The applause at the end of this speech was very great. Signor Pacini bowed, till his face rivalled, in its hue, the rosy under-waistcoat in which he rejoiced.
Schezer stepped forward. He was attired as a mountaineer. His hat tapered to the top, and was crowned by a single heron feather. Hussars might have envied him his moustaches. From his right side protruded a couteau de chasse; and his legs were not a little set off by the tight-laced boots, which, coming up some way beyond the ancle, displayed his calf to the very best advantage.
The singer's voice was a fine manly tenor, and did ample justice to the words, of which the following may be taken as a free version.
"Mountains! dear mountains! on you have I passed my green youth; to me your breeze has been fragrant from childhood. When may I see the chamois bounding o'er your toppling crags? When, oh when, may I see my fair-haired Mary?"
The minstrel paused--a sound was heard from behind the pavilion. It was the mountain's echo. It continued the air--then died away in the softest harmony. All were charmed. Again the singer stepped forward--the utmost silence prevailed--his tones became more impassioned--they breathed of love.
"Thanks! thanks to thee, gentle echo! Oft hast thou responded to the strains of love my soul poured to--ah me! how beautiful was the fair-haired Mary!"
Again the echo spoke--again all were hushed. The minstrel's voice rose again; but its tones were not akin to joy.
"Why remember this, deceitful echo? War's blast hath blown, and hushed are the notes of love. The foe hath polluted my hearth--I wander an exile. Where, where is Mary?"
The echo faintly but plaintively replied. There were some imagined that a tear really started to the eye of the singer. He struck the guitar wildly--his voice became more agitated--he advanced to the extremity of the balcony.
"My sword! my sword! May my right hand be withered ere it forget to grasp its hilt! One blow for freedom. Freedom--sweet as was the lip--Yes! I'll revenge my Mary!"
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