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An hour later the sleigh was speeding over the hard snow. Chapdelaine drowsed, and the reins were slipping from his open hands. Rousing himself and lifting his head, he sang again in full-voiced fervour the hymn he was singing as they left the village: ... Adorons-le dans le ciel. Adorons-le sur l'autel ...
His voice had chased away the spectres, and I opened my eyes and paid attention to the worthy man's advice. He was rather pleased with my way of reciting, and he taught me a few of the traditions. At the line, Eurybate a l'autel, conduisez la victime, he said, "Mademoiselle Favart was very effective there." The artistes gradually began to arrive, grumbling more or less.
L'autel brille, l'encens fume, La victime s'embellit, L'amour meme la consume, Le mystere s'accomplit. "Do you believe it is possible to translate this beautiful stanza into German?" said the king. "If your majesty allows me, I will translate it at once," said he. "Give me a piece of paper and a pencil." "Take them," said Frederick.
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