The mayor interrupted himself with a ponderous cough.
‘The silvery moonlight shines upon the golden hair of the high and well-born Fraulein Hilda—I would say, of the high and well-born Frau von Sigmundskron, junior—’
Greif, listening above, drew in his head to suppress a convulsion of laughter, but the crowd applauded the figure of speech, and the mayor bellowed on.
‘—and also upon that of her high and well-born consort and husband, the lord of Sigmundskron.’
The name burst from his lips like a clap of thunder, and Greif grew grave, for it meant something to him.
‘And though I could say much more,’ continued the mayor, ‘I will not, for silence is gold, as the burgomaster of Kalw says. And so, gentlemen, we wish them happiness, a hundred years of life, and a son as handsome as themselves for every tower there is on Sigmundskron. Sigmundskron hoch!’
The mayor had seemed to be exerting his full powers during the whole speech, but an unparalleled experience in making noise had taught him the art of reserving a final explosion in the depths of his huge chest, which he knew could never fail to thrill his audience with wonder and delight. His last cheer broke out like the salute of a broadside of cannon, striking the old walls like a battering-ram, till the panes rattled, echoing up to tower and turret, and then reverberating and rolling away among the distant trees, as though it were in haste to fulfil its mission and tell the whole wide forest that Sigmundskron had a lord again, and that Hilda was married to her true love at last.
‘Sigmundskron hoch!’ yelled the peasants in a wild attempt to rival their leader, which not even their numbers could help them to do.
Then Greif took a tall glass from the table and gave it to Hilda, and took another for himself, and the two stood up in the opening of the Gothic window, the moonlight falling upon their happy faces and upon the slender goblets in their hands. Another shout went up from below, and then all was still.
‘It is we who have to thank you,’ said Greif, in clear, ringing tones. ‘It is we who come to ask your help to make Sigmundskron what it was in the old days. May you all live to sup with us each year as to-night, for another fifty years! We thank you for your good wishes, and we drink to you all—to our good friend the mayor of Sigmundsdorf and to all the rest. Hoch, Sigmundsdorf! Hoch, the brave foresters! Hoch, the Black Forest we all love! Hoch, the dear Swabian land!’