me went by, and
no Vincent Holroyd came to the door to denounce her, she took comfort
and never knew how her fears were shared by her new brother-in-law.

CHAPTER XXXI.

AGAG.

At a certain point between Basle and Schaffhausen, the Rhine, after
winding in wide curves through low green meadows fringed with poplars,
suddenly finds itself contracted to a narrow and precipitous channel,
down which it foams with a continuous musical roar. On the rocks
forming this channel, connected by a quaint old bridge, stand the twin
towns, Gross and Klein Laufingen. Of the two there can be no question
which has the superior dignity, for, while Klein Laufingen (which
belongs to Baden) is all comprised in a single narrow street ending in
a massive gatehouse, Gross Laufingen, which stands in Swiss territory,
boasts at least two streets and a half, besides the advantages of a
public platz that can scarcely be smaller than an average London back
garden, a church with a handsome cupola and blue and gold-faced clock,
and the ruins of what was once an Austrian stronghold crowning the
hill around which the roofs are clustered, with a withered tree on the
ragged top of its solitary tall grey tower. Gross Laufingen has seen
more stirring times than at present: it was a thriving post town once,
a halting-place for all the diligences. Napoleon passed through it,
too, on his way to Moscow, and on the roof of an old tower outside the
gate is still to be seen a grotesque metal profile, riddled with the
bullets of French conscripts, who made a target of it in sport or
insult, when a halt was called. Now the place is sleepy and quiet
enough: there are no diligences to rattle and lumber over the stones,
and the most warlike spectacle there is provided by the Swiss
militiamen as they march in periodically from the neighbouring
villages to have their arms inspected, singing choruses all the way.
There is a railway, it is true, on the Klein Laufingen bank, but a
railway where the little station and mouth of the tunnel have been so
ornamentally treated that at a slight distance a train coming in
irresistibly suggests one of those working models set in motion by
either a dropped penny or the fraudulent action of the human breath,
as conscience permits. So innocent an affair is powerless to corrupt
Laufingen, and has brought as yet but few foreigners to its gates.
English, Russian, and American tourists may perhaps exclaim admiringly
as the trains s