Phoebus, in his work rejoicing,
    Counts the fruit; but, ah! the sight
  Tempts him.  In another moment
    Doth he yield to appetite.

  Smiling, plucks the god of music
    One sweet orange from the tree
  “Share with me the fruit, thou fair one,
    And this, slice shall Amor’s be.”

The verses were received with shouts of applause, and Max was readily pardoned for the unexpected ending which had so completely altered the really charming effect which he had made in the first version.

Franziska, whose ready wit had already been called out by the Count and Mozart, suddenly left the table, and returning brought with her a large old English engraving which had hung, little heeded, in a distant room.  “It must be true, as I have always heard, that there is nothing new under the sun,” she cried, as she set up the picture at the end of the table.  “Here in the Golden Age is the same scene which we have heard about today.  I hope that Apollo will recognize himself in this situation.”

“Excellent,” answered Max.  “There we have the god just as he is bending thoughtfully over the sacred spring.  And, look! behind him in the thicket is an old Satyr watching him.  I would take my oath that Apollo is thinking of some long-forgotten Acadian dances which old Chiron taught him to play on the cithern when he was young.”

“Exactly,” applauded Franziska, who was standing behind Mozart’s chair.  Turning to him, she continued, “Do you see that bough heavy with fruit, bending down toward the god?”

“Yes; that is the olive-tree, which was sacred to him.”

“Not at all.  Those are the finest oranges.  And in a moment—­in a fit of abstraction—­he will pick one.”

“Instead,” cried Mozart, “he will stop this roguish mouth with a thousand kisses.”  And catching her by the arm he vowed that she should not go until she had paid the forfeit—­which was promptly done.

“Max, read us what is written beneath the picture,” said the Countess.

“They are verses from a celebrated ode of Horace.[32] The poet Ramler, of Berlin, made a fine translation of them a while ago.  It is in most beautiful rhythm.  How splendid is even this one passage: 

      “—­And he, who never more
  Will from his shoulders lay aside the bow,
  Who in the pure dew of Castalia’s fountain
  Laves loosened hair; who holds the Lycian thicket
  And his own native wood—­
  Apollo!  Delian and Patarean King.”

“Beautiful!” exclaimed the Count, “but it needs a little explanation here and there.  For instance, ‘He who will never lay aside the bow,’ would, of course, mean in plain prose, ’He who was always a most diligent fiddler.’  But, Mozart, you are sowing discord in two gentle hearts.”

“How so?”

“Eugenie is envying her friend—­and with good reason.”

“Ah! you have discovered my weak point.  But what would the Herr Baron say?”