He looked almost divine.  He flung back his long clusters of hair from his bright eyes and tall forehead; the blush of health mantled on his cheek, from which the barber’s weapon had never shorn the down.  He took his bow, and one of his most elegant arrows, and poising himself lightly on his right leg, he flung himself forward, raising his left leg on a level with his ear.  He looked like Apollo, as he stood balancing himself there.  He discharged his dart from the thrumming bowstring:  it clove the blue air—­whiz!

“He has split the pea!” said the Princess, and fainted.  The Rowski, with one eye, hurled an indignant look at the boy, while with the other he levelled (if aught so crooked can be said to level anything) a furious glance at his archer.

The archer swore a sulky oath.  “He is the better man!” said he.  “I suppose, young chap, you take the gold chain?”

“The gold chain?” said Otto.  “Prefer a gold chain to a cap worked by that august hand?  Never!” And advancing to the balcony where the Princess, who now came to herself, was sitting, he kneeled down before her, and received the velvet cap; which, blushing as scarlet as the cap itself, the Princess Helen placed on his golden ringlets.  Once more their eyes met—­their hearts thrilled.  They had never spoken, but they knew they loved each other for ever.

“Wilt thou take service with the Rowski of Donnerblitz?” said that individual to the youth.  “Thou shalt be captain of my archers in place of yon blundering nincompoop, whom thou hast overcome.”

“Yon blundering nincompoop is a skilful and gallant archer,” replied Otto, haughtily; “and I will not take service with the Rowski of Donnerblitz.”

“Wilt thou enter the household of the Prince of Cleves?” said the father of Helen, laughing, and not a little amused at the haughtiness of the humble archer.

“I would die for the Duke of Cleves and his family,” said Otto, bowing low.  He laid a particular and a tender emphasis on the word family.  Helen knew what he meant.  She was the family.  In fact her mother was no more, and her papa had no other offspring.

“What is thy name, good fellow,” said the Prince, “that my steward may enroll thee?”

“Sir,” said Otto, again blushing, “I am otto the archer.”

CHAPTER XI.

The martyr of love.

The archers who had travelled in company with young Otto gave a handsome dinner in compliment to the success of our hero; at which his friend distinguished himself as usual in the eating and drinking department.  Squintoff, the Rowski bowman, declined to attend; so great was the envy of the brute at the youthful hero’s superiority.  As for Otto himself, he sat on the right hand of the chairman; but it was remarked that he could not eat.  Gentle reader of my page! thou knowest why full well.  He was too much in love to have any appetite; for though I myself when laboring under that passion, never found my consumption of victuals diminish, yet remember our Otto was a hero of romance, and they never are hungry when they’re in love.