icians he looked
almost boyish, yet, as the regent was overburdened with affairs of state,
she confided to him alone the care of the further success of the
surprise.

He was familiar with the rooms of the Golden Cross, and before midnight
would have posted the singers and musicians so that his Majesty would
first learn through his ears the pleasure which they intended to bestow
upon him.

CHAPTER IX.

The Queen's commission imposed upon Wolf a long series of inspections,
inquiries, orders, and preparations, the most important of which detained
him a long time at the Golden Cross.

After he had done what was necessary there, he hastily took a lunch, and
then went to the house of the Golden Stag. The steward of the Schiltl
family, to whom the house belonged, but who were now in the country, had
given the boy choir shelter there, and Wolf was obliged to inform the
leader of his arrangements. Appenzelder had intended to practise
exercises with his young pupils in the chapel belonging to this old
house, familiar to all the inhabitants of Ratisbon, but Wolf found it
empty. On the other hand, young, clear voices echoed from a room in the
lower story.

The door stood half open, and, before he crossed the threshold, he had
heard with surprise the members of the boy choir, lads ranging from
twelve to fifteen, discussing how they should spend the leisure time
awaiting them.

The ringleader, Giacomo Bianchi, from Bologna, was asserting that "the
old bear"--he meant Appenzelder--"would never permit the incomplete choir
to sing before the Emperor and his royal sister."

"So we shall have the afternoon," he exclaimed. "The grooms will give me
a horse, and after dinner I, and whoever cares to go with me, will ride
back to the village where we last stopped. What do I want there? I'll get
the kiss which the tavernkeeper's charming little daughter owes me. Her
sweet mouth and fair braids with the bows of blue ribbon--I saw nothing
prettier anywhere!"

"Yes, these blondes!" cried Angelo Negri, a Neapolitan boy of thirteen,
rolling his black eyes upward enthusiastically, and kissing, for lack of
warm lips, the empty air.

"Sweet, sweet, sweet," sighed Giacoma Bianchi.

"Sweet enough," remarked little thick-set Cornelius Groen from Breda, in
broken Italian. "Yet you surely are not thinking of that silly girl, with
her flaxen braids, but of the nice honey and the light white pastry she
brought us. If we can get that again,