"Where can he be?" The maid went on searching, and kept
chuckling to herself. "What did you say, Rosetta?" the flower-girl
asked, shrewishly. "I say what I always have said," the maid replied,
putting on a very serious, honest face; "the Receiver is a lazy
fellow; of course he is lying behind some bush sound asleep."
My blood tingled with longing to jump down and defend my reputation,
when on a sudden a burst of music and loud shouts were heard from the
castle.
The flower-girl could stay no longer. "The people are cheering his
Grace," she said passionately. "Come, we shall be missed!" And she
clapped on her mask in a hurry, and ran in a rage with the maid toward
the castle. The trees and bushes seemed to point after her with long,
derisive fingers, the moonlight danced nimbly up and down over her
stout figure as though over the key-board of a piano, and thus to
the sound of trumpets and kettle-drums she made her exit, like many a
singer whom I have seen upon the stage.
I, seated above in my tree, was downright bewildered, and gazed
fixedly at the castle; a circle of tall torches upon the steps of the
entrance cast a strange glare upon the glittering windows and deep
into the garden; the assembled servants were to serenade their master.
In the midst of them stood the gorgeous Porter, like a minister of
state, before a music-stand, working away busily at a bassoon.
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