Suddenly he heard steps approaching; he started, and the consciousness of where he was and of what he had done dawned upon him. He was about to hide the orange, but desisted immediately, impelled by pride or by the knowledge that it was too late. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a livery, the Count’s gardener, stood before him. He had evidently seen the last suspicious motion, and looked at him dubiously. Mozart was silent also, and felt as if he were nailed to his seat; he glanced up with a half-laugh and a visible blush, but at the same time there was a look of undaunted frankness in his large blue eyes; then with a petulant air of courageous audacity, which would have been absurdly funny to an unconcerned looker-on, he put the orange, apparently uninjured, in the middle of the table before him. “Begging your pardon,” said the gardener, now repressing his indignation, after having inspected the unpromising garb of the stranger, “I do not know with whom I have the honour----” “Kapellmeister Mozart from Vienna.” “Doubtless you are an acquaintance of the Count?” “I am a stranger here, passing through the village merely. Is the Count at home?” “No.” “The Countess?” “Is occupied, and it is unlikely she will see any one.” Mozart arose and seemed about to go. “I beg your pardon, sir,--by what right did you help yourself in this garden?” “What?” cried Mozart; “help myself? The devil! do you believe I wanted to steal and eat that thing here?” “Sir, I believe what I see. These fruits are counted, and I am responsible. This tree is designed by the Count to figure at an entertainment; just now it was to be carried away. I cannot let you go before having made mention of this affair, and before you explain how this happened.” “Well, then, I will wait here. You may depend upon it.” The gardener looked around doubtfully, and Mozart, thinking he might be manœuvring for a fee, put his hand in his pocket, but there was not a coin in it. Two lads came up now, lifted the tree upon a barrow, and carried it away. Meanwhile our Meister had pulled out his note-book, and while the gardener did not leave his side, he wrote-- “GNÄDIGSTE FRAU,--Here I sit, a poor unfortunate, in your paradise, like Adam after having tasted the apple. The evil is done, and I cannot even seek refuge by throwing the guilt upon the shoulders of gentle Eve, for the latter is sleeping the sleep of innocence at the inn guarded by the Graces and Cupids of a four-post bed. You have but to command, and I will personally give your Grace an account of my incomprehensible offence. In sincere contrition, your most obedient servant, W. A. MOZART (on the way to Prague).” * * * * *