llowed to rust to destruction. Wilhelmine fell into
a dream: if she were Duchess, she would have the grotto repaired, not
Time's handiwork disturbed; the ferns, the lichen, the twining ivy should
remain; the wilderness should not be formalised; only the waterworks
should be renewed, and the old devices made perfect. There should be
water-fetes by moonlight, with lamps shimmering through the playing
fountains, and music, faint and fitful, from unseen players. And she
would be mistress of all this.

She was resting on a moss-grown seat, and the gentle breeze played over
her brow. She almost slept for a moment. What was that? A discordant
note smote disagreeably on her hearing. Why must the canaille make so
hideous a noise when it amuses itself? she reflected; probably some
ridiculous popular jaunt, some people's gathering. Her lip curled
contemptuously. Were she Duchess she would teach the canaille what was
fitting for it!

Again the sound disturbed her; it seemed to be coming nearer--probably
along the Bergstrasse from Cannstatt. What could it be? She could hear
the hoarse roar of many voices; it was terrifying somehow. She sprang up.
God in Heaven! could it be a mob incited by Mueller to stone her house?
But no, the sound was not in that direction; surely it came from beyond
the eastern wall of the Lustgarten. Impossible! But it sounded as though
the crowd made its way towards the grotto. The sound increased each
breathless moment; she could hear some of the rabble singing hymns. To
her horror she realised that they must have passed the Lustgarten walls,
that they were actually nearing her. Could she gain the shelter of the
Jaegerhaus? She had a vision of a pursuit through the gardens. No! she
must hide--the mob must go past her, that was her only hope. Instinct
told her that she was the crowd's quarry. Hide? But where? Ah, the
grotto. She fled round the water-tank and gained the humid darkness of
the grotto. She rushed on, her feet slipping on the slimy stones of the
entrance-chamber. If she could only gain the higher gallery she might
hide in some dark corner. Ah! here were the steps. She clambered up; the
yelling crowd must be close behind now, for she could hear their words:
'Rat out the witch!' 'Death to the sinner!' 'Die Hexe! die verdammte
Hexe!'--then some coarse witticisms shouted in Swabian dialect, rude
laughter, whoops and curses, groans and whistles, all a mob's animal-like
ejaculations.

The Graevenitz