"And they're artful, too, mind yer," he continued. "Why, only this
morning, I sez to myself, 'Friesshardt,' I sez, 'you just wait till
twelve o'clock,' I sez, ''cos that's when they leave the council-house,
and then they'll _have_ to cross the meadow. And then we'll see
what we _shall_ see,' I sez. Like that, I sez. Bitter-like, yer
know. 'We'll see,' I sez, 'what we _shall_ see.' So I waited, and
at twelve o'clock out they came, dozens of them, and began to cross the
meadow. 'And now,' sez I to myself, 'look out for larks.' But what
happened? Why, when they came to the pole, the priest stood in front of
it, and the sacristan rang the bell, and they all fell down on their
knees. But they were saying their prayers, not doing obeisance to the
hat. That's what _they_ were doing. Artful--that's what _they_ are!"

And Friesshardt kicked the foot of the pole viciously with his iron
boot.

"It's my belief," said Leuthold (Leuthold is the thin soldier you see
in the picture)--"it's my firm belief that they are laughing at us.
There! Listen to that!"

A voice made itself heard from behind a rock not far off.

"Where did you get that hat?" said the voice.

"There!" grumbled Leuthold; "they're always at it. Last time it was,
'Who's your hatter?' Why, we're the laughing-stock of the place. We're
like two rogues in a pillory. 'Tis rank disgrace for one who wears a
sword to stand as sentry o'er an empty hat. To make obeisance to a hat!
I' faith, such a command is downright foolery!"