“Oh, miss, ain't I?” was his interrogative and yet affirmative reply.
“Should you like such a supper every night, Wolfgang?” continued the pale one.
“Why, no,” said he; “no, not exactly; not EVERY night: SOME nights I should like oysters.”
“Dear youth,” said she, “be but mine, and you may have them all the year round!” The unhappy boy was too far gone to suspect anything, otherwise this extraordinary speech would have told him that he was in suspicious company. A person who can offer oysters all the year round can live to no good purpose.
“Shall I sing you a song, dear archer?” said the lady.
“Sweet love!” said he, now much excited, “strike up, and I will join the chorus.”
She took down her mandolin, and commenced a ditty. 'Twas a sweet and wild one. It told how a lady of high lineage cast her eyes on a peasant page; it told how nought could her love assuage, her suitor's wealth and her father's rage: it told how the youth did his foes engage; and at length they went off in the Gretna stage, the high-born dame and the peasant page. Wolfgang beat time, waggled his head, sung wofully out of tune as the song proceeded; and if he had not been too intoxicated with love and other excitement, he would have remarked how the pictures on the wall, as the lady sung, began to waggle their heads too, and nod and grin to the music. The song ended. “I am the lady of high lineage: Archer, will you be the peasant page?”
“I'll follow you to the devil!” said Wolfgang.
“Come,” replied the lady, glaring wildly on him, “come to the chapel; we'll be married this minute!”
She held out her hand—Wolfgang took it. It was cold, damp,—deadly cold; and on they went to the chapel.