Deep curtsied Dame Friedel. Steven inclined his head; and, feeling the fiddler mock him behind his back, grew red and angry.
"A glass in welcome, gracious sir!" tittered Sidonia, at his elbow.
She was so close to him that his cheek was fanned by her breath of clover and the fragrance of a little bunch of violets in her white kerchief rose to his nostrils. As she bent, offering him the green goblet of wine, her heavy plait fell against his shoulder. He drew back haughtily.
As she bent, offering him the green goblet of wine, her heavy plait fell against his shoulder. He drew back haughtily.
"Peste!" cried Geiger-Hans, "how my fingers itch for the strings. But never mind, you shall lose nothing by waiting. Tarteifel! mother, as I live, venison stew! What feasts you good people make in your forest house!"
"My son is hungry when he comes home of nights, and so are his lads.—My little love, will you sit and entertain the gentlemen?"
Sidonia, pouting, drew her chair with great clatter round by that of Geiger-Hans and turned a shoulder on the count, who thus remained isolated, as became his rank. The fiddler drank to her and she filled his glass again. And, as she stretched across him to do so, the violets at her breast fell upon his hand.
"Violets!" cried he, and sat as if turned to stone. His brown face grew ashen. Then he pushed his plate away, took up the flowers and pressed them against his lips, inhaling the scent of them with long deep breaths. Presently the tears ran down his cheeks; his slow-drawn sighs were cut short by a kind of sob. The girl started to the old woman's side and stood, flushed and downcast, while the Forest-mother beat her omelet with a grave countenance. Neither of them looked at the fiddler. Steven, who had stared, suddenly dropped his glance, too, ashamed and uncomfortable. Geiger-Hans got up from his seat.
"I can eat no more to-night," he said, in a broken voice. He walked over to the bench where he had left his fiddle, and, hugging it, went out into the forest.