“Two glasses for one,” cried Georg.  “To the dear ones at home—­to the joys and sorrows of the heart, to the fair woman we love!  War is rapture, love is life!  Let the wounds bleed, let the heart break into a thousand pieces.  Laurels grow green on the battle-field, love twines garlands of roses-roses with thorns, yet beautiful roses!  Go, beaker!  No other lips shall drink from you.”

Georg’s cheeks glowed as he flung the glass goblet into a corner of the room, where it shattered into fragments.  His comrades at the table cheered loudly, but Captain Cromwell rose quietly to leave the room, and the landlord shook his wise head doubtfully.

It seemed as if fire had poured into Georg’s soul and his spirit had gained wings.  The thick waving locks curled in dishevelled masses around his handsome head, as leaning far back in his chair with unfastened collar, he mingled clever sallies and brilliant similes with the quiet conversation of the others.  Wilhelm listened to his words sometimes with admiration, sometimes with anxiety.  It was long past midnight, when the musician left the tavern with his friend.  Colonel Mulder looked after him and exclaimed to those left behind: 

“The fellow is possessed with a devil.”

The next morning the madrigal was practised at the burgomaster’s house, while its master was presiding over a meeting at the town-hall.  Georg stood between Henrica and Maria.  So long as the musician found it necessary to correct errors and order repetitions, a cheerful mood pervaded the little choir, and Barbara, in the adjoining room, often heard the sound of innocent laughter; but when each had mastered his or her part and the madrigal was faultlessly executed, the ladies grew more and more grave.  Maria gazed fixedly at the sheet of music, and rarely had her voice sounded so faultlessly pure, so full of feeling.  Georg adapted his singing to hers and his eyes, whenever they were raised from the notes, rested on her face.  Henrica sought to meet the Junker’s glance, but always in vain, yet she wished to divert his attention from the young wife, and it tortured her to remain unnoticed.  Some impulse urged her to surpass Maria, and the whole passionate wealth of her nature rang out in her singing.  Her fervor swept the others along.  Maria’s treble rose exultantly above the German’s musical voice, and Henrica’s tones blended angrily yet triumphantly in the strain.  The delighted and inspired musician beat the time and, borne away by the liquid melody of Henrica’s voice, revelled in sweet recollections of her sister.

When the serenade was finished, he eagerly cried: 

“Again!” The rivalry between the singers commenced with fresh vigor, and this time the Junker’s beaming gaze met the young wife’s eyes.  She hastily lowered the notes, stepped out of the semicircle, and said: 

“We know the madrigal.  Early to-morrow morning, Meister Wilhelm; my time is limited.”