“Come here,” said the Graf, seating himself and drawing the boy to him. “What hast thou been doing?”
There was no fear in the child’s demeanor—he was too thoroughly a child of their own race to know fear—but there was no love, no lighting up of the features, no glad meeting of the eyes.
“I was with Nahrath till Aunt Hildegarde sent for him, and then I went to practice.”
“Practice what? Thy riding or fencing?”
“No; my violin.”
“Bah! What an extraordinary thing it is that this lad has no taste for anything but fiddling,” observed the uncle, half aside.
Gräfin Hildegarde looked sharply and apprehensively up.
Sigmund shrunk a little away from his uncle, not timidly, but with some distaste. Words were upon his lips; his eyes flashed, his lips parted; then he checked himself, and was silent.
“Nun denn!” said the count. “What hast thou? Out with it!”
“Nothing that it would please you to hear, uncle; therefore I will not say it,” was the composed retort.