Taking a rapid survey of the galleries before me, I saw
every face changed in colour, pale with a bluish, ashy paleness; some
open-mouthed, others with bristling hair, listening intently, holding
their breath. The capuchin friar Johannes seated on the banister had
turned from crimson to a greenish hue, and the big red nose of Doctor
Melchior had turned from red to sallow the first time for twenty years;
the poor little women trembled without stirring from their places,
knowing that the least agitation would bring down the whole place.
I could have wished to fly too. I fancied I could see the thick oaken
pillars of the gallery bowing to the ground. I cannot tell whether this
was illusion or not, but in a moment the principal beam gave a loud crack
and became depressed by three inches at the least. Then, my friends, it
was horrible to behold--the deep silence of a minute before was succeeded
by tumult, cries, screams, and ravings. That mass of human beings heaped
up in the galleries, one above another, were some clutching the walls,
the pillars, the banisters; others were fighting with fury, and even
biting, to get away faster, and from the midst of this frightful
confusion arose the plaintive voices of the suffering women.
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