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