Apennines; I'd say with England,
only Dalton might n't like it."

"And where would you pick your quarrel with England?" said Frank,
laughing.

"Easily enough, through our ambassador at the Porte, or some outlying
station, where Russia is her rival."

"Hang your politics!" broke in a Hungarian. "Let us fight when the time
comes, but not bother our heads about the cause. I 'd rather take
my chance of a sabre-cut any day than addle my brains with too much
thought. Here 's to you, Dalton, mayst soon be a Rittmeister of Hussars,
lad; a prouder thing thou needst not ask for."

"Thou shalt give us a jolly supper at the 'Schwan,' Dalton, when we meet
at Vienna," said another.

"And we'll pledge those fair sisters of thine and they 're both
handsome, I 'll be sworn in the best Tokay Palfi's vineyard can yield."

"My regiment will be in garrison, in the Leopoldstadt, next month, and
I'll remind thee of this pledge."

"And we shall be at Lintz," broke in another; "and thou mayst reckon on
me, if I have to suffer an arrest for it afterwards."

"So it is agreed, Dalton, we are thy guests. For what day shall it be?"

"Ay, let us name the day," cried several together.

"When he is named an officer," said Walstein, "that will be time
enough."

"Nay, nay the day month after he arrives at Vienna," cried the Bohemian.
"I have given three breakfasts and five suppers on the occasion of my
promotion, and the promotion has never come yet."

"The day month after I arrive, then, be it," said Dalton. "We meet at
where is it?"

"The 'Schwan,' lad, the first restaurant of Europe. Let men talk as they
will of the Cadran Bleu and the Trois Freres, I'd back Hetziuger's cook
against the world; and as for wine, he has Steinkammer at thirty florins
the flask! And we'll drink it, too, eh, Dalton? and we'll give a 'Hoch
Lebe' to that old grandfather or grand-uncle of thine. We'll add ten
years to his life."

"A poor service to Dalton," said another; "but here comes Walstein's
horses, and now for the last glass together before we part."

The parting seemed, indeed, to be "sweet sorrow," for each leave-taking
led to one flask more, friendship itself appearing to make wondrous
progress as the bottle went round. The third call of the postilion's
bugle a summons that even German loyalty could scarcely have courage
to resist at last cut short the festivities, and Frank once more found
himself in the caleche, where at least a dozen hands cont