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 day it was doomed to death by an irreverent body of town councillors who demanded a new up-to-date bank building. What low intrigues, what poisonous lies were invented to condemn it!

They insinuated that all the legends which had lent fame and splendour to the King's House through centuries were stolen finery. They also asserted that the house was so ruined by age that it could hardly stand, and therefore became a serious danger to the surrounding buildings. A furious dispute was carried on in the council chamber and in the local press between the spokesman of ideals—the teacher of history at the college—and the materialists standing up for the town's well-being. But these last conquered after bank-eager surveyors had pronounced against the security of the King's House. The demolition started. We children, whose patriotic imagination had grown under the shadow of the old house, followed with angry sorrow every beat of the demolisher's pickaxe, and enjoyed with wistful triumph the failure of the workmen to continue their labours by hand—the yard-thick walls of the old house having refused to budge without the added force of gunpowder. At last the old hero fell, but not by human hand. Dying, it mocked its assailants.

In the midst of the square lies the red town-hall with the town's coat-of-arms in gold and colours above the heavy, brown oak door. Round the town-hall gathers all the uncanny quality of the nursery