sy musicians strike up my tune as we march along; and
let two heydukes hold my horse when I mount."

These commands were punctually obeyed.

The people, after a short religious service, made their way towards the
fields. In front trotted two sworn burghers with ribbon-bedizened
copper axes in their hands; after them came a cart with the gipsy
musicians, roaring out Martin's song as if they meant to shout the
heavens down. Immediately upon their heels followed two gaily
tricked-out oxen, led by a couple of bare-armed butcher's lads; and then
came the provision-waggons; and last of all the wine-carts, with sturdy
young bachelors astride every barrel. Then followed Mr. Varju. Fate had
raised him still higher, for he was now sitting on horseback, holding a
large red banner, which the wind kept flapping into his eyes every
moment. From the satisfied expression of his face he evidently thought
to himself that if Martin was the Whitsun King, he himself was at least
the Whitsun Palatine.

Last of all came the Whitsun King. His horse was not exactly beautiful,
but it was a large, bony beast, sixteen hands high, and what it wanted
in figure was made up to it in gay trappings and ribbons woven into its
mane; its housings too were of fox-skin. Martin did not ride badly. He
rolled about a bit, it is true; but this was due, not so much to
anything he had taken at breakfast, as to his usual habit of swaggering;
indeed, for the matter of that, he sat as firmly in his saddle as if he
had grown to it.

On both sides of him trotted a couple of burghers with drawn swords, who
had to look well after themselves all the time, for Martin's horse,
whenever he perceived any other horse half a head in front of him, would
bite at it till it screamed again.

After him, in a long row, came the competing youths. In every face was
to be seen a confident gleam of hope that he, perhaps, would be the
winner.

The rear was brought up by a crush of carriages and carts, raising
clouds of dust in their efforts to overtake the horses in front,
adorned with green branches and crammed with merry holiday-folks with
bright, streaming neckerchiefs.

At that moment the report of a mortar announces that the prime patron of
the festivities, the rich nabob, Master Jock, has departed from his
castle. The crowd takes up its position in the cemetery and the gardens
adjoining. The wary horsemen stand out in the open; some of them make
their horses prance and curv