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358 morals she mistrusted. Then came ten postilions on horse back, in yellow breeches and blue coats, who played: "We wind for thee the maiden's wreath." Then twelve girls in white, who strewed roses and sprigs of arbor vitae on the road.

And lastly, followed by fifty master-mechanics on power ful horses, the six-horsed transparent bridal coach. The red-faced coachman in the laced hat proudly extended his gaitered legs on the high white-velvet box, holding the reins with arms similarly extended; grooms in top-boots walked at the head of each pair of horses, and two lackeys stood behind the creaking carriage in gfeat state, showing in their impenetrable faces no signs that plotting and underhand dealing were part of their daily life. Behind the glass and gilded window-frames sat Imma Spoelmann in veil and wreath, with an old Court lady as lady of honour at her side. Her dress of shimmering silk glittered like snow in the sunshine, and on her lap she held the white bouquet which Prince Klaus Heinrich had sent her an hour before. Her strangely childlike face was as pale as an ocean-pearl, and a smooth wisp of dark hair fell across her forehead under the veil, while her big black eyes threw glances of pleading eloquence over the close-packed throng. And what was that din, that barking close by the coach-door? It was Percival, the collie, more beside himself than anyone had ever seen him. The confusion and the slow pace at which the procession went excited him beyond measure, robbed him of all self-restraint, and convulsed him almost beyond bearance. He raged, he danced, he leaped, he circled blindly round and round in the intoxication of his nerves, and the shouts redoubled in the balconies and street and on the roofs on both sides as the people recognized him.

That is how Imma Spoelmann drove to the Old Schloss, and the boom and buzz of the bells mingled with the cheers