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 the dog, and into the church tumbled headlong.

It seemed quite dark, after the brilliant sunshine on the river
and the grass; his forehead touched the stone floor as he fell,
and as he raised himself and stumbled forward, reverent and
bareheaded, looking for the altar to cling to when the soldiers
should enter to seize him, his uplifted eyes fell on the great
tomb.

The tomb seems entirely to fill the church, as, with its
twenty-four guardian figures around it, it towers up in the
twilight that reigns here even at midday. There are a stern
majesty and grandeur in it which dwarf every other monument and
mausoleum. It is grim, it is rude, it is savage, with the spirit
of the rough ages that created it; but it is great with their
greatness, it is heroic with their heroism, it is simple with
their simplicity.

As the awestricken eyes of the terrified child fell on the mass
of stone and bronze, the sight smote him breathless. The mailed
warriors standing around it, so motionless, so solemn, filled him