At length, at that hour when fatigue begins to assert itself over inclination, when vitality is low, and the shadows become deeper, colder, and the night more mysterious, then it was that the Count exclaimed:
"Each one shall sing a final song except Knapwurst, for he has a voice like a bull-frog, but he is first in story-telling in all Alsace! When it comes his turn he shall tell us a story. Sperver, you shall begin with the song of Black Hatto the Burgrave!
"I am the king of these mountains of mine."
And the steward, rising and standing like the figure of the wild huntsman in the heather, thundered forth the song with wonderful effect. The entire room joined in the chorus, and the old suits of mail fairly creaked and trembled with the sound.
"Bravo!" cried the Count. "Nobly done, Sperver! It is your turn now, Becker! Sing what you like!"
Becker, whose arm had stolen unperceived around Gretchen's waist, got up hastily, in some embarrassment, and steadying himself against the table, complied with a species of madrigal, proclaiming the virtues of lasses of the present, and claiming in a loud refrain that they were quite the equal of those of the olden times. And in truth they were, judging from the fair faces at intervals about the board, sitting with their eyes veiled by long, drooping lashes, as sleep and the wine were now stealing over them. The kennel-keeper's tribute to their charms served to arouse them, however, and they stole shy and gratified glances at each other as he sang.
After Becker, the Gypsy youth followed with a herdsman's jodel, and so the round was gradually completed.
The clock struck two from its niche in the corner. The last embers flared up and fell. The lamp burned low.
"A story from Knapwurst now!" exclaimed the Count; "and then the day is done!"
A complete silence succeeded; Knapwurst's quaint relations were favorites, it seemed.