"We have no weapons.
We have no swords or pistols.
And Court Square is surrounded by three rings of armed Guards."
"The soldiers are still protecting the Three Fat Men.
They shot at us.
But sooner or later, they'll join us against their leaders."
"Last night a Guard shot his officer on Star Square.
He did it to save Tibul's life."
"But where is Tibul?
Did he escape?"
"Nobody knows.
The Guards were burning down the workers* houses all through the night.
They wanted to find him, to smoke him out."
Doctor Caspar and the Negro now reached the booths.
The show had not yet begun.
They could hear voices, the jingling of bells, the sound of a flute and something rustling, growling and squeaking behind the flowery curtains and partitions, where the actors were getting ready for the show.
The curtain parted and a face appeared.
It was a Spaniard, a very famous pistol shot.
His moustache bristled, and one of his eyeballs rolled in its socket.
"Oho!" he said when he saw the Negro. "Are you going to take part in this show, too?
How much did they pay you?"
The Negro was silent.
"I got ten pieces of gold!" the Spaniard boasted.
He thought the Negro was one of the actors. "Come over here," he whispered and looked very mysterious.
The Negro climbed up on to the stage.
And the Spaniard told him a secret.
This is what it was. The Three Fat Men had hired a hundred actors to perform in all the market places. They were supposed to tell the people how wonderful it was to live in a country ruled by the rich and the gluttons and what bad people the rebels Prospero the Gunsmith and Tibul the Acrobat were.
"They've hired magicians, lion-tamers, clowns, ventriloquists, and dancers.
And they gave us all a lot of money."
"Did all the actors agree to praise the Three Fat Men?" Doctor Caspar asked.
The Spaniard hissed at him.
"Shhh!" he said, putting his finger to his lips. "Don't talk so loudly.
A lot of them didn't, and they were arrested."
The Negro stamped his foot angrily.
Just then the music began.
The performances were beginning in some of the booths.
The crowd milled about.
"Ladies and Gentlemen!" a clown standing on the wooden stage shouted in a high-pitched voice.
"I would like to wish you all...."
He stopped shouting and waited for the noise to die down.
Powder kept falling off his face.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, I would like to wish you all good health today, of all days, when the executioners of our dear, pink Three Fat Men will chop off the heads of those horrible rebels!"
He never finished.
One of the workers threw a half-eaten oatcake at him.
It landed right in his mouth and filled it up completely.
"Mmm-mmm-mmm!"
The clown gurgled, but it didn't help.
The poorly-baked, half-raw gob of dough filled his mouth.
He waved his arms about and made horrible faces.
"Hah!