'Arrest this gentleman!' called the Prince; 'and now, sirs, we will repair to the tilting-hall and our banquet.' The small town of Urach was in a state of such commotion as it had not known since the far-off day when Count Eberhard the Bearded received his Mantuan bride at the castle. All day coaches rolled into the courtyard of the old inn, and the narrow streets were filled with servants anxiously seeking lodgings for their masters. At every moment coaches drew up in the courtyard of the small hostelry and companies of fine gentlemen rode in. Every one demanded accommodation, and quarrels and protestations filled the air. In the streets hawkers called their wares, ribbons, laces, patches. A strolling vender of reputed wonder-working balsams and philtres attracted a laughing crowd; itinerant musicians arrived on the scene and added the strains of stringed instruments and the choruses of gay songs to the general clamour. Urach, the quiet hill-town, where many quaint fountains murmur ceaselessly, seemed turned into a place of carnival. Near the castle gate the crowd of peasants and burghers was dense, every one inquisitive to catch a glimpse of the gay doings within, but the sentries kept the people back and only the foremost watchers could see the interior of the courtyard. Here too was festive bustle, for his Highness sat at the grand banquet in the tilting-hall, and serving-men ran hurriedly across the courtyard bearing steaming viands from the kitchen or laden with platters of delicious cakes. The Duke's Cellar-master appeared in the gateway and, addressing the expectant mob, shouted the welcome statement that his Highness desired his friends of Urach to drink to his health. Barrels of wine were rolled across to the castle gate and the onlookers served with copious draughts. Then the Cellar-master called for silence, and, striking an attitude, he spoke: 'His Highness prays you to drink long life and happiness to his noble bride, the Countess of Urach. Come--Hoch! and again--Hoch!' 'Bride, indeed!' roared the crowd; 'harlot, you mean!' some said, but they drank greedily all the same. Wilhelmine was waiting in the Golden Hall, and through the open casement she heard the comments of the rabble. 'Harlot, adulteress, witch,' she repeated slowly, as she listened to these epithets used by the men while they drank her health. She raged. 'Ah, you canaille!' she whispered, 'it was _I_ ordered you that good red wine! Blood I will give you to drink another time, blood to choke you.' She drew back from her place near the window. 'But your hatred shall not mar my triumph to-night. God's curse on you, my husband's people!'