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 the 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.
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