ot laugh and use bad
words--"

And Findelkind, on whose shoulder the orderly's hold was still fast,
faced the horses, which looked to him as huge as Martinswand, and the
swords, which he little doubted were to be sheathed in his heart.

The officers stared, laughed again, then whispered together, and
Findelkind heard them say the word "crazed." Findelkind, whose quick
little ears were both strained like a mountain leveret's, understood
that the great men were saying among themselves that it was not safe for
him to be about alone, and that it would be kinder to him to catch and
cage him,--the general view with which the world regards enthusiasts.

He heard, he understood; he knew that they did not mean to help him,
these men with the steel weapons and the huge steeds, but that they
meant to shut him up in a prison--he, little free-born, forest-fed
Findelkind. He wrenched himself out of the soldier's grip, as the rabbit
wrenches itself out of the jaws of the trap even at the cost of leaving
a limb behind, shot between the horses' legs, doubled like a hunted
thing, and spied a refuge. Opposite the avenue of gigantic poplars and
pleasant stretches of grass shaded by other bigger trees, there stands
a very famous church, famous alike in the annals of history and of
art,--the church of the Franciscans, that holds the tomb of Kaiser Max,
though, alas! it holds not his ashes, as his dying desire was that it
should. The church stands here, a noble, sombre place, with the Silver
Chapel of Philippina Wessler adjoining it, and in front the fresh cool
avenues that lead to the river and broad water-meadows and the grand
Hall road bordered with the painted stations of the Cross.

There were some peasants coming in from the country driving cows,
and some burghers in their carts, with fat, slow horses; some little
children were at play under the poplars and the elms; great dogs were
lying about on the grass; everything was happy and at peace, except the
poor throbbing heart of little Findelkind, who thought the soldiers were
coming after him to lock him up as mad, and ran and ran as fast as his
trembling legs would carry him, making for sanctuary, as, in the old
bygone days that he loved, many a soul less innocent than his had done.
The wide doors of the Hofkirche stood open, and on the steps lay a
black-and-tan hound, watching no doubt for its master or mistress, who
had gone within to pray. Findelkind, in his terror, vaulted over t