“I told you so, Maxchen!” Betty announced triumphantly, as a half hour
later, explanations having been finished, the three children and Tzandi
clustered on the tiger skin, before the fire of pine logs. “I told you
Grandpapa Franzchen would bring them to you. There isn’t anything in
this world he can’t do. And now, Fritzl, commence at the very first
beginning, and tell it all over again!”
“Oh, poor Fritzl,” she cried, slipping a warm hand into his, as he came
to that part of his story, where Tzandi and he were driven out of the
doorways, in which they had sought shelter, the night before.
“Poor little Fritzl,” echoed the Prince, “all cold and lonely!”
“I wasn’t exactly lonely,” said Fritzl loyally, looking down at Tzandi
at his feet, sleeping the sleep of a well-fed dog, “but I was awful
hungry!”
“Well,” cried the small Archduchess stoutly, “it was the very last
time, Fritzl. You sha’n’t be hungry or cold any more, ever again!”
“Sit thou closer to me, Fritzchen,” commanded the Prince: “now I will
tell thee my story.”
Then he told Fritzl how he had never been able to run or walk like
other boys. How, for nearly two years, the famous surgeon had been
treating him. How, that very Christmas night, he was to walk for the
first time.
“But if he fail?” faltered Fritzl, tears of anxiety in his eyes and
voice.
“He will not fail,” the Prince said proudly: “he never fails
anyone--my Herr Doctor! And now, Fritzl,” all a boy’s love of fun
flashing into his eyes, “make Tzandi dance!”
And _how_ Tzandi danced!
Back and forth, up and down the room, while Fritzl fiddled merrily, and
Max and Betty clapped their hands in delight.
For Tzandi realized that the time had come for him to do honor to
his little master’s training, and never did a dog dance as he, that
Christmas Day!
He was still waltzing blithely, his fore paws waving ecstatically in
the air, when the Emperor came into the room. “I have come to hear
thee fiddle, Fritzl,” he said, taking Betty into his arms, and seating
himself in the great arm-chair beside the Prince. “Play me one of the
dances my children of Hungary love.”
So Fritzl played, standing proudly yet very modestly before his Kaiser.
And the old Emperor, closing his eyes, saw once more that village on
the Danube, where, a boy about the age of the three children, he had
been taught to dance the czardas; heard once more the chant of the
pines, and the laughter of the Hungarian peasants, who had danced with
him.
“Little lad,” he said, as the song died plaintively away, “God has
given thee the greatest of his gifts. And now,” he went on, “play that
which shall make these children think of the brave deeds of their
ancestors.”
And Fritzl played: deep chords and crashing measures, underneath which
was the tramp of feet, and the clash of sword blades.
“Grandpapa, Grandpapa,” cried Max excitedly, “canst thou not hear them?
The tramp of the men and the tramp of the horses of Rudolph, going
forth to victory over Ottokar of Bohemia?”
[Illustration]
“Oh, and the sound of swords drawn swiftly,” Betty cried, nestling
closer into her grandfather’s arms.
“And now,” said “Unser Franz” softly, “play thou that song which
neither thou nor these other little orphaned ones ever heard. The song
that mothers sing.”
Again Fritzl played: and the sound was like the ripple of quiet waters,
like the rustle of rain-drenched poplar leaves, like the cadence of a
woman’s voice, hushing her little child to sleep upon her breast.
Again the Emperor closed his eyes, and saw his mother’s face, and heard
the song his beautiful wife used to sing to their only son, long dead.
Then, brushing the tears from his eyes, he cried cheerily to Fritzl:
“Play thou the ‘Kaiser Hymn!’ And then,” kissing the forehead of the
boy beside him, “the Prince must rest.”
Fritzl drew himself to his tallest, tucked his violin more firmly under
his chin, and to its measures sang in his clear young voice, the other
children joining eagerly,--
“Gott erhalte, Gott beschütze, unsern Kaiser, unser Land!”