"A child run over!"
These words ran from mouth to mouth, and every one pressed forward to know whether it was his child. But alarm soon gave way to indignation,--for Käthchen, pretty little roguish Käthchen Keller, was the pet of the village. All loved her, and were shocked and grieved to see the blooming flower so ruthlessly cut down. The child had never harmed a living thing. Every one had been gladdened by her bright smile and taken delight in her chubby innocent face. And that this dear, artless little creature should be sacrificed to the mad humour of an arrogant stranger! What business had this crazy woman in their quiet village, disturbing the repose of their holiday and destroying the poor peasants' most precious possessions?
Maledictions were the answers to all these questions, that arose instantly in the minds of the villagers, already heated by wine, and their next thought was of revenge.
"Curses upon the vile woman," began one aloud, "to drive so madly!"
"Where were your eyes?" asked another. "Such a child is not a dog, to be driven over! Could you not turn aside?"
"She thought a peasant's child was of no consequence," said a third.
"Who ever saw four horses harnessed together!" exclaimed several.
"There is no end to the insolent pranks of these city folk."
"Thunder and lightning!" cried a sturdy, broad-shouldered peasant. "Stop talking, and let us have her before the magistrate."
"Yes, yes! to the burgomaster's!" shouted the crowd.