"I know the end of the song. ... No, I will sing another. When I fought in Castile's mountains, the Moors taught me a ballad. Old man, strike the tune, that old tune which, in time of yore, in yonder valley. ... O! it was a happy time. I was always wont to sing that air. . . . Come away, old man, for, by all the gods, German, Prussian ..." The old man approached. He struck the strings of his lute, and, with an uncertain and trembling voice, followed the wild tones of Conrad, like a slave that follows his angry master.
In the mean time, the lights on the table began to go out, and the warriors, wearied by a prolonged banquet, had almost fallen asleep. But Conrad's singing awoke them; they stood up, and, forming a close circle around him, attentively listened to every word of his song.
