Preparations were making in the market-place for an ox-roast. The fat
young ox had been spitted, and the pile of fagots underneath him was
ready for the torch. Hard by, on a stout trestle, rested a barrel of
wine. In front of the inn a gypsy band were tuning their instruments,
while at the window of the church tower might have been seen two or
three child faces; they were on the lookout for the new lady of the
manor, in order that they might be ready to ring the bells the moment
she came in sight. There was only that one tower in the village, and
there was a cross on it; but it was not a Romish church, for all that.
The inhabitants were adherents of Luther--Swabians, mixed with Magyars.
The municipal authorities, in their holiday attire of blue cloth, had
grouped themselves about the town hall. The older men wore their long
hair brushed back from the temples and held in place by a curved comb.
The young men had thrust into the sides of their lambskin caps gay
little nosegays of artificial flowers. _They_ proposed to fire a grand
salute from the pistols they had concealed in their pockets.
Meanwhile, the dignitaries underneath the umbrageous beech-tree were
passing the time of waiting pleasantly enough.
Pages:
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75