Thereupon Betsy, seating herself at the little harpsichord, sang in a sweet, full voice "Ye Banks and Braes."
"That is the prettiest English air I have ever heard."
"It is a Scotch air," said Betsy timidly.
"I thought it too pretty to be English. Their music is vile,—the worst in the world. Do you know any French songs? Ah, I wish you could sing Vive Henri Quatre."
"No, sir; I know no French songs."
Upon this the Emperor began to hum the air, and in a fit of abstraction, rising from his chair, marched around the room, keeping time to the tune he was singing.
"Now what do you think of that, Miss Betsy?" he asked abruptly. Betsy hesitated between her love of truth and her desire to please the Emperor.
"I do not think I like it," she said at last, rather gently. "I cannot make out the air."
She might also have added that the great Emperor's voice was far from musical. Neither then nor at other times when he tried to sing could she tell just what tune he thought he was rendering.
