y or two; and the greater the crowd about headquarters the less
chance there seemed of encountering Ferdinand. But suddenly, in an
out-of-the-way _cafe_, where Ludwig was in the habit of going for his
frugal dinner, Ferdinand came up to him with a cry of delight.

"Ludwig was silent, for a certain feeling of discomfort embittered, for
him, this longed-for meeting. It was, as it often is in dreams, when,
just as we are going to put our arms about people whom we love, they
suddenly change into something else, and the whole thing becomes a
mockery, Here was the gentle son of the Muses, the writer of many a
romantic lay which Ludwig had clothed in music, in a nodding plume,
with a clanking sword at his side, and even his voice transformed to a
harsh, rough tone of command. Ludwig's gloomy glance rested on the
wounded arm, and upon the decoration, the cross of honour, on his
breast. But Ferdinand put his arm round him and pressed him to his
side.

"'I know what you are thinking,' he said; 'I understand what you feel
at this meeting of ours. But the Fatherland called me; I could not
hesitate to obey. My hand, which had only wielded the pen, took up the
sword, with the joy, with the enthusiasm, which the holy cause has
kindled in every breast which is not stamped with the seal of
cowardice. I have given some of my blood already; and the mere accident
that this happened under the Prince's eyes has gained me this cross.
But, believe me, Ludwig, the strings which vibrated in me of old, and
whose tones have so often spoken to you, are all whole and uninjured
still; and many a night, when, after some fierce engagement, the
troopers have been sleeping round the fire of the bivouac on some
lonely picquet, I have written poems which have elevated me and
inspired me in my glorious duty of fighting for Honour and Freedom.'

"Ludwig's heart opened at these words; and when Ferdinand went with him
into a small private room, and took off his sword and helmet, he felt
as if his friend had only been dressed to act a part, and had taken off
his stage-costume.

"As they dined and talked over the old days they began to feel as if
they had only parted yesterday. Ferdinand asked what Ludwig had been
composing lately, and was much astonished to learn that he had never
written an opera, because he never had been able to meet with a
libretto to his satisfaction--one that could inspire him with music.

"'I can't understand,' said Ferdinand, 'why