“The boteler will serve ye with wine, Hombourg,” said the Margrave gloomily from the end of the table:  not even an invitation to drink! how different was this from the old times!

But when in compliance with this order the boteler proceeded to hand round the mantling vintage of the Cape to the assembled party, and to fill young Otto’s goblet, (which the latter held up with the eagerness of youth,) the Margrave’s rage knew no bounds.  He rushed at his son; he dashed the wine-cup over his spotless vest:  and giving him three or four heavy blows which would have knocked down a bonassus, but only caused the young Childe to blush:  “You take wine!” roared out the Margrave; “You dare to help yourself!  Who time d-v-l gave you leave to help yourself?” and the terrible blows were reiterated over the delicate ears of the boy.

“Ludwig!  Ludwig!” shrieked the Margravine.

“Hold your prate, madam,” roared the Prince.  “By St. Buffo, mayn’t a father beat his own child?”

“His own child!” repeated the Margrave with a burst, almost a shriek of indescribable agony.  “Ah, what did I say?”

Sir Ludwig looked about him in amaze; Sir Gottfried (at the Margrave’s right hand) smiled ghastily; the young Otto was too much agitated by the recent conflict to wear any expression but that of extreme discomfiture; but the poor Margravine turned her head aside and blushed, red almost as the lobster which flanked the turbot before her.

In those rude old times, ’tis known such table quarrels were by no means unusual amongst gallant knights; and Ludwig, who had oft seen the Margrave cast a leg of mutton at an offending servitor, or empty a sauce-boat in the direction of the Margravine, thought this was but one of the usual outbreaks of his worthy though irascible friend, and wisely determined to change the converse.

“How is my friend,” said he, “the good knight, Sir Hildebrandt?”

“By Saint Buffo, this is too much!” screamed the Margrave, and actually rushed from time room.

“By Saint Bugo,” said his friend, “gallant knights, gentle sirs, what ails my good Lord Margave?”

“Perhaps his nose bleeds,” said Gottfried, with a sneer.

“Ah, my kind friend,” said the Margravine with uncontrollable emotion, “I fear some of you have passed from the frying-pan into the fire.”  And making the signal of departure to the ladies, they rose and retired to coffee in the drawing-room.

The Margrave presently came back again, somewhat more collected than he had been.  “Otto,” he said sternly, “go join the ladies:  it becomes not a young boy to remain in the company of gallant knights after dinner.”  The noble Childe with manifest unwillingness quitted the room, and the Margrave, taking his lady’s place at the head of the table, whispered to Sir Ludwig, “Hildebrandt will be here to-night to an evening-party, given in honor of your return from Palestine.  My good friend—­my true friend—­my old companion in arms, Sir Gottfried! you had best see that the fiddlers be not drunk, and that the crumpets be gotten ready.”  Sir Gottfried, obsequiously taking his patron’s hint, bowed and left the room.