The boy gave a last look into the good Doctor’s eyes, which were strangely dim.
“Go thou, little lad,” said the surgeon gently.
Then the Prince walked bravely into his grandfather’s outstretched arms.
CHAPTER VII
When the tumult of congratulation had somewhat subsided, and Max had walked proudly back to the great surgeon (happiest perhaps of all those present), the Emperor rose, and silence fell upon the room. His voice trembled a little, from excitement and relief, but the fresh color had come back to his kind face.
“Good friends and mine own people,” he said, “of that which the Herr Doctor has done for the Prince—for me—for you—for the empire—I can not speak. There are no words for that which is within my heart. Only my life henceforth can prove its gratitude.” Then beckoning to Fritzl, who mounted the steps of the dais fearlessly, and stood beside him, the Emperor continued: “Somewhat over a hundred years ago this Christmas night, a little lad, one Mozart, sat at yonder spinet, and played to our great Empress and her children. To-night, a little lad shall play to you. This little lad, Fritzl, whom I believe God means to become as great a musician, as became that child of long ago. He has known cold and hunger and neglect. But he has been a brave lad, and none of these things shall he ever know again.”
“Now Fritzchen, play to these thy friends,” he commanded kindly, reseating himself upon his golden throne.
Slim and straight, in his suit of black velvet, Fritzl stood beside him, looking about the brilliant room. At first he was timid and the little hand which raised the violin to his shoulder trembled. But looking into the gentle face beside him, and down at the smiling ones of the good Herr Doctor, Max and Betty and Tzandi, he thought of nothing but pleasing them.
So, wholly forgetting himself, he cuddled his violin closely under his chin, and whispering to it lovingly, played.