution excited derision. Many vagabonds of dangerous appearance,
many idle apprentices and ragged urchins were hanging for a long time
about the imprisoned image, peeping through the railings, and indulging
in many a brutal jest. "Mayken! Mayken!" they cried; "art thou
terrified so soon? Hast flown to thy nest so early? Dost think thyself
beyond the reach of mischief? Beware, Mayken! thine hour is fast
approaching!" Others thronged around the balustrade, shouting "Vivent
les gueux!" and hoarsely commanding the image to join in the beggars'
cry. Then, leaving the spot, the mob roamed idly about the magnificent
church, sneering at the idols, execrating the gorgeous ornaments,
scoffing at crucifix and altar.

Presently one of the rabble, a ragged fellow of mechanical aspect, in a
tattered black doublet and an old straw hat, ascended the pulpit.
Opening a sacred volume which he found there, he began to deliver an
extemporaneous and coarse caricature of a monkish sermon. Some of the
bystanders applauded, some cried shame, some shouted "long live the
beggars!" some threw sticks and rubbish at the mountebank, some caught
him by the legs and strove to pull him from the place. He, on the other
hand, manfully maintained his ground, hurling back every missile,
struggling with his assailants, and continuing the while to pour forth a
malignant and obscene discourse. At last a young sailor, warm in the
Catholic Faith, and impulsive as mariners are prone to be, ascended the
pulpit from behind, sprang upon the mechanic, and flung him headlong down