Albert had been employed, during the absence of his host, in looking over a beautifully-written book of chronicles, which he found in his room. The neat painted figures which formed the first letter of the chapters, the pictures of fields of battle, and triumphal entries of victorious troops, delineated with a bold outline, and painted with peculiar care and labour, and which were dispersed throughout the volume, had amused him for some time. His mind being full of the warlike figures he had been examining, induced him to think of his own weapons, and of polishing his helmet, armour, and the sword which he had inherited from his father. He accordingly set to work, at the same time singing sometimes a cheerful, sometimes a serious song, to the great annoyance of the unmusical organs of Frau Sabina. Dieterick heard the sounds of his agreeable voice as he walked up stairs, and he could not resist listening at the door until he had finished his song. It was one of those touching strains, bordering almost on the melancholy, which has been brought down to our times, and is to be heard even now in the mouth of the Swabians. Often and with pleasure have we listened to those strains on the charming banks of the Neckar, struck with the beautiful simplicity and lengthened sound of their harmony. Albert went on singing: Swift as thought All our pleasures come to nought! The charger yesterday he press'd, To-day the death-shot pierced his breast, To-morrow opes the chilly grave. Such the measure Of all earthly bliss and pleasure! In that comely cheek of thine, The lily and the rose combine; But rose and lily fade and die. Then resigned To God's will, I yield my mind: Should the trumpet sound a call, Should it be my fate to fall, Say "A gallant soldier's gone." "Really you have a fine voice," said his host, as he entered the apartment; "but why sing such melancholy songs? I prefer a merry and cheerful one, such as a young fellow of twenty-eight ought to sing." Albert put his sword aside, and gave his hand to his friend. "Every one to his taste," said he, "but I think that to those whose occupation is war, and whose life is in constant jeopardy, a song which carries consolation and encouragement to the heart of the soldier, gives death a milder aspect." "That's just what I mean, also," said Dieterick; "but what is the use of being melancholy upon a subject which is certainly the lot of all? 'If you paint the devil on the wall, he will surely appear,' says the proverb; however, that saying does not hold good as the case now stands." "How? is not war decided," asked Albert, with curiosity; "has the Würtemberger accepted conditions?"