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?”
“Oh, and the sound of swords drawn swiftly,” Betty cried, nestling closer into her grandfather’s arms.