“Bless my heart,” laughed “Unser Franz,” ringing a silver bell on the table beside him. Then, as a servant appeared, he said, “Bring broth and bread and milk for the little lad.”
“Oh, yes,” he went on, answering the question in Fritzl’s eyes, “Tzandi has already eaten all that he possibly could.”
Then while Fritzl, propped with pillows on the broad lounge, ate hungrily, they talked together.
“What is thy name, little lad?”
“Fritzl, sir—I mean, Your Majesty,” remembering the words he had heard the servant use.
“Fritzl—and what else?”
“Nothing else,” firmly, “just Fritzl.”
“But who were thy father and mother?”
“I never had any,” the boy answered gravely. “Once there was Josef, the blind fiddler, but since he went to heaven, there’s only been just the violin and Tzandi and me.”