It belongs to a volunteer, as it were, a native of this city, whose wonderful instrument and rare ability we discovered.
But, begging your Majesty's pardon, the soul of such an artist is a strange thing, inflammable and enthusiastic, but just as easily wounded and disheartened." "The soul of a boy!" cried Charles contemptuously.

"Appenzelder does not look like a man who would permit such whims." "Not in his choir, certainly," said the young nobleman.

"But this voice--allow me to repeat it--is not at his disposal.

It was no easy matter to obtain it at all, and, keenly as the maestro disapproves of the caprices of this beautiful power, he can not force it--the power, I mean--to the obedience which his boys----" Here the Emperor laughed shrilly.

"The power, the voice! The songstress, you should say.