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It was as if the green-clad nymph had again fixed
him with her glowing eyes, and set his brain afire.
He shut himself up in his workshop, tasted no
food, took no rest, but labored assiduously for a
whole week, at the end of which time he had
produced a new marvel.
He appeared one day on the roof of his tower
with a pair of wings. Some street urchins, seeing
him, sent up a yell that could be heard all over the
town. They ran up and down the streets knocking
at every door, and shouting, “Kevenhüller is going
to fly, Kevenhüller is going to fly!”
As he stood atop the tower calmly adjusting his
wings, there was wild excitement in old Karlstad.
Servants abandoned boiling pots and rising dough
and ran into the streets; old women dropped their
knitting and rushed out; the burgomaster and judiciary
left their seats at the judge’s table, the schoolmaster
tossed the grammar in a corner, and the boys
bolted from the class-rooms without asking leave.
All Karlstad ran toward the West End bridge,
which was soon black with humanity. The marketplace
was packed and the whole riverside swarmed
with people.
Kevenhüller at last set out. One or two wing-strokes,
and he was in space, hovering high above
the earth. He drew in deep breaths of the strong,
pure air, his chest expanded, and the old knight’s
blood began to surge in him. He dived like a pigeon
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