Four barrels of wine, each of a different sort, were piled upon waggons; another waggon was full of freshly baked white rolls; fastened behind the waggons by their horns were the couple of yoke oxen that were going to be slaughtered.
"That's not the right way of going about it!" cried Martin. It was not his natural voice, but he was so accustomed to a peremptory tone now that he could use no other. "We want more pomp here. Who ever heard of the festal oxen being tied to a cart's tail? Why, the butcher ought to lead the pair of them by the horns, one on each side, and you ought to stick lemons on the tips of their horns, and tie ribbons round them!"
"Bravo, little brother! He knows how it ought to be done."
"And then four girls ought to sit on the top of each barrel, and dole out the wine from where they sit in long-eared rummers."
"Any more commands, Martin?"
"Yes. Let the gipsy musicians strike up my tune as we march along; and let two heydukes hold my horse when I mount."
These commands were punctually obeyed.
The people, after a short religious service, made their way towards the fields. In front trotted two
sworn burghers with ribbon-bedizened copper axes in their hands; after them came a cart with the gipsy musicians, roaring out Martin's song as if they meant to shout the heavens down. Immediately upon their heels followed two gaily tricked-out oxen, led by a couple of bare-armed butcher's lads; and then came the provision-waggons; and last of all the wine-carts, with sturdy young bachelors astride every barrel. Then followed Mr. Varju. Fate had raised him still higher, for he was now sitting on horseback, holding a large red banner, which the wind kept flapping into his eyes every moment. From the satisfied expression of his face he evidently thought to himself that if Martin was the Whitsun King, he himself was at least the Whitsun Palatine.
Last of all came the Whitsun King. His horse was not exactly beautiful, but it was a large, bony beast, sixteen hands high, and what it wanted in figure was made up to it in gay trappings and ribbons woven into its mane; its housings too were of fox-skin. Martin did not ride badly. He rolled about a bit, it is true; but this was due, not so much to anything he had taken at breakfast, as to his usual habit of swaggering; indeed, for the matter of that, he sat as firmly in his saddle as if he had grown to it.