"If you love me, uncle; cease to speak for the sycophant. If, to save my son's life, I were compelled to choose between this Christopher and his brother the wild Francis, by heavens I would choose the latter! I do indeed fear the bear that roars and rushes on me with uplifted paws, but the gliding serpent is a horror to my inmost soul."
"Well, the comparison is not particularly flattering to either of the brothers," exclaimed Schindel, laughing. But on the sudden he was silent, for there was a knocking at the door, and the two Friends entered the apartment.
"We come in our father's service, noble lady," said Christopher, with a courteous inclination: "He gives a ball and banquet the day after tomorrow, and most kindly requests you to grace the festival with your presence."
"I have not yet put off the mourning weeds for my husband; at the same time I set as much value by the intended honour as if it had been in my power to accept it."
"Your year of widowhood is already over, and my father would deem it a very worthy proof of his kinswoman's friendship, if out of regard to him she were to lay aside her mourning. Much as it may become you, it is still only a useless remembrance of a loss, the greatness of which you feel but too deeply without that."
"My brother is in the right," roared Francis: "Throw the black rags into the store-chest, and trim yourself up again in the colours that suit you so well. You must not think of leaving life yet; 'twould be pity of such a handsome thing. Nor would we Schweidnitzers allow it, and you are within our walls now, and under our jurisdiction. Come along, then, to the dance. We'll waltz it bravely with each other; and if your cap should happen to get awry in it, and point to the widower, there may be a remedy for that too. My house-plague, besides, is always ill; and if she loves heaven better than I do, there may chance to be a pair of you and me."
"Your mouth is a sluice," exclaimed the old Schindel, wrathfully, "which, once opened, overwhelms every thing with its mire."
"Good God, Frank! how can you indulge in such unseemly language?" cried Christopher; while Althea bent down to her child as if she had heard nothing; Francis turned upon his brother.
"Don't you play the governor, Kit! In your heart you mean just as I do, only you go winding about the porridge: but that's not my way, and therefore I say plainly, Cousin Althea, I am horribly thirsty with you."
"There stand the flask and goblet," replied Althea, shortly--"help yourself;" and she turned away with her boy to the window.