Tiretta, instantly compunctious, ventured to disobey. He was easily attached; he really liked the young man. His expressions of contrition won favour after a time; he earnestly asserted that he was not the irresponsible garrulous magpie the other thought him--that in the causes of loyalty and affection he could be silent unto death. Let his Highness test him and believe. Joseph smiled. Too much protest, too many words. “I mistrust all excess--even of fidelity,” he said. “Your Highness begins, your Highness has said it,” cried Tiretta, “where ordinarily old age is content to end--in the last wisdom of simplicity. Be tolerant of us commoner minds, who, being little, cannot afford, like your Highness, to do without some ostentation, even in speech. An emperor can dress plain, can dismiss his escort, can sit in silence self-contained, and remain an emperor. But we must e’en have some garnish of embroidered coats and sounding words to recommend us. Well, talking, like drink, grows on a man. So you give me your liking, sum me up as a wind-bag, only a fond one.” “I shall do nothing so foolish,” said Joseph, with a smile. “There is no human nature, my good Tiretta, compounded of such simple ingredients. To call a man a rogue, a fool, a miser, or what you will, is the mere refuge of an indolent mind, which seizes upon some salient feature to express the whole. Remark upon a man’s dandyism, as we have been doing, but do not call him dandy; remark upon another’s loquacity, but do not dismiss him as an empty chatterer.” “Do not dismiss him at all,” said Tiretta gravely. “He will justify your interest in him yet.” He chaunted softly a little odd song (they were rolling over smooth turf at the time)--something about a quarrel between a flower and its roots, which he improvised for the occasion. It was his faculty for doing this sort of thing which had procured him his name. He had a very sweet voice. His mandolin rested in its case in the rack above his head. Joseph had little ear or liking for music; yet there was a quality in Tiretta’s which constantly fascinated while it aggravated him. “If you would condescend to prose,” he said drily. “It was this,” said Tiretta. “The flower despised its own lowly roots, its poor relations, which connected it with the soil. ‘I would stand alone in my exclusiveness,’ it said; and it persuaded the scythe to sever it. But, lo! the flower fell and died, and the roots sent forth another blossom, fair as the first.” The archduke patted the shoulder next him patronisingly. “What does it mean, poet?” “Nothing, sir, but that, stand a flower ever so high and glorious, the roots have their use. All life springs at one time from the soil.” “What is the moral?” “O! the moral? Only that I love flowers.” “Well, you are a funny fellow.” “For being a root? It is natural for you to think so. But I shall hope yet to prove my attachment.”