The sight of so many people about her, and the confusion of voices, seemed to release the poor woman from a kind of stupor.  She glanced shyly about her then, as if overcome with a sense of shame stronger than her terror, and said, in a suppressed tone: 

“Nothing, nothing, good people.  In God’s name, I ask, what was there to happen?”

Dissimulation, however, was too evident to suffice to deceive them.

“Why, then, did you shriek so, Selde,” called out one of the guests to her, “if nothing happened?”

“Yes, she has gone,” Selde now moaned in heart-rending tones, “and she has certainly done herself some harm!”

The cause of this strange scene was now first discovered.  The bride has disappeared from the wedding-feast.  Soon after that she had vanished in such a mysterious way, the bridegroom went below to the dimly-lighted room to find her, but in vain.  At first thought this seemed to him to be a sort of bashful jest; but not finding her here, a mysterious foreboding seized him.  He called to the mother of the bride: 

“Woe to me!  This woman has gone!”

Presently this party, that had so admirably controlled itself, was again thrown into commotion.  “There was nothing to do,” was said on all sides, “but to ransack every nook and corner.  Remarkable instances of such disappearances of brides had been known.  Evil spirits were wont to lurk about such nights and to inflict mankind with all sorts of sorceries.”  Strange as this explanation may seem, there were many who believed it at this very moment, and, most of all, Selde Klattaner herself.  But it was only for a moment, for she at once exclaimed: 

“No, no, my good people, she is gone; I know she is gone!”

Now for the first time many of them, especially the mothers, felt particularly uneasy, and anxiously called their daughters to them.  Only a few showed courage, and urged that they must search and search, even if they had to turn aside the river Iser a hundred times.  They urgently pressed on, called for torches and lanterns, and started forth.  The cowardly ran after them up and down the stairs.  Before any one perceived it the room was entirely forsaken.

Ruben Klattaner stood in the hall entry below, and let the people hurry past him without exchanging a word with any.  Bitter disappointment and fear had almost crazed him.  One of the last to stay in the room above with Selde was, strange to say, Leb Narr, of Prague.  After all had departed, he approached the miserable mother, and, in a tone least becoming his general manner, inquired: 

“Tell me, now, Mrs. Selde, did she not wish to have ’him’?”

“Whom? whom?” cried Selde, with renewed alarm, when she found herself alone with the fool.

“I mean,” said Leb, in a most sympathetic manner, approaching still nearer to Selde, “that maybe you had to make your daughter marry him.”

“Make?  And have we, then, made her?” moaned Selde, staring at the fool with a look of uncertainty.