upon the mournful youth, looking up, perceived a magpie hopping from branch to branch, to and fro, calling incessantly, “Ratibor! Ratibor!” “Wretched babbler,” cried he, “who can have taught thee to pronounce the name of an unfortunate who desires to be blotted for ever from the recollection of mankind?” This said, he snatched up a stone, and was aiming it at the magpie, when the bird cried, “Emma!” This magic name disarmed the Prince; its gentle influence at once pervaded his whole being; and, rising from the soul, the beloved accents were breathed from his own lips,—“Emma!” Having thus secured the Prince’s attention, the magpie, from its leafy perch, communicated to him the message with which it had been entrusted, with all the volubility of its kind. No sooner had Ratibor received the glad tidings, than hope once more dawned in his breast, and the death-like grief which had alike borne down all the faculties of mind and body, vanished; and awaking, as it were, out of a hideous dream, he eagerly put to the comfort-bringing bird all sorts of inquiries touching his beloved Emma; but the magpie could add nothing to the message it had already communicated, which having once more gabbled over like a magpie, it flew off. As for Ratibor, recalled from his misanthropy, he hastened to his castle, gave instant orders to boot and saddle; and, followed by a strong
