flew, hardly touching the ground with their pretty feet.  The mud, to be true, splashed in mighty waves from the wheels and hoofs, giving the benefit of its floods to many an honest burger’s wife who could not on her stilts immediately escape; often, indeed, was heard the anguished squeak or piteous howl of some sucking pig or dog over which the hunting equipage had rolled; but it paused not for these, and in a few moments halted in safety before the mean little portal of that small, dark mansion, honored with the title of the Elector’s residential palace, which was situated on the other side of the cathedral square, near the Spree and the pleasure garden.

Before the portal stood a wretched carriage, covered with mud and drawn by four raw-boned horses, whose trappings and harness were wholly wanting in polish and neatness.

“The Elector means to ride out, it seems,” said the count to himself, with a contemptuous glance at the poor electoral equipage.

“Drive a little aside!” screamed the count’s well-dressed coachman from his box.  “Let his excellency the Stadtholder drive up to the door, for it is just impossible for the count to alight here in this mud.”

But the coachman only shook his head proudly, in token of refusal, and darted a look full of inexpressible contempt upon the Stadtholder’s presumptuous driver.

“Drive out of the way!” shouted the count’s coachman.

“Here I stand, and here I mean to stay until the Elector comes!”

“Let him remain, William, and speak not another word,” commanded Count Schwarzenberg.  “Drive my carriage up so close to the electoral carriage that I can conveniently step in.”

The coachman obeyed, and the electoral charioteer, who had begun the contention with the supercilious driver of the Stadtholder with inward satisfaction, and hoped for a long protraction of the same, now felt himself foiled, and saw with inexpressible astonishment the coachman turn around, with rapid sweep make the circuit of the square, and draw up close beside the electoral equipage.  Before he yet comprehended the object of this manoeuvre, the count had stretched forth his arm, opened with his own hand the door of the electoral coach, stepped into it, opened the door on the other side, and stepped out on the broad leather-covered plank which extended like a sort of drawbridge from the threshold of the palace garden to the electoral carriage.

“Bravo, Schwarzenberg, bravo!” called out a laughing voice, and as the count, standing midway on the plank, looked up, he saw the Elector above at the open window, nodding to him with friendly gesture, and greeting him with a cheerful smile.

“That was good for the brazen scoundrel, Fritz Long,” called down the Elector; “how could the rascal dare not to move out of the way for the Stadtholder?”

“He did right, your Electoral Grace!” called up Schwarzenberg, as he hastily doffed his gold-edged hat with its waving plumes, and bowed so low that the tips of the white feathers surmounting the black ones touched the damp ground.