wed that she should
not go until she had paid the forfeit--which was promptly done.

"Max, read us what is written beneath the picture," said the Countess.

"They are verses from a celebrated ode of Horace.[32] The poet Ramler,
of Berlin, made a fine translation of them a while ago. It is in most
beautiful rhythm. How splendid is even this one passage:

"--And he, who never more
Will from his shoulders lay aside the bow,
Who in the pure dew of Castalia's fountain
Laves loosened hair; who holds the Lycian thicket
And his own native wood--
Apollo! Delian and Patarean King."

"Beautiful!" exclaimed the Count, "but it needs a little explanation
here and there. For instance, 'He who will never lay aside the bow,'
would, of course, mean in plain prose, 'He who was always a most
diligent fiddler.' But, Mozart, you are sowing discord in two gentle
hearts."

"How so?"

"Eugenie is envying her friend--and with good reason."

"Ah! you have discovered my weak point. But what would the Herr Baron
say?"

"I could forgive for once."

"Very well, then; I shall not neglect my opportunity. But you need not
be alarmed, Herr Baron. There is no danger as long as the god does not
lend me his countenance and his long yellow hair. I wish he would. I
would give him on the spot Mozart's braid and his very best hair-ribbon
besides."

"Apollo would have to be careful, in future, how he gracefully laved his
new French finery in the Castalian fountain," laughed Franziska.

With such exchange of jests the merriment grew; the wines were passed,
many a toast was offered, and Mozart soon fell into his way of talking
in rhyme. The Lieutenant was an able second, and his father, also, would
not be outdone; indeed, once or twice the latter succeeded remarkably
well. But such conversations cannot well be repeated, because the very
elements which make them irresistible at the time--the gaiety of the
mood and the charm of personality in word and look--are lacking.

Among the toasts was one proposed by Franziska's aunt--that Mozart
should live to write many more immortal works. "Exactly! I am with you
in that," cried Mozart, and they eagerly touched glasses. Then the Count
began to sing--with much power and certainty, thanks to his inspiration:

"Here's to Mozart's latest score;
May he write us many more."

_Max_.

"Works, da Ponte, such as you
(Mighty Schikaneder, too),"

_Mozart_.

"And Mozart, even, unt