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 Chapter Seven: Network Flow Models

PROBLEM SUMMARY 37. Maximal flow (7–36)

38. Maximal flow
1. Shortest route
39. Maximal flow
2. Shortest route
40. Maximal flow
3. Shortest route
41. Maximal flow (6–42)
4. Shortest route
5. Shortest route PROBLEM SOLUTIONS
6. Shortest route
7. Shortest route 1.
8. Shortest route
9. Shortest route
10. Shortest route
11. Shortest route
12. Shortest route
13. Shortest route
14. Shortest route
15. Shortest route
16. Shortest route
17. Shortest route
18. Minimal spanning tree
19. Minimal spanning tree
20. Minimal spanning tree
21. Minimal spanning tree
22. Minimal spanning tree
23. Minimal spanning tree
24. Minimal spanning tree
25. Minimal spanning tree
26. Minimal spanning tree (7–9)
27. Minimal spanning tree
28. Minimal spanning tree
29. Maximal flow
30. Maximal flow
31. Maximal flow
32. Maximal flow
33. Maximal flow
34. Maximal flow
35. Maximal flow
36. Maximal flow

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9.

Solution Steps Branch Added Branch Distance Total Distance from Origin
1 1–3 2 2
2 1–4 3 3
3 1–7 4 4
4 3–2 4 6
5 2–5 2 8
6 7–6 5 9
7 7–8 6 10
8 4–11 7 10
9 3–9 12 14
10 6–10 6 15
11 10–12 3 18
Shortest route path = 1–7–6–10–12

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10.
Step Permanent Set Branch Added Distance
1 {1} 1–3 73
2 {1,3} 1–2 89
3 {1,2,3} 1–4 96
4 {1,2,3,4} 3–7 154
5 {1,2,3,4,7} 2–5 164
6 {1,2,3,4,5,7} 3–6 167
7 {1,2,3,4,5,6,7} 4–8 177
8 {1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8} 7–9 208
9 {1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9} 7–10 239
10 {1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10} 9–12 263
11 {1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,12} 8–11 283
12 {1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12} 10–13 323

11. 1 – 4 – 7 – 8 = 42 miles 17. This is an example of the application of the

shortest route method to solve the scheduled
12. 1 – 4 – 7 – 10 – 12 – 16 – 17 = 14 days replacement problem. The branch costs are
13. 1 – 3 – 11 – 14 = 13 days determined using the formula,
14. 1 – 3 – 5 – 12 – 16 – 20 – 22 = 114 cij = maintenance cost for year i, i + 1,…, +
cost of purchasing a new car at the beginning
15. Kotzebue: 1 – 2 – 8 – 11 – 15 = 10 hours of year i – selling price of a used car at the
Nome: 1 – 2 – 8 – 12 – 13 = 9 hours beginning of year j.
Stebbins: 1 – 2 – 7 – 10 = 8.5 hours c12 = 3 + 26 – 15 = 14
16. (a) Shortest route solution from St. Louis. c13 = 3 + 4.5 + 26 – 12 = 21.5
(1) St. Louis – (5) St. Joseph – c14 = 3 + 4.5 + 6 + 26 – 8 = 31.5
(7) Ft. Kearney – (9) Ft. Laramie – c15 = 3 + 4.5 + 6 + 8 + 26 – 4 = 43.5
(11) Ft. Bridger – (13) Ft. Hall – (15) Ft. c16 = 3 + 4.5 + 6 + 8 + 11 + 26 – 2 = 56.5
Boise – (17) Ft. Vancouver = 186 days
c17 = 3 + 4.5 + 6 + 8 + 11 + 14 + 26 + 28.5 – 0 = 101
(b) Shortest route solution from Ft. Smith,
c23 = 3 + 26.5 – 15 = 14.5
Arkansas.
c24 = 3 + 4.5 + 26.5 – 12 = 22
(2) Ft. Smith – (8) Ft. Vasquez –
(11) Ft. Bridger – (13) Ft. Hall – (15) Ft. c25 = 3 + 4.5 + 6 + 26.5 – 8 = 32
Boise – (17) Ft. Vancouver = 182 days c26 = 3 + 4.5 + 6 + 8 + 26.5 – 4 = 44
c27 = 3 + 4.5 + 6 + 8 + 11 + 26.5 – 2 = 57
c34 = 3 + 27 – 15 = 15
c35 = 3 + 4.5 + 27 – 12 = 22.5
c36 = 3 + 4.5 + 6 + 27 – 8 = 32.5
c37 = 3 + 4.5 + 6 + 8 + 27 – 4 = 44.5

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 c45 = 3 + 27.5 – 15 = 15.5
c46 = 3 + 4.5 + 27.5 – 12 = 23
c47 = 3 + 4.5 + 6 + 27.5 – 8 = 33
c56 = 3 + 28 – 15 = 16
c57 = 3 + 4.5 + 28 – 12 = 23.5
c67 = 3 + 28.5 – 15 = 16.5
Solution: 1 – 4 – 7 = $64.5 = $64,500

A car should be sold at end of year 3 (beginning of year 4) and a new one purchased.
101

57
56.5

43.5 44 44.5

32 32.5 33
31.5

22 22.5 23 23.5
21.5

14 14.5 15 15.5 16 16.5

1 2 3 4 5 6 7
Beginning of End of
Year 1 Year 6

18.
19. 1–3, 4.1
1–4, 4.8
2–3, 3.6
4–8, 5.5
5–6, 2.1
6–7, 2.8
7–8, 2.7
minimum distance = 70 7–9, 2.7
1–3 9–10, 4.6
2–4 32.9 = 32,900 feet
3–4
4–6
4–7
5–7

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20.

1–2
1–3
2–4
3–6
5–6
6–7
7–8
21.

1–3
2–3
3–4
4–6
5–6
5–8
6–7
22.

1–2
2–3
3–6
4–8
5–6
6–7
7–9
7–8
9–10

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23. 25.

1–2
2–4
1–4
2–5
2–4
3–4
3–6
4–7
4–6
5–6
5–7
6–8
6–7
8–9
7–8
26.

24.

1–4
2–3
3–4
3–5
5–6
5–7
5–8

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27.
7
92 88 13
3
63 10
1 76 6
107 67 61
84 12
112 4 9 82
73
2
11 14
95

5 8
86
Total sidewalk = 1,086 ft.
28. 1 – 2 = 48
1 – 4 = 52
4 – 7 = 35
3 – 5 = 39
5 – 6 = 29
5 – 8 = 56
5 – 9 = 48
6 – 7 = 80
9 – 10 = 71
9 – 12 = 71
10 – 11 = 38
11 – 14 = 57
12 – 13 = 105
Total = 729
29.

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32.

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Other documents randomly have
different content
The Project Gutenberg eBook of "If Youth but
Knew!"
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with
this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located
in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country
where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: "If Youth but Knew!"

Creator: Agnes Castle

Egerton Castle

Illustrator: Lancelot Speed

Release date: November 25, 2013 [eBook #44286]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK "IF YOUTH BUT

KNEW!" ***
Cover art
 Her child eyes were still upon him and
seemed to ask for something yet. And, at
this, he bent and kissed her gently, as he
would have kissed a child, and did not
guess that, at the touch of his lips,
Sidonia's woman's soul was born. (See
page 196.)
 "IF YOUTH BUT KNEW!"

BY
AGNES & EGERTON CASTLE
AUTHORS OF
"ROSE OF THE WORLD," "FRENCH NAN,"
ETC., ETC.

"Si jeunesse savait...

Si vieillesse pouvait!"
(Old French Song)

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY LANCELOT SPEED

New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1906
All rights reserved
 COPYRIGHT, 1906,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published April, 1906.

Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. The Vagabond
II. The Forest House
III. Green Adventure
IV. Parting of the Ways
V. The Invitation of the Road
VI. The Burg
VII. Guests of Chance
VIII. Roses of Trianon
IX. Home-Coming
X. The Burgrave's Welcome
XI. Tangled Tales
XII. The Burgrave's Farewell
XIII. The *Oubliette*
XIV. Love among the Ruins
 XV. *Furens quid Femina Possit*
XVI. 'Twixt Cup and Lip
XVII. The Skirt of War
VIII. The Raid
XIX. The Melody in the Violets
XX. The True Reading of a Letter
XXI. At the Mock Versailles
XXII. The *Cabinet Noir*
XXIII. The King's Mail
XXIV. Portents
XXV. The Perverseness of Words
XXVI. The Ways of Little Courts
XVII. The Song of the Woods
VIII. A Treacherous Haven
XXIX. The Homing Bird
XXX. Dawn Music

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Her child eyes were still upon him and seemed to ask for something
yet. And, at this, he bent and kissed her gently, as he would have
kissed a child . . . Frontispiece

"The something that lived on, the miserable carcass, the old man—call
it myself, if you will"
But, as the oncomer drew nearer, the glimmer of hope died in the
discontented gentleman's heart

As she bent, offering him the green goblet of wine, her heavy plait fell
against his shoulder

Wellenshausen

"Look, look, do you see? ... There are two men coming up the road
with a pack-horse!"

"The high-born, my mistress, had not expected you before to-morrow,"

said the butler with a deep bow

Meanwhile, up in his chamber, the Burgrave sat in sodden brooding

Steven almost called aloud, as he heard their heavy plunge into the
ambushed waters

Sidonia stood, shaking and pruning herself like a bird, her hair glinting
in the light

"Spread your dark wings, obscene birds! ... the scent of Death is in the
air. In a little while you may gorge! ... caw—caw!"

"Hurl down the Guard, and the field is ours! ... Hurl down the Guard,
aha!"

"She always loved violets. These have no scent, ... but hers—oh, they
were sweet!"

They spread him beside the Jurist in the moonlight—with a certain

effect of symmetry
... the great bag on his back, undiminished, save for two warrants and
one private missive

What she was saying was sufficiently remarkable: "Your Majesty

mistakes"

"Positively, a bird from the tyrant's aviary," he cried. "A foreign, French
bird!"

His child-wife! ... The watchman was chanting the tale of the first
morning hour

The End

TO
"MARIE-LOUISE"

FOREWORD

"Is it not," remarks Fiddler Hans the wanderer, somewhere in these

pages, "instructive to see how the ruler of Westphalia passes his time
while the best manhood of his country is warring for the Empire—burnt
in Spain, frozen in Russia?"
Few people have cared, it would seem, to study that little chapter
of history, the rule of Jerome in Westphalia; yet it is curious enough—
as a record of human folly, if for no other reason.
 That incredible Westphalia of Napoleon's making! Harlequin's coat
contrived out of Hesse, Brunswick, and a score of smaller principalities,
hemmed with a shred or two of Prussian province; incongruous rag
torn from the map of the old Germanic Empire and flung by the
conqueror, between two victories, to his "little brother Jerome"!
A strangely pusillanimous character was the amiable Jerome. His
annals include, in the days of his youth, flight from his ship, within
sight of an English blockading squadron (not through cowardice, be it
said: there was pluck enough in the little man, but because of his thirst
for the pleasures of land), and, in more mature years, desertion from
the Grand Army at a crucial moment, upon the mere impulse of
wounded vanity. How so grotesque a potentate was allowed, for seven
years, to lord over, to plunder and demoralize, some three millions of
sturdy Germans, to discredit the name of Bonaparte and weaken the
fabric of the new Empire, remains one of the enigmas of history.
But, then, the new Emperor must ever be a maker of kings; carve
new kingdoms out of old. For his "Beau Sabreur," Murat, there is Naples
and the Two Sicilies; for his infant son, nothing less than Rome; for his
younger brothers, Holland, Spain, ... Westphalia! What is there to
restrain great Cæsar? Hark to his mighty insolence:
"The Emperor of the French" (so M. Walckenaer, in his official
work, La Géographic Moderne, brings to a conclusion the chapter on la
France allemande), "possesses likewise in Germany the principality of
Erfurth and the county of Katzenellenbogen: mais Sa Majesté n'a pas
encore décidé sur leur sort."
His Majesty has not yet decided upon their fate!
About the fate of Westphalia there had been no indecision. From
one day to another, "little brother Jerome" acknowledged failure in
every other career, naval, civil, or military, found himself seated upon a
German throne. And thus we have him, inconceivable fop, strutting and
ogling, upon the scene.—A king whose life energies, when the cracking
of his brother's empire may be heard on every side, are divided
between the devising of new costumes, the planning of revels, and the
discovery of fresh favourites. A scamp, fascinating enough, but
incapable of a single strong or noble thought. A cynic and a libertine;
withal a gull, in his way. A man who could repudiate without a pang of
regret the fair young Virginian wife of his youth, to marry without love
a "suitable German princess." A man who flaunted his debauchery and
his barefaced improbity, yet could be scared to distraction by the
imaginary threat of a little haunting tune; the tune which, with its
twang of mockery and warning, was as ill an omen to his superstitious
fancy as the shadow of "the little red man," or the date of Christmas,
to his great Imperial brother.
And under him, that hasty patchwork of old German lands: his
incongruous kingdom. His people, grave religious dwellers of the
mountain and of the wood, unconvinced subjects of the godless
Welsch, dumbly chafing under his insensate taxation. His new-fangled
court, aping the vanished Versailles of Louis XV., yet combining with the
reckless frivolity of the Old Order all the ill-breeding of revolutionary
parvenus. Over all, a government so incompetent, so corrupt, as to
stupefy or demoralize all that had dealings with it—friend or foe, high
or low, French official or German landowner; the magistrates, the very
students; the old rulers of the soil themselves, nervously awaiting the
inevitable débâcle, stretching, the while, both hands towards the
plunder.
In these topsy-turvy days no man rightly knows whether he belong
to ancient Teutonic duchy or to French département; whether the
accepted rule be code Napoléon or hoary feudal law. And thus, up in
his ancestral Burg, an old lord of the land (such an one as the Burgrave
of Wellenshausen) may well assume that he still holds the right of "high
and low justice" on his own territory; whereas, down at Cassel, the
mock Versailles, this same out-of-date character would naturally fall in
with the new views of marriage and divorce, or "annulment by decree,"
brought so conclusively into fashion by the Bonapartes, royal or
Imperial.
Above all this confusion, the cloud of war, gathering heavier and
heavier. And from the mines of the Harz, from the deeps of the
Thuringian forests, from the lanes of the old town, up into the very
anterooms of the palace, conspiracy busy at work: conspiracy in the
barracks, conspiracy in the universities, exploding on all sides, futile
squibs as yet, but ominous. The King closes his eyes, seals his ears to
all but sights and sounds of pleasure. So dancing, the harlequin
kingdom goes to its death.
And it is through the mazes of this carnival, unique in the lenten
gravity of nations, that wander the footsteps of the singer of youth,
and of the lovers of this story.

O hear me sing:—If youth but knew

The glory of his April day,
Would he not cast the year away
For one more dawn of dream and dew?

Would he the fevered moons pursue,

Not rather with the spring delay,
Crowned with its leaf? If youth but knew
The glory of his April day!

For what shall unto age accrue,

If youth from joyance turn and stray?
Autumn is but the Spring grown grey,
Its harvest roses mixed with rue....

If youth but knew—if youth but knew!

(The Singer of Youth)

ELINOR SWEETMAN
 "The something that lived on, the
miserable carcass, the old man—call it
myself, if you will—it took the violets and
began to walk away.... And it has walked
ever since!"
 IF YOUTH BUT KNEW

CHAPTER I
THE VAGABOND

"Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,

Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek, the heaven above
And the road below me."
R. L. STEVENSON.

The traveller sat upon the milestone just where the road, skirting the
brow of the hill, branched off into the forest. At his feet lay the
detached wheel; further away, in pathetic attitude, the remainder of
the chaise itself. A stout bay, seemingly unconscious of as handsome a
pair of broken knees as ever horse displayed, was tethered to a stump
of tree, browsing such tender grass or leafage as grew within his reach.
The situation spoke for itself; and the young traveller's face spoke for
the situation as eloquently as Nature (who had bestowed upon him a
markedly disdainful and somewhat impassive set of features) would
permit.
Behind him rose the cool gloom of the forest. Below lay the plain,
gold-powdered by the level rays of a sinking sun. Between the edge of
the road and the forest margin ran a stream. A robin sang to the
glowing west from the topmost branch of a fir tree. But he on the
milestone was blind to the gold of the valley, deaf to the gold of the
song. "Now, here's a pretty kettle of fish!" was the burden of his
thoughts.
To have been stuck a whole hour upon a stone, while a postilion
ranged the country on horseback in one direction, and a valet a-foot in
the other, and no help as yet forthcoming; not to have had himself
within hail, all those weary minutes, one single human being—between
intervals of drowsiness he cursed the peaceful valley land, with its fair
fields and orchards, as the most God-forsaken of countries!
Presently his moody eye quickened. On the road below a moving
object was approaching. Only a pedestrian, alas! Nevertheless, he
might prove of use for succour or advice.
But, as the oncomer drew nearer and began to foot the ascent, the
glimmer of hope died in the discontented gentleman's heart. Here was
no sturdy native, likely guide to smithy or village inn. 'Twas a mere
ambulant musician, as strange, doubtless, to the country as himself:
the sun-rays were even now glinting back, roseate, from the varnish of
a fiddle.—The traveller relapsed into moodiness.
 But, as the oncomer drew nearer, the
glimmer of hope died in the discontented
gentleman's heart.

At the steep curve of the hillside, man and fiddle vanished from
view. Nevertheless, that he was still climbing, the advance (in
interrupted measure) of a singular little tune, half sourdine, half
pizzicato, soon proclaimed. It seemed at first so woven in with the
babble of the brook, the deep choiring of the forest and the song of the
robin, that the youth on the milestone hardly realized its separate
existence. But, as it hovered ever closer, he was forced to listen and
even to follow. It seemed the very song of the rover; of the rover on
foot, humble and yet proud; without a penny, without a bond; glad of
the free water to drink and the hunk of bread by the roadside—a song
of the nodding grass and the bird in the hedge, of the dancing leaf, the
darting swallow, the wide kindly skies. Oh, the road is full of gay
things, and tender things, of sweetness and refreshment, of
wholesome fatigue and glorious sleep, for those that know its secrets!
"Good evening to you, young sir."
The little tune had stopped. A man's figure, exaggeratedly thin,
black against the sunset, had emerged over the knuckle of the hill and,
with a wide sweep of the arm, was saluting.
The gesture of the black silhouette seemed so courtly, the voice
that came from it so refined, that the young gentleman almost rose to
return the salutation: but, in time, he caught sight of the violin
curves.... Pooh, it was the fiddling vagabond! Ashamed of his impulse,
he drew forth a florin and flung it.
The musician skipped nimbly on one side; the coin fell, flashing in
the red sun-shafts. He looked from it to the imperious donor, whose
face he scanned keenly for a moment, then smiled; and his teeth shone
as white as a wolf's in the deep tan of his face. Then off went his
battered hat again and out was stretched a sinewy leg in dusty blue
stocking, to accompany a bow such as twenty years ago might have
roused the envy of your finest Versailles marquis.
"I greet you! I salute you, my young lord!" The fiddler rose from
his inclination and burst out laughing. "Oh, cease fondling those pistols
in your pocket, worthy sir," cried he, "for by Calliope, daughter of Jove
and Mnemosyne, 'tis not your money-bags I covet just now, but, oh!
your golden youth!"
"The fellow has a wild eye," thought the gentleman. Now, it is a
question whether even a highway robber were not more agreeable to
encounter on a lonely road than a madman.
"If it be madness to honour in you such a gift of the gods," said
the singular vagrant, reading the thought, "why then, yes, I am mad,
sir—stark, staring."
He fell back on one foot and bent the advanced knee, tucked his
instrument under his chin, where it settled like a bird to its nest, and
drew his bow across the strings with a long plaint.
"O youth!" he intoned between two sighs of the catgut. "O spring!
O wings of the soul! O virginity of the heart, expectation, unknown
mysteries of life! O wealth of strength and yearning!—See, now, how
you sit," he cried, dropping into speech again, "on the fringe of the
forest, in a strange land, with the sunset valley at your feet, and the
stream running you know not where beside you, and the bird over your
head singing the desires of your soul. Why, by Apollo, young man, here
are you in your youth, in the spring of your world, in the very middle of
an adventure, and——"
Again limber fingers moved along the strings; and, with a sense of
wonder, the traveller felt within his being some answering outcry. But
he stiffened himself against it.
"Harkee, my man," said he, trying to frown, "I am in no mood for
fooling. Take up your florin, and begone.—Or, stay, earn another by
telling me, if you can, where I am, and how far lies the nearest
village?"
"Sir," replied the other, urbanely, "fellow-travellers should assist
each other without any sordid consideration. (Ah, had you offered me
of your youth, now!) You are, an it please you, just between the border
of that old, steady-going principality of Schwarzburg and the new-
fangled, patchwork kingdom which appertaineth to his Majesty King
Jerome—himself one of the crowning products of the Great
Revolution!"
"Faugh!" said the gentleman.
The fiddler's restless eye lighted.
"My lord is an Englishman? In verity and beyond doubt, none but
an Englishman could wear so lofty a front. I need scarce have asked."
The young man stared haughtily. The other considered him awhile
in silence with a sort of grave mockery, and pursued then reflectively—
"This English aloofness, 'tis an excellent prescription for pride and
disdain and such-like high essences. Only be careful, my brother-
wayfarer, that you be not above your own fair youth, and contemn not
its splendid opportunities.

'Singula de nobis annipraedantur euntes'

O young man! ...

'Eripuere jocos, Venerem, convivia, ludum'

think of it!"
So saying, he shouldered his instrument, and with a valedictory
wave of his bow seemed about to take his departure; but, as if upon a
second thought, stood still, and once again observed the young man.
Now it struck the stranded traveller that there was a dignity in the
vagrant's gaze, a refinement about his person, which scarce accorded
with the gipsy appearance, the shabby clothes; that it was not usual for
beggars to quote Horace with delicate accents of culture; that his
salutation had been a pattern of courtliness; above all, that he was not
the least impressed by a young nobleman's most noble demeanour.
And he, on his milestone, began to feel slightly foolish—an ingenuous
blush, indeed, crept to his cheeks.
The player hitched round his fiddle till it lay across his breast, and
pinched a couple of strings as a man might pinch the cheek of the
wench he loved.
"Pardi," he said, speaking into its curved ear, "that flag of crimson
would proclaim that there's hope for the youth yet.—Sir," proceeded he
then, gaily, "I think I can be of use to you. I place myself at your
service. May I crave to know whom I have the honour of addressing?"
"You address," responded the other, "Steven Lee, Graf zu Waldorff-
Kielmansegg, an Austrian gentleman (if you must know) travelling
towards his estate in the south." He had an irrepressible satisfaction in
the recital.
"Austrian?" echoed the listener, with a cock of one of his
expressive eyebrows. "'Tis a safer nationality to proclaim than the
English, for travellers in great Cæsar's dominions nowadays. Oh, you
are right, quite right! 'Twould be the height of rashness to proclaim
even a drop of English blood, these days, where Monsieur Buonaparte
rules!"
The taunt struck home. Red mantled again on the gentleman's
smooth cheek.
"Despite an Austrian father, I have by my dead mother enough
English blood in these veins," cried he, hotly, "to hate the usurper and
despite his upstart brothers—if that is what you mean; and I care not
who knows it!"
 The fiddler's smile grew broader. "Youth," whispered he to his
violin, "may pretend to abjure itself, but it will out. The stripling has
spirit, though it be but the spirit of scorn.—But the ceremony is not
complete," pursued he. "I have now to return your compliment. Above
all things, let us be polite. Here, then, comrade, you see before you an
individual known all over the country as the crazy musician, sometimes
more tersely as Geiger-Hans—what in your English you might call
Fiddle-John. Some call me the Scholar Vagabond, and some, the
children (bless them), Onkel. Like your own, my nationality is a matter
of indecision. Some say I am French, some German, some from over
the Alps—take your choice; your choice, too, of my title: Geiger-Hans,
Fiddle-John, or Geiger-Onkel. Or you may dub me, if you please, the
Singer of Youth."
But by this time, Steven Lee, Count Kielmansegg, was disgusted
with himself for having betrayed so much of his feelings to a beggar
vagrant.
"Doubtless," remarked he, with infinite arrogance, "it may prove
more convenient for you, at times, to hide your name, good fellow.
Reassure yourself, I have no curiosity to learn it."
Whereupon Geiger-Hans gathered his brows into so deep a frown
that the whole hillside seemed to grow black. He struck the strings of
his instrument, and they called out as with anger.
"My name," he said under his breath, "my name, boy, is dead—as
dead as my youth." Then he grew calm as suddenly as he had stormed.
"Some happy ones there are who die and whose names live: I live, and
my name is dead. Let that suffice to you. Why, see," he cried next, with
another swift change of tone, while Count Steven stared at him, his
slow Austrian blood, his deliberate English wits, unable to keep pace
with such vivacity of mood, "it is getting dark ... the sun has dropped
behind the valley line ... the forest is full of night already! Do not the
lights of unknown shelter beckon you—the chimney-corner, the strange
hospitality? Why, Heaven knows what sweet hostess may not greet
your youthship to-night! And if your soul cries not out for fair adventure
in forest depth, there, at least, is a poor dumb thing that craves stable
and corn." As he spoke, he stepped nimbly to the injured horse and
unhitched the reins from the tree. "Might you not have bathed those
cut knees?" he exclaimed, shooting a look of rebuke over the animal's
meek head. "And the kindly brook running charity at your elbow!"
He led the creature to the stream; and the deed of compassion
accomplished, again turned to his companion with a smile, which
seemed to show knowledge of all the latter's vacillating thoughts of
vexation and shame.
"Lend me a hand with the wheel, comrade, and let us see if we
cannot improvise a linchpin. And then, if you push behind, this
forgiving beast will do his best to draw your goods into safety."
But it was the musician who mended the wheel, while the traveller
watched in wonder the work of the brown hands. And then, in the
falling dusk, they set upon their slow way: Steven Lee, Graf zu
Waldorff-Kielmansegg, pushing behind even as bid, the fiddler
marching ahead with the reins slung over his arm and humming a
hunting song under his breath.
Leaving the stones and dust of the high-road, he led the way along
a wide path that seemed to cut the forest in two and run downhill into
the horizon. Beneath their feet was now an elastic carpet of pine-
needles. On each side of them the serried ranks of trees held the night
already in a thousand arms and murmured to it with a voice as of the
sea. Before them, at the end of the nave, and set like a cathedral
window, shone a span of sky, primrose and green, with one faint star.
And presently Steven saw, to one side far ahead, an orange square of
light, and knew it for the unknown forest shelter beckoning to him.
"But what," cried he, struck by a sudden thought, "of my postilion
and my valet?"
Geiger-Hans looked back at him over his shoulder and grinned. He
slid the reins above his elbow and grasped his violin.
"To the devil," it sang mockingly, through the glade, "to the devil
with postilions and valets! to the devil with prudence and forethought!
O youth, enjoy your youth! O youth, be young!"

CHAPTER II
THE FOREST HOUSE

"Diesen liebenswürd'gen Jüngling

Kann man nicht genug verehren..."
HEINE.

"Heaven knows," had said the musician, "what sweet hostess may not
greet your youthship to-night."
To their knock the door was opened by a slip of a peasant girl. The
light from within shone on her long yellow plaits of hair and her small
brown face.
Steven was conscious of a distinct shock of disappointment. What
folly had this fantastic chance companion fiddled into his mind that he
should have found himself expecting something meet for his high-born
fancy in this lonely forest house?
"Geiger-Onkel!" cried the girl, in surprise.
And "Geiger-Onkel!" was echoed joyfully indoors. An old peasant
woman came waddling forward, hands outstretched.
"Be kind to my comrade, Forest-mother," said the player, "while I
see to this brother beast."
He led the horse towards the back yard. And Steven stepped into
the great kitchen, glad at least of its prosaic aroma of pot-herbs, since
romance had fallen silent with the fiddle.
It was a long room, panelled with age-polished oak which reflected
the light of the hanging brass lamp and of the ruddy hearth as jonquil
flamelets and poppy glow. A black oaken table, running nearly from
end to end, was covered half-way with a snowy cloth, red-hemmed and
flowered. There were presses, laden with crockery and pewter. There
was a tall clock, with a merry painted face and a solemn tick. There
were stags' horns and grinning boars' heads above the presses. Not
that Steven had any interest to bestow on these things: he was glad
that the place was clean. He thought the oaken chair hard sitting for
his noble person, but it was better than the milestone. The Forest-
mother seemed a decent sort of body; with a due sense, too, of the
quality of her guest. As for the peasant child, he did not notice her at
all—not even the pretty foot in buckled shoe and scarlet stocking, of
which the short peasant skirt gave such a generous display.
Yet it was to her that Geiger-Hans made his courtly bow as he
entered in his turn.
"Mamzell Sidonia!" said he, his old hat clapped over his heart.
She gave him a smile, half tender, half mischievous. And her teeth
were as white as his own in her sunburnt face. There was a whole host
of dimples, too, which a young man might have remarked. But what
mattered the dimples of a peasant girl?
Then the fiddler took the old woman round the neck and kissed
her plump, wholesome cheek with a smack.
"Supper, supper!" cried he. "And if it's good, you shall have such
music that your hearts shall sing."
The girl laughed out loud, and ran to the hearth, where she seized
a pot.
"In Heaven's name," cried the woman, "leave that, child! 'Tis not
fit for you."
"Oh, please," urged Sidonia of the yellow plaits, "please, little
foster-mother!"
Forest-mother to the fiddler, foster-mother to the girl. Steven had
supposed her grandmother. Bah! As if, indeed, it were worth a thought!
"Get the wine, then," said the matron, with a jolly, unctuous
chuckle.
And while, swinging long tails of hair and scarlet ankles flashing,
the girl darted round the table, what must this fantastic fellow Geiger-
Hans do but introduce guest and hostess with one of his absurd
flourishes.
"Here, dear comrade, is Dame Friedel, mother of the great King
Jerome's own Head Forester. And here, mother, is a most noble
Austrian count, whom the accidents of travel have forced to
condescend to the shelter of your humble roof this evening."
Deep curtsied Dame Friedel. Steven inclined his head; and, feeling
the fiddler mock him behind his back, grew red and angry.
"A glass in welcome, gracious sir!" tittered Sidonia, at his elbow.
She was so close to him that his cheek was fanned by her breath
of clover and the fragrance of a little bunch of violets in her white