"Shall I sing you a song, dear archer?" said the lady.
"Sweet love!" said he, now much excited, "strike up, and I will join the
chorus."
She took down her mandolin, and commenced a ditty. 'Twas a sweet and
wild one. It told how a lady of high lineage cast her eyes on a peasant
page; it told how nought could her love assuage, her suitor's wealth
and her father's rage: it told how the youth did his foes engage; and
at length they went off in the Gretna stage, the high-born dame and the
peasant page. Wolfgang beat time, waggled his head, sung wofully out of
tune as the song proceeded; and if he had not been too intoxicated with
love and other excitement, he would have remarked how the pictures on
the wall, as the lady sung, began to waggle their heads too, and nod
and grin to the music. The song ended. "I am the lady of high lineage:
Archer, will you be the peasant page?"
"I'll follow you to the devil!" said Wolfgang.
"Come," replied the lady, glaring wildly on him, "come to the chapel;
we'll be married this minute!"
She held out her hand--Wolfgang took it. It was cold, damp,--deadly
cold; and on they went to the chapel.
As they passed out, the two pictures over the wall, of a gentleman and
lady, tripped lightly out of their frames, skipped noiselessly down to
the ground, and making the retreating couple a profound curtsy and bow,
took the places which they had left at the table.
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