Dornauberg, while Fritz found time for an occasional exclamation of
rapture, flavored with caviar, Rhine wine, and _pate de foie gras_.

"_Ach, Gott_, Fritz, what stuff you can talk!" grumbled his father,
sipping his Johannisberger with the air of a connoisseur. "When I was
of your age, Fritz, I had--hush, what is that?"

Mr. Hahn put down his glass with such an energy that half of the
precious contents was spilled.

"_Ach, du lieber Gott_," he cried a moment later. "_Wie wunderschon_!"

From a mighty cliff overhanging the road, about a hundred feet
distant, came a long yodling call, peculiar to the Tyrol, sung in a
superb ringing baritone. It soared over the mountain peaks and died
away somewhere among the Ingent glaciers. And just as the last faint
note was expiring, a girl's voice, fresh and clear as a dew-drop, took
it up and swelled it and carolled it until, from sheer excess of
delight, it broke into a hundred leaping, rolling, and warbling tones,
which floated and gambolled away over the highlands, while soft-winged
echoes bore them away into the wide distance.

"Father," said Fritz, who was now lying outstretched on a soft Scotch
plaid smoking the most fragrant of weeds; "if you can get those two
voices to the 'Haute Noblesse,' for the next season it is ten thousand
thalers in your pocket; and I shall only charge you ten per cent. for
the suggestion."

"Suggestion, you blockhead! Why, the thought flashed through my head
the very moment I heard the first note. But hush--there they are