Eliza had been clinging to Jack Shaftoe's hand, not entirely comfortable amidst this surging crowd of German peasants.
She didn't know how they'd become separated, but found that she didn't really mind that much.
Jack was pleasant enough company, but prone to flights of phant'sy and far too fond of the sound of his own, boisterously English voice.
Eliza was sure she could learn a great deal more by paying careful attention to those around her.
But it was hard to listen when her senses were playing tricks on her: when a gigantic demon reared over the gathering,
and the smoke from the bonfires formed itself into skeletal figures that strode over the top of the Brocken.
A ghastly carolling (perhaps some traditional German ditty, though it sounded more like the torments of the damned) echoed from the rocks. And surely those were
in the air above her, rushing to and fro on hobby-horses made from green boughs?
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