"Yes----"
"And the ivy wreath around the head of Apollo?"
"Yes."
"And you put the arm-chair in its place?"
"Yes----"
"You dear, dear fellow! Come, let us both sit down in it, and now you must tell me all about your wanderings, of the cities you have seen, of the Cyclopes you have blinded, of the sufferings you have endured--all, all in order, you know, as Polyphemus milks his sheep."
Oswald had thrown himself into the chair, and drawn Bruno down on his lap. Thus they sat; the boy came close up to his only friend and began to tell,--first describing ironically the journey; how now the baron and now Malte had been unable to sit with their backs to the horses; how, at last, both had taken a seat on the box, while the postilion came into the carriage--and how much he, Bruno, had enjoyed it to see ever new towns and villages, and at last Hamburg itself.
Then his recital assumed another tone. He described quite seriously the impression made upon him by the city, the fine, stately houses, the crowd in the streets, the activity in the harbor, the great basin, in which the brilliant gas-lights were reflected, and what a superb effect that produced, and how he had come near falling into the water, if Helen had not held him. And when he had once mentioned Helen's name it turned up continually, like a bright star amid dark clouds; how Helen had wept upon leaving Hamburg; how she had dried her tears at her mother's words: "You seem to be quite sorry to return to your parents," and how she had scarcely ever smiled after that during the whole journey. For she is very proud, he added, but also very, very kind towards all she loves, for instance, towards her father and also towards me, although I would not pretend to say that she is fond of me. Only this, the boy said, he knew, that one evening, when it was very late and he very tired from the long ride, so that he could not keep his eyes open any longer, she had sat very quietly and patiently, with his head resting on her shoulder. He should never forget her for that; and if ever the opportunity offered to render her any service, he only wished it would be a matter of life and death, else it would not be enough for him.
Thus the boy talked on, and the words fell like fiery sparks from a house in full blaze, and his cheeks were all aglow. Oswald noticed that the beautiful girl had made a deep impression upon the wild boy, but he did not suspect how deep, how all-powerful this impression was, and what a revolution this first sudden affection had produced in his precocious and overflowing heart. He laughed at his pet's fiery enthusiasm all the more wittily, as he shared it in no inconsiderable degree, and Bruno, who accepted anything from Oswald, laughed too, and laughing and joking they said "Good-night" to each other. Bruno went to his room; Oswald sat down again in his chair.
The lamp was burning on the table before the sofa, but so dimly that even the faint gleam of the moon, which was just rising above the forest, could be distinctly seen in the room. A single star near the delicate crescent shone from the nightly blue of the sky. The soft balsamic air came in through the open window--it was so still that the noise of the falling dew-drops could be distinctly heard. And now, as Oswald sat and listened, he heard suddenly the sounds of a piano, coming to him like the echo of an Æolian harp. It was evidently a most skilful hand that produced them; first low, quite low, as if she feared to awake night from her slumber, then very gradually louder and louder. The accords floated slowly into a melody, and soon a soft alto voice began to sing the song to which the melody belonged. Oswald could not hear the words, but they seemed to be soft and sad as the air, which spoke wondrously to the heart with its simple touching complaint.