It fell out, upon a summer’s evening, that the Prince and Witikind were alone together in one of the apartments of the palace, which opened out of the Queen’s sitting-room, and which had a door of communication with the gardens.—The Prince was amusing himself with a game of battledore, and Witikind stood near to pick up the shuttlecock for him as it occasionally fell. But the Prince was expert with his battledore, and would keep the shuttlecock bounding in the air for a long time together. Consequently the services of Witikind were not often needed.
No wonder, therefore, that he crept towards the window to look at the gay flower beds, and to watch the waters of his favourite fountain as they rose sparkling in the air to a vast height, and then fell into various fantastic basins, from which they issued into the grand reservoir below; and no wonder, as he listened to the soothing plash of the waters, and watched the clouds, painted with all the gorgeous hues which the setting sun threw over them, that his thoughts reverted to Taubennest, and that fatal evening when he had expressed a wish to quit it. Surely the error had brought its recompense of punishment! If he had done wrong, he had suffered for it, and had learned a lesson which would last him his life. Oh bitter and sincere was his repentance! What would he not now give to turn his back for ever on the hateful palace! What would he not give to see the towers of Taubennest, and look from its ramparts on the mountains, barren as they were; and the valley, and the winding river! What would he not give, were it but for a few brief minutes, to hear the sweet voices of his sisters, and to be clasped in his mother’s arms!
The shuttlecock had fallen, but he heard it not, and remained inattentive to his duties. How could it be otherwise! he was hundreds of miles away.
“Why don’t you pick up the shuttlecock?” cried the Prince, in a sharp, impatient tone.—Witikind started, and ran forward in a random way; but he could not see it: tears were blinding his eyes.
“Not there, blockhead!” shouted the Prince “look behind the statue.” There were two statues; Witikind went towards the wrong one.
“What a stupid elf’s-brat you are!” cried the Hope of the Katzekopfs to the child of Countess Ermengarde, when he brought back the shuttlecock.
“What did you call me, Prince?” said Witikind with a look of surprise and anger.
“I called you what you are,—what all the world knows you to be—an elf’s-brat: the good-for-nothing, impish son of some malevolent old Fairy, or some old hag of a witch!”
“How dare you call my mother evil names?” exclaimed Witikind, his eyes sparkling with anger, and his whole frame quivering with emotion. His patient endurance and gentleness seemed to have fled from him for ever; his entire character appeared altered on the instant. Anything personal he had long since proved that he could submit to, but the insult to his mother called forth in a moment the long-sleeping energies of his character. “How DARE you to abuse my mother?” he cried in a still louder tone. “How dare you utter such a base, cowardly lie?”
The Prince, wholly unprepared for such an outbreak, was too much terrified to answer. He saw that in Witikind’s gleaming eye which told him, boy as he was, that Countess Ermengarde’s son was not to be trifled with. The Hope of the Katzekopfs turned pale, quailed, and continued retreating towards the corner of the room nearest to his mother’s apartments.