Thus the innkeeper shouted out through the open window, but Deodatus Schwendy (that was the young man) let the torrent of people sweep him along to the neighboring inn.

Everyone was jammed together in the entrance and courtyard, and a gentle expectant murmur coursed back and forth. Several people were allowed into the main room; others came out, some with troubled faces, some with thoughtful ones, some with happy ones.

"I do not know," said a serious old man who had retreated to a corner with Deodatus, "I do not know why this disorder is not regulated by the authorities."

"Why?" asked Deodatus.

"Oh," the man continued, "Oh, you are a stranger here. Therefore you do not know that from time to time an old woman comes here who makes a fool of the populace with prophecies and oracles. She has a large raven with her who tells the people truly, or rather falsely, about everything they want to know. For although it is true that, in some strange way, many of the clever raven's pronouncements come true, I am still convinced that he utters hundreds of lies. Just look at the people when they come out, and you will easily notice that the woman with the raven cheats them. Does such ruinous superstition have to exist in our age, which, thank God, is completely enlightened-"

Deodatus heard nothing more of the excited man's chatter, for just at that moment a handsome young man, pale as death, tears sparkling in his eyes, emerged from the room which he had cheerfully and smilingly entered a few minutes ago.

Then it seemed to Deodatus that, hidden behind the draperies through which the people slipped, there really was a dark mysterious power who revealed future disasters to happy people, thus spitefully destroying the pleasure of the moment.

The thought occurred to him of going in himself and questioning the raven about what the next days or even moments were going to bring him. Deodatus had come from far away, sent to Hohenfluh by his father, old Amadeus Schwendy, in a mysterious fashion.

Here, at the peak of his life, his future was to be decided by a marvelous occurrence that his father had prophesied in dark, mysterious words. With his own eyes he was to see a being who had so far been entangled in his life only as in a dream. He was to test whether this dream, which, from the spark tossed into his soul, was growing stronger and brighter, could become a part of his external, ordinary life. If this was so, he was to take action.

He was already at the door to the room; the curtain was already lifted. He heard a repulsive, croaking voice, and an icy shudder passed through him. It seemed as if an unknown power was pushing him back, but other people thrust ahead of him; and so, without consciously being aware of it, he climbed the stairs and came to a room where the noon meal was being prepared for the numerous customers of the inn.

The innkeeper approached him in a friendly way. "Well, well, Herr Haberland! How nice! Even though you are staying across the way in that wretched Silver Lamb, you mustn't miss the world- famous meals at the Golden Ram. I have the honor of preparing this place for you."

Deodatus knew very well that the innkeeper had mistaken him for someone else; however, he was so completely constrained by a disinclination to speak, which every violent inner turmoil occasioned, that he did not bother to clarify the error, but rather sat down in silence. The wise woman was the object of the table conversation, and various opinions were expressed. Some declared that it was all a childish conjuring trick, whereas others actually credited her with an absolute knowledge of life's mysterious intricacies and with the gift of prophecy.

A little, old, plumpish gentleman, who frequently helped himself to tobacco from a golden box, after rubbing it on his sleeve, smiled very cleverly and said that the highly intelligent Council, of which he had the honor of being its least member, would soon put a stop to the accursed witch, primarily because she was a bungler and not a true and proper witch. And it was not such a trick to have everybody's life in her pocket and to have the raven predict it in peculiarly bad and stylized sentences. After all, at the previous fair there had been a painter and picture seller in whose booth everyone could find his own likeness.

Everybody laughed.

"That," cried a young man to Deodatus, "that is something for you, Herr Haberland. You yourself are a fine portrait painter, but you haven't yet developed your art to such a high point!"

Now that he was addressed for the second time as Herr Haberland, who, he assumed, was a painter,(Deodatus could not suppress an inner shudder, for it suddenly seemed to him as if he were, in his shape and being, the sinister specter of this Haberland, who was unknown to him) This inner dread intensified to horror when, before he could reply to the one who had addressed him as Haberland, a young man in traveling clothes rushed up to him and, embracing him violently, cried loudly, "Haberland-my dearest George-I have finally found you! Now we can happily continue our journey to beautiful Italy! But you look so pale and distracted?"

Deodatus returned the embrace of the unknown stranger as if he really were the long-sought painter George Haberland. He noticed clearly that he was entering the circle of marvelous occurrences of which his father had warned him by all sorts of hints. He must submit to everything the dark powers had ordained. But a deeply ironical anger toward an unknown, remote, arbitrary, control under which one must strive to maintain one's own ego overwhelmed him. Burning with anger, he held the stranger firmly in his grasp and cried, "Indeed, unknown brother, why shouldn't I seem muddled, since I and my ego have just put on another person as if he were another overcoat, one which is too tight here and two wide there, and which still squeezes me. Indeed, young man, am I really the painter George Haberland?"

"I don't know," said the stranger, "what you seem like to me today, George. Are you trappd again in that strange state that attacks you like a periodic illness? What I really wanted to ask is what you meant by all the incomprehensible nonsense that filled your last letter."

With that the stranger pulled out a letter and opened it. As soon as Deodatus looked in it, he cried out as if he had been painfully touched by an invisible hostile power. The handwriting in the letter was exactly like his.

The stranger cast a quick glance at Deodatus and then slowly and softly read the letter:

" 'Dear brother-in-art Berthold. Alas, you do not know what a somber, painful, and yet soothing melancholy possesses me the farther I wander. Would you believe that my art, indeed, my whole life and everything I do, often seems flat and paltry? But then the sweet dreams of my happy, carefree youth awake. I lie stretched out on the grass in the old priest's little garden and gaze upwards, while the lovely spring rides in on the morning's golden clouds. The little flowers, awakened by the glow, open their dear little eyes and scatter their fragrance like a marvelous hymn of praise. Oh, Berthold, my heart is nearly bursting with love, with longing, with fervent desire! Where will I find her again, she who is my whole life, my whole being? I am planning to meet you in Hohenfluh, where I am spending several days. It seems to me that something special will happen to me in Hohenfluh, but where this belief comes from I do not know!'

"Now tell me," continued the engraver Berthold-that is who the stranger was-after he had read the above. "Now tell me, brother George, why you have succumbed to such effeminate ravings when you are in your carefree youth and on a wonderful journey to the land of art."

"Dear brother-in-art," replied Deodatus, "it is a crazy, peculiar thing that is wrong with me. Just as it is quite comic that I did write from the depths of my soul what is written there and that I nevertheless am not George Haberland at all, whom you-"

At that moment the young man who had earlier greeted Deodatus as George Haberland came in and said that George was right to have come back to see the wise woman. He should not pay any attention to the chattering at the table, for even if the raven's prophecies did not mean very much, it was still most amazing when the wise woman herself performed, spouting forth mysterious sayings in a wild rapture like a second Sibyl or Pythia, while hollow, mysterious voices sounded around her. She was about to give such a performance, which George should be sure not to miss, in a spacious woodsy part of the garden.

Berthold went off to attend to a number of essential matters in Hohenfluh. Deodatus stayed to drain a couple of bottles with the young man and thus passed the time until sunset.

The company that had assembled in the room finally broke up to go to the garden. A tall, haggard, well-dressed man, who seemed to have just arrived, passed them on the threshold. He was on the point of entering the room, but turning around again, his glance fell on Deodatus. His hand still on the latch, he stopped as if rooted to the ground! A wild fire glowed in his melancholy eyes, while a deathly pallor crossed his twitching face. He took a few steps toward the company, but then, as if suddenly thinking better of it, turned around again, ran into the roon and slarnmed the door behind him. Nobody could understand what he was muttering

The others were more aware of the stranger's behavior than was Deodatus, who had not paid him any particular attention. They went to the woodsy area.

The last rays of the afternoon sun were shining on a tall figure wrapped from top to toe in a massive muddy-yellow garment, her back turned toward the spectators. Beside her on the ground lay a large raven, with drooping wings, as if dead. Everyone was captivated by the strange, horrible sight; the whisperings ceased, and in oppressive silence, all waited to see what the figure would do.

A rustling sound like splashing waves resounded through the dark shrubbery and then turned into audible words.

"Phosphorous has been subdued. The kettle gleams in the west! Eagle of the night, fly up to the awakened dreams!"

Then the raven lifted his head, beat his wings, and flew upwards, croaking. The figure stretched out her arms, her garment slipped down, and a tall, splendid woman stood there in a white pleated robe with a belt of sparkling stones, her black hair piled high. Her bare neck, and arms were youthfully rounded.

"That's not the old woman!" whispered the spectators.

Then a distant, somber voice began, "Do you hear the howling and crying of the evening wind?"

A still more distant voice murmured, "Sorrowing will begin when the glowworm shines!"

Then a horrible lacerating shriek resounded through the air. The woman spoke: "Distant sorrowing sounds, have you freed yourselves from the breast of man so that you can raise yourselves in mighty choir? But you must die away in delight, for the power enthroned in the blessed heavens that command you is desire."

The somber voices howled more loudly. "Hope has died! Desire's delight was hope. Desire without hope is nameless agony!"

The woman sighed deeply and cried out in despair, "Hope is death! Life the cruel sport of the dark powers!"

Then Deodatus cried out involuntarily from the depths of his soul, "Natalie!"

The woman spun around, and an old fearfully distorted woman's face stared at him with glowing eyes. Rushing at him angrily with outspread arms, the woman shrieked, "What do you want here? Away! Away! Murder pursues you! Save Natalie!"

The raven dove through the trees toward Deodatus, croaking horribly, "Murder! Murder!"

Seized by a wild horror, nearly out of his senses, Deodatus fled towards his dwelling.

The innkeeper told him that in the meantime a strange, richly dressed gentleman had inquired for him several times, describing Deodatus exactly without mentioning him by name, and that he finally had left a note.

Deodatus opened the note that the innkeeper handed him and which was correctly addressed to him. He found the following words:

I do not know whether to call it an unheard of impertinance or insanity that you let yourself be seen here. If you are not a dishonorable villain, as I must now assume, depart at once from Hohenfluh, or you can expect that I will find means to cure you forever of your folly.

Graf Hektor von Zeliers

"Hope is death. Life the cruel sport of the dark powers!" Deodatus murmured to himself gloomily when he had read the above. He was determined not to be driven out of Hohenfluh by an unknown person's threats that were based on some curious mistake, but rather to oppose with firm courage and manly strength that fate that some dark power had ordained for him. His whole soul was filled with an anxious presentment, his heart was about to burst, and he yearned to get outside into the open. Night had descended when he hurried out through Neudorfer Gate, his loaded pistol in his pocket, mindful of his unknown meanacing pursurer. He had already reached the open space in front of the gate when he felt himself seized from behind and dragged backwards.

"Hurry - hurry! Save Natalie! The time has come!" someone murmured in his ear. It was the horrible woman who had seized him and was dragging him along.

A carriage stopped nearby, the door was opened, the old woman helped him in and climbed in after him. He felt himself encircled by soft arms, and a sweet voice whispered, "My dear friend! At last! At last you have come!"

"Natalie, my Natalie!" he cried, clasping his beloved in his arms, almost fainting with rapture.

They drove on quickly. The bright glow of torches suddenly flared up through the leaves of the thick forest.

"It is they!" cried the old woman, "one step forward and we are lost!"

Deodatus, who had come to his senses, had the carriage stopped, climbed out, and cocked pistol in hand, crept quietly towards the gleam of the torches, which suddenly vanished. He hurried back to the carriage, but stopped, rooted in horror, when he saw a male figure, who had his voice, say, "The danger is past!" and then climb in.

Deodatus was about to dash after the rapidly vanishing carriage when a shot from the bushes knocked him to the ground.

It is necessary to tell the gentle reader that the distant place from which old Amadeus Schwendy sent his son to Hohenfluh was a country estate in the neighborhood of Lucerne. The little town of Hohenfluh, in the principality of Reitlingen, was, however, situated about six or seven hours from Sonsitz, the Residence of Furst Remigius. If there was gaiety and noise in Hohenfluh, there was, contrariwise, as complete a quiet in Sonsitz as perhaps in Herrnhut or Neusalz. Everyone tiptoed around as if wearing socks and even a necessary quarrel was carried on in muffled voices. The usual pleasures of a Furst's Residence, such as balls, concerts and plays, did not exist, and if the wretched people of Sonsitz, who were doomed to sadness, for once wanted to have a good time, they had to go over to Hohenfluh. The following explains why that was so.

Furst Remigius, formerly a friendly, high spirited gentleman, had been for years, probably for more than twenty, plunged into a deep melancholy that bordered on insanity. Never wishing to leave Sonsitz, he wanted his abode to resemble a wilderness, ruled by the gloomy silence of desolate grief. He cared to see only his most intimate councillors and the most necessary servants, and even these did not dare to speak unless the Furst addressed them. He drove around in an enclosed carriage, and nobody was allowed to indicate by even a gesture that he knew the Furst was in the carriage.

There were only vague rumors as to the cause of this melancholy. So much was certain, that at the time when the wife of the Furst gave birth to the Crown Prince, and the whole country resounded with joy, the mother and child vanished a few months later in some incomprehensible fashion. Many thought that the wife and son had been kidnapped as victims of a shocking intrigue, but others claimed that the Furst had repudiated her. To support this opinion they pointed out that Graf von Torny, the first minister and the Furst's decided favorite, had been removed from the court at the same time and that it seemed certain that the Furst had uncovered an illicit relationship between the Furstin and the Graf and that he doubted the legitimacy of his son.

But all those who were closely acquainted with the Furstin were completely convinced that such a moral lapse on the part of the Furstin, a woman of purest, spotless virtue, was quite unthinkable, quite impossible.

Nobody in Sonsitz, on pain of severe punishment, was allowed to utter a single word about the disappearance of the Furstin. Spies were lurking everywhere; the sudden arrest of all those who discussed it anywhere except in their own rooms indicated the incredible extent of the eavesdropping. Similarly, no one was allowed to speak a word about the Furst, his sorrow, or about all his activities; and this tyrannical control was the greatest grievance of the inhabitants of any little town with a Resident Furst, who liked nothing better than to discuss their Furst and his court.

The Furst's favorite abode was a little country house with an extensive hedged-in park situated close to the city gates of Sonsitz.

One day, when the Furst was strolling along the gloomy, overgrown paths of the park, surrendering himself to the devastating sorrow which raged in his breast, he suddenly heard a peculiar noise close by. Inarticulate sounds-a moaning-a groaning-at times a repulsive squeaking-a grunting-and then curse words muttered as if in a choking rage. Furious at whoever had dared to enter the park in direct violation of the strictest prohibition, the Furst quickly stepped forth from the shrubbery and saw a sight that would have made the most morose Smelfungus burst out laughing. Two men, one tall and emaciated, the other a lively little Falstaff dressed in the very smart Sunday clothes of the typical townsman, were engaged in a violent fistfight. The tall man was jabbing with his long arms, his clenched fists not unlike maces, so mercilessly at the little man that further resistance seemed useless and nothing but quick flight advisable. Like the Parthians, the little man was about to flee while fighting courageously, when the tall one firmly seized his opponent's hair. A poor idea! The wig remained in his hand while the little one, strategically using the cloud of powder which encircled him, ducked quickly, and with outstretched fists darted in so nimbly and cleverly at the tall one that the latter somersaulted backwards with a piercing cry. Then the little one hurled himself on the tall one and, using the curled fingers of his left hand as a hook, clawed at his opponent's collar and, with his knees and his right fist, belabored him so mercilessly that the latter, purple as a cherry, uttered horrible sounds. But then the tall one dug his sharp fingers so powerfully into the little one's sides and with the strength of despair gave such a violent jerk that the little one was hurled into the air like a ball and landed on the ground right in front of the Furst.

"You dogs!" shouted the Furst in the voice of an enraged lion. "You dogs! What devil let you in? What are you up to?"

One can imagine the horror with which the two furious gymnasts picked themselves up from the ground and how they stood before the enraged Furst, like poor lost sinners, quaking and trembling, incapable of uttering a word or even a sound.

"Be gone!" cried the Furst. "Be gone at once. I will have you driven out with whips if you stay a moment longer!"

Then the tall one fell on his knees and roared in utter despair, "Your most Serene Highness-most Gracious Sovereign-justice- blood for blood!"

The word "justice" was still one of the few that affected the Furst's ear intensely. He looked at the tall one sharply and spoke more moderately. "What is it? Speak, but avoid all stupid words and make it brief."

The gentle reader may have already suspected that the two valiant warriors were none other than the two famous innkeepers of the Golden Ram and the Silver Lamb from Hobenfluh. Because of their ever-increasing animosity, they had come to the insane conclusion that since the wise Town Council had not been helpful, they should bring to the attention of the Furst all the wrongs that they imagined they had suffered from each other; and it so happened that both had arrived at the same moment before the outermost gate of the park, which a simple-minded gardener's boy had opened for them. From now on, both can be very conveniently designated by the names of their inns.

So-the Golden Ram, encouraged by the Furst's calmer question, was about to begin when such a fearful croaking and coughing fit attacked him, as a result of his having been half-choked, that he was unable to produce a single word.

The Silver Lamb promptly availed himself of this unfortunate occurrence and with great eloquence described all the harmful things the Golden Ram had done to him-enticing away all his customers by taking in all kinds of clowns, charlatans, prophets, and other rabble. He described the wise woman with the raven; he spoke of her despicable tricks, of the prophecies with which she was duping people. That seemed to capture the Furst's attention. He had the woman described from top to toe; he asked when she had come and where she was staying. The Lamb said that, for his part, he considered the woman nothing but a deceitful, half-mad gypsy, whom the wise Council in Hohenfluh ought to arrest.

The Furst directed a sparkling, penetrating glance at the poor Lamb, who immediately sneezed violently as if he had looked into the sun.

The Golden Ram profited from this, having meanwhile recovered from his coughing fit and having been waiting for the moment when he could interrupt the Lamb. The Ram reported in sweet and gentle sounding words that everything that the Lamb had said about his taking in dangerous, unauthorized rabble was the most disgraceful slander. The Ram especially praised the wise woman, whom the cleverest, most brilliant gentlemen, the greatest geniuses of Hohenfluh, gentlemen to whom he daily had the honor of serving dinner, claimed was a supernatural being to be respected more highly than the most trained somnambulists. Oh, but things were dreadful at the Silver Lamb. The Silver Lamb had enticed away from him a charming, handsome young gentleman when he had returned to Hohenfluh, and in the very next night a murderous attack had been made on him in his room, and he had been wounded by a pistol shot and was hopelessly ill.

In his rage, forgetting all caution and all respect for the Fiirst, the Silver Lamb cried out that the person who claimed that the young gentleman George Haberland had been attacked and wounded in his room was a most contemptible rascal and the most out-and-out scamp that ever wore leg-irons or swept the streets. Rather, the supurb police in Hohenfluh had ascertained that on that night he had been taking a walk by the Neudorfer Gate, that a carriage had stopped from which a feminine voice had called , "Save Natalie!" and that the young gentleman had then immediately sprung into the carriage.

"Who was the woman in the carriage?" asked the Furst in a severe voice.

"They say," stuttered the Golden Ram, just to be able to talk again, "they say that the wise woman - "

The words stuck in the Golden Ram's throat at the Furst's frighful expression; and when the latter asked in a deadly voice, "Well, What else?" the Silver Lamb, who was standing in the shade outside the path of those rays, interrupted, stammering, "Yes, the wise woman and the painter George Haberland - he was shot in the woods - the whole town knows that - they fetched him out of the woods and brought him to me early in the morning - he is still at my place - but he will probably recover because of the care he will receive at my place - and the strange Graf - the Graf Hektor von Zelies - "

"What? Who?" cried the Furst so loudly that the little silver Lamb recoiled a few steps. "Enough!" the furst then continued in a rough commanding voice. "Enough! Be off with you at once! Whoever serves his customers best will have the most trade. If I hear of the slightest quarreling between you two, the Council will tear down the signs from your houses and have you put out of the gates of Hohenfluh!"

After this brief, vigorous decree, the Furst left the two innkeepers and vanished quickly among the trees.

The Furst's anger had calmed their agitated tempers. Completely crushed, the little Silver Lamb and the Goldn Ram looked at one another sorrowfully, tears rolled from their gloomy eyes, and with the simultaneous cry "Oh godfather!" they fell in each other's arms. while the Golden Ram embraced the Silver Lamb tightly and, bending over, sprinkled the grass with floods of tears, the latter sobbed with bitter sorrow on the breast of his reconciled opponent. It was a sublime moment!

But the two royal gamekeepers who were hurrying thither did not seem to appreciate such emotional scenes, for without further ado they seized the Golden Ram as well as the Silver Lamb by their pinions, as one usually says, and threw them both out of the gate with anything but gentleness.

Though I've wandered hither thither
Over meadow, lea, and field,
I have only seen hopes wither
Only seen joys vanish thither
In the giddy, noisy world.
What can end his timid hoping?
What the pain that's in my heart?
Aching sorrow, bitter moping,
Useless striving, helpless groping-
Will all joy fore'er depart?

Will I ever hope be sharing?
Does a gleam still light my star?
Must I longer pain be bearing?
Won't my sorrow be declaring
If she's near or if she's far?
She who is my inner being,
She who is my joy always.
Lost in blissful, distant dreaming,
Drunk with love my eyes are gleaming,
Trembling in her eyes I gaze.

.My beloved, sweet, appealing,
Now has vanished in the night.
Will I never find true healing,
Never friendship's ease be feeling,
Has that vanished from My Sight?

Berthold, the copper engraver, while humming this song composed by his friend the painter George Haberland, was stretched out under a large tree on a slight rise and was trying to sketch accurately in his notebook a section of the village that lay below him in the valley.

At the final words, tears streamed from his eyes. He thought vividly of his friend, he whom he had often roused, by a cheerful word or by a lively discussion of art, from the depressed, desperate mood to which he had been succumbing for some time, and from whom an inexplicable misfortune had now separated him. "No," he cried finally, quickly packing up his equipment and leaping to his feet. "No, being consoled by your friend is not lost to you, George! I am off to seek you out and not to leave you until I see you in the lap of happiness and peace."

He hurried back to the village that he had left a few hours before and was about to continue on to Hohenfluh.

It was a Sunday. Evening was coming on; the country folk were hurrying to the taverns. An oddly dressed man marched into the village, blowing a merry march on a Papagenoflote which was braced on his chest, and vigorously beating a drum which was hung around his neck. An old gypsy woman, valiantly striking a triangle, followed him. Ahead of them, slowly and carefully, strode a stately donkey, laden with two fully packed baskets on which two cunning little monkeys were skipping about and frolicking. From time to time the man stopped blowing and began a peculiar, screeching song, in which the gypsy woman, straightening up a bit, joined with a piercing voice. When the donkey also joined in with his mournful brays, and the monkeys squeaked, everything combined to a cheerful, amusing chorus, as one can readily imagine.

The young man captured Berthold's entire attention, for it was evident that he was young, although his face was smeared with all kinds of ugly colors and was distorted by a huge doctorial wig on top of which rested a tiny little braided cap. He also wore a shabby red velvet coat with large, gold cloth facings, an open Hamlet collar, black silk britchies in the latest fashion, shoes with large, gaily colored rosettes, and an elegant sword hung at his side.

He was making funny faces and leaping around gaily, causing the peasants to laugh uproariously; but this person seemed to Berthold to be the mysterious ghost of insanity; and besides that, when he looked the crazy man in the eye, feelings which he could not explain seemed to arise within him.

The man finally stopped in the middle of the grassy square in front of the tavern and beat out a loud roll on his drum. At this signal the country folk formed a large circle, and the man announced that he was now going to produce before the honorable audience a spectacle as fine as any that potentates and gentlemen would get to see.

The gypsy woman then went around the circle offering coral beads, ribbons, and holy pictures for sale while making all sorts of nonsensical remarks and gestures, sometimes telling a fortune to this or that young girl by looking at her hand and sending the blood to her cheeks by talking about a fiance, a wedding, and a baptism, while the other girls giggled and laughed.

Meanwhile the young man had unpacked the basket, set up a small framework, and hung it with curtains. Berthold recognized preparations for a puppet play, which was then performed in the customary Italian manner. Punch was particularly lively and behaved very bravely, saving himself from dangerous situations with skill, and always getting the upper hand over his enemies.

The play seemed over when suddenly the puppeteer, with a fearfully distorted expression, stuck his head up into the puppet stage and stared out at the audience with lifeless, glazed eyes. Punch on one side and the doctor on the other seemed appalled at the sight of the gigantic head; then they recovered, carefully inspected the face through their spectacles, touched his nose, mouth, and forehead, which they could scarcely reach, and began a very deep, scholarly argument about the nature of the head and about the body to which it might be attached, and whether or not a body could be presumed to belong to it. The doctor advanced the most absurd hypotheses; Punch, on the other hand, showed a good deal of common sense and had the most amusing notions. Finally they both agreed that they could not assume that a body belonged to the head or that there was a body; but the doctor said that when Nature had created this monstrosity she was making use of a figure of speech, a synecdoche, in which a part is used for the whole. Punch, however, insisted that the head was an unfortunate fellow whose body got mislaid because of all his thinking and his crazy thoughts and who, completely lacking any fists, could defend himself from boxes on the ear and pokes in the nose only by cursing.

Berthold soon noticed that this was not the kind of joking that amuses curious folk, but that it was the dark spirit of the irony which arises in the person whose soul is at war with itself. His happy, friendly spirits could not endure it, so he went to the tavern and had a modest supper served at an isolated table.

Soon he heard drums, pipes, and triangles in the distance. The country folk were streaming toward the tavern; the play was over.

At the very moment when Berthold was about to continue his journey, the droll puppeteer rushed toward him with a loud cry.

"Berthold-my dearest brother!" He snatched the wig from his head and quickly wiped the makeup from his face.

"What! George! Is it possible?" Berthold stammered with effort, nearly paralyzed.

"What is the matter with you? Don't you know me?" George Haberland asked in astonishment. Berthold explained that unless he wished to believe in ghosts he could not doubt that it was his friend he was seeing, but he could not figure out how this could possibly be so.

"Didn't you come," continued Berthold, "didn't you come to Holienfluh as we had arranged? Didn't I meet you there-didn't something strange happen to you with a mysterious woman at the Golden Ram? Didn't unknown people want to use you to help carry off a girl whom you yourself called Natalie? Weren't you severely wounded by a pistol shot in the forest? Didn't I take my leave of you with a heavy heart when you were lying on your bed, weakened and mortally wounded? Didn't you speak about an inexplicable event--of a Graf Hektor von Zelies?"

"Stop! You are stabbing my soul with glowing daggers!" George cried with frenzied pain. "Yes," he then continued more calmly, "yes, brother Berthold, it is very certain that I have a second ego, a doppleganger who pursues me, who wishes to do me out of my life and rob me of my Natalie!"

Completely silenced by his misery, George sank onto the grassy bank.

Berthold sat down beside him and sang softly while he gently pressed his friend's hand:

Friendship's ease you'll soon be feeling,
It's not vanished from your sight.

"I understand you completely," said George, while drying the tears that streamed from his eyes. "I understand you completely, my dear brother Berthold! It is not right that I did not long ago open my heart to you, that I didn't tell you everything. You have long been able to guess that I am in love. The story of this love- it is so simple, so ordinary, that you can read about it in any insipid novel. I am a painter, and so it is in the ordinary course of events that I should fall deeply in love with a lovely young girl I was drawing. That really did happen to me during my stay in Strasbourg when I was doing a lot of bread-and-butter work-you know that by that I mean portrait painting. I acquired the reputation of being an excellent portraitist who could steal likenesses for miniatures right out of mirrors; and so it happened that an old lady who ran a pension turned to me and begged me to paint a young lady who was staying with her for a distant father. I saw, I painted Natalie. O ye eternal powers! My fate was sealed! Now truly, brother Berthold, there is nothing special in all that, is there? But do listen-much may still be of interest. Let me tell you that since my earliest childhood the picture of a divine woman, towards whom all desire and love were directed, has hovered in my dreams and presentiments. The crude attempts of the artistic boy reveal this picture, as do the more finished paintings of the maturing artist. It was Natalie! That is extraordinary, Berthold! I can also tell you that the same spark which inflamed me had also fallen in Natalie's breast so that we saw each other secretly. O love's vanished happiness! Natalie's father, Graf Hektor von Zelies' arrived; the little picture of his daughter pleased him; I was invited to paint him also. When the Graf saw me, he became strangely moved, I might say dismayed. He asked me with noticeable anxiety about the circumstances of my life, and then screamed rather than spoke, while his eyes gleamed, that he didn't want to be painted, but that I was a fine painter, that I should go to Italy immediately, and that he would give me money if I needed it!

"I go? I, Separate myself from Natalie? Well, there are ladders, bribable maids-we saw each other secretly. She was in my arms when the Graf entered. 'Ah, as I suspected!', screamed the Graf in a rage and rushed at me with a drawn dagger. Without his being able to stab me, I ran past him and escaped. The next day he had vanished with Natalie, without leaving a trace!

"It so happened that I came upon the gypsy woman, whom you saw with me today. She jabbered out such strange prophecies that I did not want to pay any attention to them, but to go my way. Then she spoke in a tone that penetrated my very soul, 'George, child of my heart, have you forgotten Natalie?' Whether witchcraft exists or not, at any rate the old woman knew about my love affair, knew exactly how everything had occurred, indicated that through her I would possess Natalie, and ordered me to arrive in Hohenfluh at a particular time, where I would find her, although in a quite different form. Well, Berthold, don't let me make too long a story of it -my breast was burning-a carriage rolled up to me-stopped- the riders were coming nearer-'Jesus,'cried a voice in the carriage -it was Natalie's voice-the riders turned aside. 'The danger is over,' I said and climbed into the carriage- At that moment a shot rang out-away we went! My suspicions had not deceived me-it was Natalie; it was the old gypsy woman-she kept her word."

"Happy George!" said Berthold.

"Happy?" repeated George, a wild laugh bursting forth. "While we were still in the forests, the military police caught up with us. I leapt out of the carriage, the gypsy woman after me. She seized me with her great strength and dragged me into the dark bushes-Natalie was lost. I was in a rage. The gypsy woman knew how to calm me, to convince me that resistance was impossible but that all hope was not yet lost. I trusted her blindly, and the way you see us here is her plan for escaping pursuit by a bloodthirsty enemy."

At that moment the old gypsy came up and said in a croaking voice, "George, the glowworm is already shining; we must away across the mountains."

It seemed to Berthold that the old woman was fraudulently deceiving George so as to trick him out of more money. Angrily he turned to the old woman and declared that he, as George's best friend, would no longer allow him to sacrifice his art for a filthy vagrant life and base tricks, and that George was to go with him to Italy; and he asked what claim she had on his sworn friend.

Then the old woman rose; her expression seemed to become ennobled; dark fire blazed from her eyes; and suddenly her whole being was dignity and majesty itself. She spoke in a firm, rich voice. "You ask me what claim I have on this youth? I know you very well. You are the engraver Berthold. You are his friend, but I-O ye eternal powers-I am-his mother!"

Then she clasped George in her arms and pressed him stormily to her breast. But suddenly a convulsive trembling overcame her; averting her head she pushed George away. Exhausted, half fainting, she slipped down on the grassy bank, whimpering while she veiled her face with the large cloak she had put around herself. "Do not stare at me so, George. Why do you constantly reproach me for my crime? You must go - go!"

"Mother!" cried George, hurling himself at the gypsy's feet.

She clasped him violently in her arms, sighing deeply, for she was incapable of words. She seemed to sink into a sleep. But soon she rose with an effort, spoke again, quite the gypsy, in a croaking voice: "George, the glowworm is already shining. We must away across the mountains!" and strode slowly away.

George hurled himself speechless on his friend's breast, whose tongue was tied by an astonishment that bordered on terror.

Soon Berthold heard the drumming, the piping, the ringing, the horrible singing, the donkey's braying, the monkeys' squeaking, and the shouts of the accompanying country folk, until everything died away in the far distance.

Foresters, who were roaming through the forest early in the morning, found young Deodatus Schwendy lying unconscious in his blood. Brandy, which they were carrying in hunting flasks, performed the service of recalling him to life. They bound up the wound in his breast as best they could, placed him in a carriage, brought him to Hohenfluh to the inn, the Silver Lamb.

The shot had only grazed his breast; the bullet had not penetrated him, and therefore the surgeon declared that there was no fear for his life, although the shock and night cold had produced a state of exhaustion. Powerful remedies, however, would soon ease that.

If Deodatus had not been able to feel pain in his wound, the whole inexplicable occurrence would have seemed to him like a dream. It seemed clear to him that the secret to which his father had referred in dark words had been about to reveal itself, but then some hostile being had interfered and destroyed his hopes. This hostile being-who else could it be but the painter George Haberland, who was so like him that he was everywhere confused with him.

"And what," he said to himself, "if Natalie, love's beautiful dream, who has always been a premonition in my life, should only belong to him, my unknown doppelggnger, my second ego; what if he should rob me of her, if all my desires, all my hopes, should remain forever unfulfilled?"

Deodaatus lost himself in mournful thoughts. Ever-thicker veils seemed to conceal his future; all his reveries faded; he realized that he could only hope for some chance event that might perhaps reveal secrets to him which were probably ominous, even dangerous, since his father, old Amadeus Schwendy, had not dared to reveal them to him.

The surgeon had just left Deodatus. He was alone when the door was quietly opened and a large man, wrapped in a cloak, came in. When he threw back the cloak, Deodatus immediately recognized the stranger whom he had met at the threshhold of the inn, the Golden Ram, and he guessed that he must be the same person who wrote him the inexplicable letter, namely, Graf Hektor von Zelies. It was he.

The Graf seemed to be making an effort to soften the somber, piercing glance which seemed peculiar to him, and he even forced himself to a certain friendliness.

"Probably," he began, "probably you are astonished to see me here, Herr Haberland, but you will be even more astonished when I explain to you that I am here to offer you peace and reconciliation in the event that certain conditions--"

Deodatus interrupted the Graf, assuring him vehemently that he was absolutely not the painter George Haberland, that there must be some unfortunate mistake which seemed to be about to hurl him into a labyrinth of enigmatical events. The Graf stared him in the face and then said, with a look in which the devil was smiling a little, "Did you not wish, my dear Herr Schwendy, or my dear Herr Haberland, or however you like to call yourself, to abduct Natalie?"

"Natalie, O Natalie!" sighed Deodatus from the depths of his soul."

"Aha," said the Graf with the most bitter anger. "You love Natalie very much, no doubt?"

"More," replied Deodatus, sinking back on his cot in weakness, "more than my life. She will be mine; she must be mine. Hope and desire glow in my innermost soul."

"What unheard of impertinence!" the Graf flared up in rage. "Why didn't the bullet hit-" Stopping suddenly, suppressing his anger with effort, the Graf, after a few moments of silence, continued with feigned calm, "You may thank your condition that I spare you; under other circumstances I would avail myself of laws that would destroy you. But I only demand now that you tell me immediately how it was possible for you to see Natalie in Hohenfluh."

The tone with which the Graf spoke filled Deodatus with very great resentment. Pulling himself together, in spite of his weakness, he sat up and spoke in a firm, manly tone. "It can only be the law of insolence, of which you believe you can avail yourself, when you force your way into my chamber and trouble me with questions that I cannot answer. You are completely unknown to me; I have never had anything to do with you and this Natalie, of whom you speak. Do you really know that she is the divine image who dwells in my heart? Neither in Hohenfluh nor anywhere else did my own eyes see the-but it is sacrilege to speak to you of secrets which I hide deep in my heart."

The Graf seemed to be overcome by amazement and doubt; he stammered scarcely audibly, "You have never seen Natalie? And when you painted her? What if this Haberland-this Schwendy-"

"Enough!" cried Deodatus. "Enough! Depart! I have nothing to do with the dark spirit which an insane error drives along behind me and which is aiming at my death. There are laws which protect against artful assassination. You understand me, Graf."

Deodatus rang the bell loudly.

The Graf clenched his teeth and measured Deodatus with a fearful glance.

"Take care," he spoke. "Take care, boy. You have an unlucky face-take care that your face does not displease another besides myself."

The door opened, and in came the little old plumpish gentleman with the golden snuffbox, whom the gentle reader has seen as a member of the wise Council at the innkeeper's table in the Golden Ram, and has heard arguing very cleverly.

The Graf retired through the door with a threatening gesture towards Deodatus, leaving so wildly and violently that the little Councillor and his entourage were astonished and amazed.

Behind the Councillor came a very tiny, deformed little person, who was carrying a large bundle of paper under his arm, and two summoners, who promptly placed themselves by the door as guards.

The Councillor greeted Deodatus with a serious official expression; with difficulty, the little man pushed a table near to the bed, placed his papers on it, took his writing materials out of his pocket, climbed up on a chair that had also been dragged over with difficulty, and placed himself in a posture for writing, while the Councillor sat down on a chair beside the bed and stared at Deodatus with wide open eyes.

Deodatus was impatient to know what this was all about. Finally the Councillor solemnly began: "Herr Haberland or Herr Schwendy, for you, sir, who are lying in bed before me, like to have two different names, notwithstanding that that is a luxury which no proper authority should permit. Well-I hope that you will not delay your arrest by useless lies, plots, and tricks, since the all- knowing Town Council is already very exactly informed about everything. For at this minute you are arrested as you can see by, among other thing, the stance of these loyal, honorable guards."

Deodatus asked in surprise what crime he was accused of and by what right he could be arrested, since he was a transient traveler.

But the Councillor charged that he had violated most horribly the gracious Furst's recently passed ban against duelling, by actually duelling in the forest, which the pistols found in his coat pocket adequately proved. So would he please, without further ado, name the impertinent opponent, as well as any possible seconds, and relate very nicely just what had happened from the beginning to the end.

In answer to this, Deodatus assured him calmly and firmly that it was not a question of a duel but of a murderous attack on his person. An incident that was incomprehensible to himself and would be even more so to a wise Council had led him to the forest, not at all by his own intent. The dangerous threats of a completely unknown persecutor were the cause of his having armed himself, and the wise Council would be better attending to its duty of maintaining peace and order if it investigated the murderous attack, rather than ordaining an arrest and investigation on a baseless suspicion.

Deodatus stuck to that story although the Councillor asked this and that; and when the latter wished to learn more about the facts of his life, Deodatus referred him to his pass, which, as long as there was no real basis for suspicion, would have to content the wise Council.

The Councillor wiped the sweat from his brow. Eager to write, the little man had repeatedly dipped his goose quill into the little inkpot and kept watching the Councillor. He seemed to be looking in vain for words. So the little man wrote boldly and read in a croaking voice, "Document, Hohenfluh, the - At the command of the local wise Council, the undersigned deputy had-"

"My dear Birdbrain," cried the Councillor, "divine actuary, the undersigned deputy had-the undersigned deputy-that's me- I had-"

It had been decided in the councils of Heaven that the undersigned deputy was not to complete his work, nor to sign, but rather to absolve Deodatus from the unfortunate accusation.

An officer of the Furst's bodyguard, accompanied by the innkeeper, entered and asked the latter whether Deodatus was really the young man who had been wounded in the forest. When the innkeeper affirmed it, the officer approached Deodatus' bed and explained to him with modest good manners that he had been commanded to bring George Haberland to the Furst at Sonsitz immediately. He hoped that his condition would not prevent this. At any rate, all the arrangements had been made so that the journey would not be detrimental to him, and in addition, the Furst's own physician would be constantly at his side.

Suddenly released from the errand that had made him perspire with fear, the Councillor, beaming, approached the officer and while making a submissive bow, asked whether he should perhaps have the prisoner handcuffed for safety's sake. The officer stared at him in surprise and asked whether the Councillor was out of his mind and what prisoner was he talking about? The Furst wished to talk to Herr Haberland to ascertain all the circumstances of an event that had aroused his anger. The Furst could not understand how a notorious assassin was allowed to pursue his trade in his country, especially so near Hohenfluh, and therefore was going to call to account the authorities who were responsible for the safety of the citizens.

One can imagine how this made the plump Councillor tremble; the little secretary quickly somersaulted down from his chair, whimpering that he was nothing but a poor, wretched actuary who would be in serious trouble if he ever uttered aloud the doubts which he had long harbored about the wisdom of the wise Council.

Deodatus protested, to obviate any mistake, that he was not the painter Haberland, whom he must greatly resemble, but was called Deodatus Schwendy and had come here from Switzerland, as he could prove to their satisfaction. The officer assured him that the name was not important since the Furst wanted to speak with the young man who had been wounded in the forest. Then Deodatus declared that, in that case, he was the one the Furst meant and that he felt strong enough to go to Sonsitz, since his wound was minor. The Furst's physician confirmed this. Deodatus was packed into the Furst's very comfortable carriage and was on his way to Sonsitz.

All of Hohenfluh became very excited when Deodatus was driven through the streets, and there was no end to their amazement, since it was quite unheard of that the Furst should have a stranger brought to Sonsitz. The people of Hohenfluh were even more astounded when they saw the two neighbors who had been mortal enemies for so many years, the innkeepers of the Golden Ram and the Silver Lamb, chatting together in a friendly way in the middle of the street on the so-called broad stone, even whispering intimately in each other's ears.

The gentle reader already knows how the Golden Ram and the Silver Lamb became reconciled, and the two found an even more effective reason for their sudden reconciliation in their common burning curiosity as to who the stranger could be to whom such an extraordinary thing was happening.

The raging,thunder had quickly vanished over the mountains on the wings of the storm and only muttered angrily in the far distance. The setting sun blazed through the dark bushes; and the thousand sparkling drops of crystal, as they were shaken from the branches, bathed themselves with delight in the warm surging air. The Furst was standing as if rooted to the ground in a place enclosed by Babylonian willows in the park at Sonsitz-with which the gentle reader is already acquainted. His arms were crossed, and he was looking up into the azure of the cloudless sky as if he wished to call back vanished hopes, and as if his life were lost to sorrow and pain. Then the officer of the guard, whom the Furst had sent to Hohenfluh, appeared. The Furst signalled patiently to him and commanded that the young man, whom the officer announced, be brought to him immediately and that a sedan chair be used for the purpose. All was done as the Furst commanded.

As soon as the Furst saw Deodatus, he seemed to be deeply moved, and involuntarily the words escaped him, "Oh God! My premonition! Yes-it is he!"

Deodatus got slowly up and was about to approach the Furst respectfully.

"Stay where you are!" cried the Furst. "Stay where you are. You are weak, exhausted. Your wound is perhaps more dangerous than you imagine. My curiosity will not be detrimental to you. Bring two armchairs."

The Furst said all this barely audibly and disjointedly; one could see that he was trying to master the storm that was raging within him.

When the armchairs had been brought, when Deodatus had sat down in one of them at the Furst's command, and when the others had withdrawn, the Furst paced up and down with growing agitation. Then he stopped in front of Deodatus. In the look with which he stared at him lay lacerating pain and deepest sorrow; and then all seemed to be submerged in the glow of a sudden flaming anger. An invisible, hostile power seemed to rise between him and Deodatus; and full of horror, the Furst recoiled and paced even more violently up and down again while secretly glancing at the youth, whose astonishment mounted with every second and who did not know how the scene, which constricted his heart, would end.

The Furst seemed to have to accustom himself to the sight of Deodatus; he finally pulled his chair a bit to one side, away from Deodatus, and sat down completely exhausted. Then he spoke in a subdued, almost gentle voice. "You are a stranger here, sir. You entered my country as a traveler. 'What concern are my affairs to a strange Furst, whose country I am passing through?' Thus you might ask-but perhaps, unknown to you, there are certain affairs, certain mysterious connections-but-enough. You have my royal word that it is not empty, childish curiosity, or any other improper intent, which forces me-but, I will, I must know everything!"

The Furst spoke the last words as he rose from the armchair in a flaming rage. But then, thinking better of it, he pulled himself together, sat down again, and spoke as gently as before. "Give me your complete confidence, young man, do not conceal any of your circumstances; tell me in particular where you came from and how you came to Hohenfluh and how your experiences in Hohenfluh are related to prior events. Most especially, I would like to know exactly what the wise woman-" The Furst hesitated, then he continued, as if composing himself, "It is silly, crazy nonsense-this illusion is an offspring of hell, or-well-speak, young man, speak openly, no secret, no lie-"

The Furst, about to leap violently up again, quickly composed himself and did not utter the word that was on his tongue.

From the deep emotion which the Furst was trying in vain to suppress, Deodatus could easily see that there were secrets here in which the Furst himself was involved and which might be a threat to him.

Deodatus, for his part, could see no reason for not being as forthright as the Furst demanded, and he began to tell about his father, about the years of his boyhood and of his youth, and about his lonely life in Switzerland. He related how his father had sent him to Hohenfluh and had indicated in mysterious phrases that the turning point in his life would occur there, that he himself would feel inspired to a deed which would decide his fate. He accurately told everything that had taken place with the wise woman and the strange Graf.

Several times the Furst expressed the liveliest astonishment, and he leaped up as in a sudden fright when Deodatus mentioned the names of Natalie and the Graf von Zelies.

Deodatus had finished his story; the Furst remained silent, his head bowed in thought; then he arose, rushed to Deodatus, and cried, "Oh, the villain! The bullet was to pierce this breast; he wanted to kill the last hope, to destroy you-you, my-"

A flood of tears choked the Furst; full of sorrow and pain, he embraced Deodatus and pressed him violently to his breast.

Then suddenly, as before, the Furst recoiled in horror and cried, his clenched fist stretched out, "Away, away, you serpent, you who wish to nest in my heart-away! You satanic phantom, you shall not kill my hopes, you shall not destroy my life!"

Then a distant, strangely somber voice called, "Hope is death! Life the cruel sport of the dark powers!" Croaking, a black raven fluttered off into the shrubbery.

The Furst fell to the ground unconscious. Too weak to assist him, Deodatus called loudly for help. The physician declared the Furst had had a stroke and was in critical condition. Deodatus did not know what ineffably painful feeling of deepest pity surged in his breast; he knelt beside the stretcher on which the Furst had been placed, kissed his shriveled, limp hand, and wet it with his ears. The Furst became conscious; his eyes, which had been fixed as in death, acquired their power of vision again. He saw Deodatus, waved him away, and cried with trembling lips that could scarcely be understood, "Away-away!"

Deeply shaken by the scene that seemed to touch the roots of his life, Deodatus was close to fainting; and the doctor found his condition so serious that it was not thought advisable to take him back to Hohenfluh.

The physician said that even if the Furst had expressed the wish that the young man should go away, for the moment he could be cared for in a distant wing of the manor house; and there could be no concern that the Furst would find out about this, for he would not be allowed to leave his room for a long time. Deodatus was actually so exhausted that he was incapable of any desire or even of resistance, and he was glad to remain at the Furst's estate.

It had been quiet and dreary at the manor house before, but now that the Furst was ill the silence of the grave reigned, and Deodatus knew that others were there only when a servant took care of his needs or the surgeon visited him. This monastic solitude was beneficial to Deodatus, who had been assaulted on all sides, and he thought of the Furst's manor as an asylum in which he was saved from the menacing secret that threatened to trap him.

In addition, the bare but friendly and comfortable arrangements of the two little rooms which he occupied and the marvelous view from the windows which he enjoyed contributed to the beneficial feeling of ease that cheers up the gloomiest spirits. He could see the loveliest part of the park, at the end of which, on a hill, were the picturesque ruins of an old castle. Behind them loomed the blue peaks of the distant mountains.

Deodatus used the time, when he had become calmer and the surgeon permitted him such activity, to write his old father in detail about everything that had happened to him. He entreated him not to remain silent any longer about what lay ahead of him in Hohenfluh, but to put him in the position of being informed about his own situation so that he could arm himself against the wiles of unknown enemies.

A small section of the main building of the tumble-down castle, the ruins of which Deodatus could see from his window, still stood almost intact. This section adjoined a built-out alcove which hung out airily like a swallow's nest because the other side of the main wall had fallen in. Deodatus ascertained with his spyglass that this alcove was covered with shrubs that pushed through the cracks in the walls and formed a leafy roof that was lovely to see. Deodatus thought that it must be quite livable there, although it seemed impossible to climb up to it because the steps had collapsed. Deodatus was all the more astounded, when he looked out of the window one night, to see quite clearly in the alcove a light that vanished again after an hour. Not only that night, but also during the following nights, Deodatus observed the light; and one can imagine that the young man, who was already entangled in inexplicable secrets, assumed that this was another portentous adventure.

He shared his observation with the surgeon, who said, however, that the appearance of a light in the alcove could have a natural explanation. In that undamaged part of the main building, on the ground floor, there were several rooms that had been fixed up for the gamekeeper who had charge of the royal park. Although he was convinced from frequent inspection of the ruins that one could not climb up to the alcove, at least not without danger, still it was possible that the huntsmen had climbed up to that swallow's nest to carry on their affairs undisturbed.

Deodatus was not at all satisfied with this explanation; he vividly imagined some intrigue that was hidden in the castle ruins.

The doctor finally allowed Deodatus to wander through the park at dusk, but he was to take great care to avoid that part which could be seen from the windows of the room where the ailing Furst was living. The Furst had recovered to the extent that he was able to sit at the window and look out; and Deodatus would not escape his sharp eyes and would, if discovered, unquestionably have to leave. At least, the doctor had to assume this from the way the Furst had previously waved the young man away with an expression of abhorrence.

As soon as the doctor had given him his freedom, Deodatus at once walked over to the ruined castle. He met the gamekeeper, who acted very surprised at seeing him; and when Deodatus told him everything-how he had got there and what had happened- the former said quite bluntly that the gentlemen who had installed him in the manor without the Fiirst's prior knowledge were playing a daring game. If the Furst should find out anything about it, it might be that he would throw the young gentleman out of his sanctuary and all his protectors after him.

Deodatus wanted to see the interior, undamaged part of the castle; but the gamekeeper dryly assured him that this was not possible, since a rotten ceiling or a piece of the wall could cave in at any moment, and in addition, the steps were so rotten that there was no safe way to climb up, and one ran the danger of breaking one's neck any moment. But when Deodatus told the gamekeeper that he had often seen a light in the alcove, the latter replied in a coarse, rude tone that that must simply be a mistake and that the young gentleman would do well not to bother about anything but himself and not to go out snooping. He could thank heaven that he, the gamekeeper, had pity on him and didn't go immediately to the Furst and tell him at once how his express command had been disobeyed.

Deodatus could see that the gamekeeper was trying to conceal a certain embarrassment by his rudeness. Deodatus found his suspicion that a secret lay hidden here confirmed when, crossing the castle courtyard, he saw, in a rather concealed corner of the wall, a narrow, wooden outside stair that had been built recently and that seemed to lead to the upper floor of the main building.

The Furst's illness, which became more and more critical, aroused not a little dismay and concern. The gentle reader has already learned that the Furst's consort and the child she had born had vanished in a mysterious way. The Furst was therefore without an heir, and his successor to the throne was a younger brother who had made himself hated by the court and the people by his arrogant behavior and his many vicious inclinations which he insolently indulged. A dim rumor accused him of the vilest treason against the Furst and suggested this as the reason why he had had to leave the country without anyone knowing his present secret whereabouts.

The people of Hohenfluh racked their brains wondering what would happen when the Furst died. They trembled at the thought of the tyrannical brother and wished him at the bottom of the sea.

There was a lot of talk about this at the dinner table in the Golden Ram; everyone gave his opinion, and the well-known Councillor stated that a wise Council could take over a bit of the government of the country along with the government of the town until something else turned up. An old man, withdrawn and silent for a long time, spoke next, in a tone of deepest emotion: "What bitter troubles are coming to our poor country; some unheard of doom has seized the best of Fiirsts and robbed him of all life's happiness, all peace of soul, until he has finally succumbed to the terrible pain. We have everything to fear from his successor, and the only man who can stand as firm as a rock in the ocean, who would be our refuge and our salvation, has gone!"

Everyone knew that the old man meant none other than Graf von Torny, who had left the court soon after the Furstin vanished.

Graf Torny was an excellent man in all respects. He combined the noblest spirit, the liveliest sense of everything that was good and beautiful, with the sharpest intelligence and the most flexible brilliance which wishes only what is right and has the power to achieve it. He was the protector of the oppressed, the indefatigable pursuer of the oppresser. It was inevitable that the Graf not only won the Furst's love but also the love of the people; and only a very small section of them dared to credit the rumor that pictured him as guilty and which the Furst's brother, who hated the Graf from the bottom of his heart, haamade every effort to spread.

With one voice, everyone at the dinner table cried, "Graf Torny, our noble Graf Torny! Oh, were he only with us in our hour of need!"

The Graf's health was drunk. As they went on to talk about the Furst's critical illness, it was natural that they should recall the young man in whose presence the Furst suffered a stroke.

The clever Councillor suspected the most dreadful things. It was certain, he said, that the young man who had been foolish enough to try to deceive the wise Council about his person with two diverse names, had been a rascal of the highest order, one who had evil purposes in mind.

It was not for nothing that the Furst had had him brought to Sonsitz, to his manor house, to question him about all sorts of hellish plots; and the officer's politeness, the comfortable carriage, the doctor, had all been a mask to keep the criminal happy and cheerful so that he would confess everything immediately. The Furst would certainly have succeeded if the cold damp night air had not brought on a stroke and if the young man had not used the confusion to escape quickly. He only wished that the good-for- nothing would shotv up again in Hohenfluh, because he would not escape the justice of the wise Council a second time. The Councillor had just finished saying this when the young man about whom they were talking entered, greeted the company silently and solemnly and sat down at the table.

"A right good welcome, my dear Herr Haberland," said the innkeeper, who could not share the Councillor's bad opinion. "A right good welcome! Well- You don't feel any hesitancy about appearing in Hohenfluh again?"

The young man seemed to be very surprised by the innkeeper's address. Then the plump little Councillor struck an attitude and began very solemnly, "Sir, I hereby declare to you-," but then the young man looked him right in the eye with such a sharp and pene- trating glance that he hesitated and, bowing automatically, stuttered, "Your most obedient servant."

The gentle reader may have already observed that there are people who will immediately bow with guilty humility if one looks them straight in the eye.

The young man ate and drank without saying a word. An oppressive, expectant silence lay over the whole company.

The old man, who had spoken earlier, finally addressed the young man, asking him if the wound in his breast, which he had received in the forest near Hohenfluh, was already completely healed. The young man replied that he must mistake him for someone else, since he had never been wounded in the breast.

"I understand," continued the old man, grinning slyly. "I understand, Herr Haberland. You have recovered completely and do not wish to talk any more about that unpleasant occurrence. But since you were present when our good Furst suffered a stroke, you will best be able to tell us how it happened and what there is to hope or fear for his condition."

The young man replied that this was the same mistake, since he had never been at Sonsitz, nor had he ever seen Fiirst Remigius. But he had heard about the Furst's illness and wished to learn the details.

Perhaps, said the old man, Herr Haberland did not wish or was not allowed to speak much about his stay at the Furst's, perhaps rumor had distorted much that had occurred at Sonsitz, but so much was certain: the Furst had had the young man, who had been wounded here, and whom he, the old man, had to assume was Herr Haberland, brought to Sonsitz, and the Furst had suffered a stroke during his private conversation with this same young man. The servants who had withdrawn nearby had heard a strange, hollow voice cry, "Hope is death! Life the cruel sport of the dark powers!"

The young man sighed deeply, his color changed, everything betrayed deep inner turmoil. He dashed down several glasses of wine, ordered a second bottle, left the room. Dinner was over. The young man did not return. The doorkeeper had seen him hurrying to Neudorfer Gate. Payment for the dinner lay on his plate.

Then the Councillor became very officious, spoke of pursuit, warrants, etc., but the old man reminded him of a great occasion when he got his knuckles rapped by the state authorities for untimely activity over a similar instance and said it would be better not to bother any more about the young man and to leave the matter alone.

The entire company seconded this opinion, and the Councillor really did let the matter rest.

While this was going on in Hohenfluh, Haberland's doppelganger, young Deodatus Schwendy, had stepped into a new magical cycle of dangerous intrigue.

Early one evening, when he was standing in front of the mysterious alcove and was looking up at the concealed window with a longing that he himself could not explain, it seemed to him as if he saw a white figure; at the same moment a stone dropped at his feet. He picked it up and unwrapped the paper which was around it. He found the following words, scribbled in pencil, in a scarcely legible script.

George-my George! Is it possible? Am I deceived by my aroused senses? You, here! O ye eternal heavenly powers! My father lies in these ruined walls as if in ambush-alas, brooding only evil! Fly, fly, George, before father's anger reaches you! But no-stay-I must see you-a single moment of blissful rapture, then fly! Father is away until midnight. Come! Cross the castle yard-the wooden stairs! But no; that is impossible. The gamekeeper's men-and if they are asleep, the dogs will attack you. On the South side, there is another stair which leads to the rooms, but it is rotten and broken. You must not venture it, but I will come down. O George, what can all of Hell's craftiness accomplish compared with a loving heart. Natalie is yours-yours forever!

"It is she," cried Deodatus, quite beside himself. "There is no longer any doubt. Yes, it is she, the dream of the boy, the passionate longing of the young man! Away to her! Never to leave her again! My father's dark secret shall be made clear! But-is it I? Am I George?"

Like a mortal cramp, the thought seized Deodatus that it was not he, that it was that unknown doppelonger whom Natalie loved and whom she believed to have found again. And yet-thus the burning passion reasoned in his heart-and yet could it not be the doppelgdnger who is deceiving her, can it not be I to whom she belongs, to whom secret bonds hold her? Away to her!

As soon as night had come, Deodatus slipped out of his room. He heard voices whispering in the park not far from the manor house, and he ducked behind a bush. Two men wrapped in cloaks passed close by him.

"Therefore," said one of them, "therefore, the doctor thought today that the Furst could last a long time?"

"So it is, Your Grace," replied the other.

"Well," continued the first, "one must try other means-"

The words were no longer audible. Deodatus raised himself. The full light of the moon fell on the speaker's face. With horror, Deodatus recognized Graf Hektor von Zelies.

Trembling from the thought that a black fiend, that death, was lurking in the darkness, and at the same time driven by an irresistible force, by a burning passion, by a fierce desire, Deodatus crept away. By the light of the moon he found the dilapidated steps on the south side, but he was almost in despair after he had climbed a few steps and realized the impossibility of continuing in the blackness that now surrounded him. Suddenly a light from the building shone towards him. He climbed all the way up the stairs, though not without danger, and came'into a high, wide hall. The charming image of his dreams stood before him, blinding in her beauty and grace. "Natalie!" cried Deodatus and hurled himself at the feet of the glorious woman.

Natalie murmured melodiously, "My George!" and embraced the youth. Not a word-only a glance, only a kiss, the language of hot, stormy passion.

Then Deodatus cried in the madness of a mortal anguish and a fervent rapture, "Mine-you are mine, Natalie! Believe in my ego. I know that my doppelganger wanted to smash your heart, but he hit me-it was only a bullet, the wound is healed, and my ego lives. Natalie, just tell me if you believe in my ego, otherwise death will seize me right before your eyes. I am not called George, but I am still my own ego and none other."

"Alas," cried Natalie, releasing the youth from her embrace. "George, what are you talking about? But, no, no! A hostile fate has confused your senses! Be calm, be completely my George."

Natalie opened her arms and Deodatus embraced her, pressed her to his breast as he cried, "Yes, Natalie, I am the one, I am the one you love. Who will dare, who can tear me from this heavenly rapture! Natalie-let us fly, let us fly-away-so my doppelganger cannot catch you-fear nothing-It is my ego that will kill him!"

At that moment muffled steps were heard, and "Natalie! Natalie!" echoed through the high room.

"Away!" cried Natalie, pushing t 'he youth towards the stairs and handing him a lamp that she had brought along. "Away, or we are lost. My father has come. Come again tomorrow at the same time. I will follow you."

Half unconscious, Deodatus clambered down the stairs. It was a miracle that he did not fall down the dilapidated steps. At the bottom he extinguished the lamp and threw it into the shrubbery. He had scarcely gone a few steps when he was seized from behind by two men who hurried him away, lifted him into a wagon that was standing before the gate, and drove off with him at a furious gallop.

Deodatus might have been riding for an hour when the wagon stopped in the thick of the forest in front of a charcoal-burner's hut. Men with torches stepped from the hut and begged the youth to get out of the carriage, which he did. A stately old man came quickly towards him, and Deodatus fell on his breast, crying "My father! "

"I have saved you," said old Amadeus Schwendy, "I have saved you from the snares of trickery and malice, I have snatched you from death, by dear son! That which is secret will soon be revealed; what you could not even surmise will soon be made clear."

The Furst awoke very early in the morning from a deep and peaceful sleep. He seemed refreshed, his illness broken, and he impatiently demanded his doctor. The latter was not a little surprised when the Furst gently ordered him to bring the young man to him who he knew very well was concealed in the manor house.

The doctor tried to excuse his action, explaining that the con- dition of the young man required quiet and the most careful medical treatment, but the Furst interrupted him with the assurance that there was no need for any excuses since he, the doctor, had unintentionally done him a very great service. Besides, the young man's presence had only been revealed to him yesterday by the gamekeeper.

But Deodatus had vanished without a trace; and when the Furst learned that, he became visibly upset. He repeated several times, in the most pained voice, "Why did he run away? Why did he run away? Didn't he know that foolishness yields in the face of death?"

At the Furst's command, the President of the State Council came, as well as the President of the High Court and two Councillors. The doors were locked immediately; one could assume that the Fiirst was making his will.

On the following day the somber sound of the bells announced to the inhabitants of Sonsitz the death of the Furst, who had peacefully passed away following a second stroke.

The State Council, the highest officials, gathered at the castle; the Furst's last will was to be opened, since it could be rightfully presumed that, there being no heir, directions would be contained in it as to how the state government was to be carried on, at least for the present.

The solemn act was about to begin when the Furst's long-lost younger brother suddenly arrived, as if evoked by magic, and declared that he, as reigning Furst, had sole command and that all the Furst's arrangements that in any way diminished the brother's right to the throne were and must remain null and void; therefore, there was no need to hurry and open the will.

Furst Isidor's unexpected appearance was a baffling riddle to everybody, for no one knew that Furst Isidor, changed by age and disguised by false hair and make-up, had been living in the principality and that during the most recent days had been lurking in the ruined castle waiting for his brother's death.

Immediately after he had left the principality of Reitlingen so long ago, he had assumed the name Graf Hektor von Zelies and had skillfully erased all traces of where he had been.

The President of the State Council, a worthy old man, looking Furst Isidor straight in the eye, assured him that he could not consider the brother entitled to the throne until after the opening of the last testament of Furst Remigius. Certain secrets might be revealed which would change matters.

The President spoke the last sentence in a loud voice, and Furst Isidor suddenly turned pale.

The will was then opened with the usual ceremonies, and everyone except Furst Isidor was happily astonished at the contents. The Furst explained that the mere suspicion of unfaithfulness, which an evil villain had known how to arouse in him, had caused him to do a wicked injustice to his virtuous wife by repudiat- ing her and the child and locking them up in a distant castle on the border. She had escaped from there, and he had never been able to find even the slightest trace of her. Thanks to the heavenly powers, he had found his son, for he had the deepest conviction that the young man with the name Deodatus Schwendy, who had been brought to him, was -none other than his son whom he had cast out in a satanic delusion. Graf von Torny could remove any doubt about the identity of the young man, for he had saved the boy and raised him as Amadeus Schwendy in complete concealment in a manor house near Lucerne. It was self-evident that the wicked suspicion that he had harbored in regard to the legitimacy of his son did not obtain. The rest of the will was filled with expressions of the deepest repentance, of assurances that all suspicions were erased from his mind; and he directed warrn paternal words to his son and future ruler.

Furst Isidor looked around with amused scorn and said then that all that was based on the dying Furst's dream and that he did not at all intend to sacrifice his well-earned rights to insane fantasies. At any rate, the so-called heir to the throne was not there, and it would depend a great deal on what Graf von Torny would say and how he would succeed in explaining all the circumstances mentioned by the Furst in such a credible way that no doubt could arise about the young man who had suddenly dropped from Heaven as an heir to the throne and who was, perhaps, an adventurer. For the moment, therefore, he would ascend the throne immediately.

Furst Isidor had scarcely spoken these words when old Amadeus Schwendy, or rather Graf von Torny, came in, very dignified, richly clothed, a sparkling star on his breast and leading by the hand a young man who had been thought to be his son Deodatus Schwendy. All eyes were directed at the young man; all cried in one voice, "It is the Furst, it is the Furst!"

The day's miracles were still not exhausted, for as soon as Graf von Torny began to speak, the jubilant shouts of the people in the streets were heard. "Long live the Furstin! Long live the Furstin!" resounded; and soon a tall, majestic woman strode into the hall followed by a young man.

"Is it possible?" cried Graf von Torny, quite beside himself. "Is it not a dream? The Furstin-yes, it is the Furstin whom we believed lost!"

"Oh happy day, oh blessed moment-mother and son are found!" cried the entire gathering.

"Yes," said the Furstin. "Yes, the death of an unhappy husband restores to you, loyal people, a Furstin, and even more! Behold the son whom she bore, behold your Furst, your sovereign!"

Then she led the youth who had come with her to the middle of the hall. The young man who had come with Graf von Torny strode quickly toward him; and the two, not only resembling each other, but the one the doppelgainger of the other in features, build, gestures, etc., stopped in horror and remained rooted to the floor.

This might well be the place to tell the gentle reader everything that had occurred at the court of Furst Remigius.

Furst Remigius had grown up with Graf von Torny; both felt firmly bound to each other, being similar in intelligence and nobility of spirit, and so it came to pass that when the Furst ascended the throne the friend who was closest to his heart, whom he could not desert, became first in the government after him. The gentle reader has already learned that the Graf had won love and confidence everywhere.

Both the Furst and Graf von Torny had fallen in love at the same time while on a visit to a neighboring court, and it just so happened that Princess Angela, whom the Furst had chosen, and Grafin Pauline, whom the Graf loved, had been from childhood equally closely bound together in love and friendship. They celebrated their nuptials on the same day, and nothing in the world seemed able to destroy a happiness that had its base deep in their hearts.

A dark fate decreed otherwise!

The more the Furstin saw Graf Torny, the more clearly was his inner being revealed to her and the more strongly and wonderfully she felt attracted to the splendid man. Possessing the purest, most divine virtue, the most irreproachable faithfulness, the Furstin discovered finally, to her horror, that she was being consumed by a flaming passion. She thought and felt only for him; a mortal emptiness was in her heart when she did not see him; all of heaven's raptures filled her when he came, when he spoke! Separation or flight were not possible, and yet the fearful state of wrestling with her burning passion was unendurable. If often seemed as if she must breathe out her love and with it her life on the bosom of her girlhood friend. Bathed in tears, she convulsively clasped the Grafin in her arms and spoke in a lacerating voice, "You blessed woman! Paradise glows for you, but my hopes are death!"

The Grafin, who was far removed from suspecting what was occurring in the Furstin's heart, felt so deeply stricken by the Fiirstin's nameless pain, that she mourned with her and wept and also wished for death, so that the Graf was not a little concerned about the sudden melancholy of his formerly cheerful wife.

Since their earliest childhood, hysteria, bordering on the neu- rotic, had been observed at times in both the Furstin and the Grafin; the doctors, therefore, with perfect justice, felt that they could ascribe all these strange attacks, which were particularly noticeable in the Furstin, to the condition in which the two women found themselves. They were both with child.

By a strange quirk of fate-or it might be called by a miraculous doom-both the Furstin and the Grafin bore sons in the same hour, actually at the same moment. That was not all! Week by week and day by day the two babies developed such a complete similarity, such a complete likeness, that it was quite impossible to distinguish them. Both clearly had Graf von Torny's features. Even if this could be chance or an illusion, the quite superior formation of the skull and a small moon-shaped mole on the left temple affirmed the complete similarity.

Hostile mistrust and evil suspicion, which always live in a degenerate heart, had betrayed the Furstin's secret to Furst Isidor. He made every effort to inject the same poison into the Furst's mind, but the Fiirst dismissed him with scorn. But then the moment arrived which seemed appropriate to Furst Isidor to renew his attacks on Graf von Torny and also on the Furstin, both of whom he mortally hated, since they constantly resisted his evil influence.

The Furst vaccillated, for the mere resemblance of the child to Graf von Torny would never have forced him to any kind of horrible decision, if the Fiirstin's behavior had not been decisive.

The Furstin found no peace. She mourned day and night as if lacerated by the deepest pain, by a nameless torment. Sometimes she covered the child with the tenderest kisses, sometimes she put it down, her face averted with an expression of the deepest aversion. "Just God, you punish my sin so severely!" Several people had heard the Furstin cry and could not but interpret it as referring to an illicit deed which was being bitterly repented.

Several months passed; finally the Furst came to a decision. During the night he had the mother and child removed to a barren, rernote castle on the border, and he dismissed Graf von Torny from court. His brother, also, the sight of whom the Furst found unendurable, had to leave.

Only the spirit had sinned; earthly desires had had no part; faithfulness stood firm; but the Furstin considered even the sin of the spirit a punishable crime for which only deepest repentance could atone.

Living in the desolate castle, the strictness of the guard, everything contributed to bringing the Furstin's convulsive condition to near madness.

Then one day a gypsy troop arrived with their gay songs and camped right next to the castle walls.

It seemed to the Furstin as if thick veils had suddenly slipped away and she could see out into a bright and varied life. Ineffable longing filled her breast. "Away! Away into the outer world! Take me! Take me!" she cried as she stretched out her arms through the open window. A gypsy woman seemed to understand her, for she waved to her cheerily, and quick as a flash a gypsy boy scrambled up the walls. The Furstin took her child, ran downstairs; the door was open. The gypsy boy quickly lifted the child over the wall. The Furstin stood sadly by the wall, unable to scale it. But immediately a rope ladder was let down, and in a few seconds she was free.

The gypsy band greeted her jubilantly, for in their superstition they saw in the noble lady who had escaped from her prison a lucky star that had risen for them. "Aha," said an old gypsy woman. "Don't you see how the royal crown sparkles on her brow? Such a glow can never be extinguished."

The gypsies' wild, nomadic life, their practice of black lore and mysterious arts, were beneficial to the Furstin; and she became reconciled with life, for her eccentricities that bordered on insanity were permitted free expression. The gypsies cleverly arranged for the baby to be cared for by an old pious country priest. It need scarcely be said that it was the Furstin who had appeared as the wise woman with the raven after she had become calmer and had left the gypsies. This also explains why Furst Isidor believed the painter George Haberland and the young Deodatus Schwendy to be one and the same person-namely, the young Furst-and tried every possible way to get rid of him, since only he could supersede him in claiming the throne.

It is remarkable that both Haberland and Schwendy ha been dreaming for a long time of the beloved creature who then came into their lives. It is remarkable that this person was Natalie, the daughter of Fiirst Isidor, and that both Graf von Torny and the Furstin viewed her as chosen to end the reign of the unknown doom by her union with the Furst, and that both had, therefore, used all means at their disposal to unite a pair whom, they believed, a mysterious force had predestined for each other.

You now know how all the plans came to nought because the doppelgaingers' paths crisscrossed each other. You also know how all those who had been banished by the Furst's commands, gathered together again near him when he became mortally ill.

So-stiff with horror, rooted to the floor, the doppelgangers faced each other. An oppressive uneasiness lay on the company; each searched his heart, wondering, "Which one is the Furst?"

Graf von Torny broke the silence, calling with painful happiness to the young man who had come in behind the Furstin, "My son! "

The Furstin's eyes gleamed with fire, and she said with shattering dignity, "Your son, Graf von Torny? And who is he who stands beside you? The thief of the throne that belongs to the one I nourished at my breast?"

Furst Isidor turned to the gathering and said that, since complete uncertainty obtained about the person of the young Furst and heir, it was only natural that neither of the pretenders could ascend the throne, and that it depended on which of the two could best establish proof as to the legitimacy of his birth.

Graf von Torny assured everyone that such a procedure was not at all necessary since he was in the position to convince the gathering in a few minutes that his progeny was the son of the deceased Furst Remigius and therefore the legitimate heir.

Graf von Torny related the following to the gathering.

The intimate servants of Furst Remigius were too devoted to the Graf not to have informed him of the Furst's decision, even to the moment that was set for removing the Furstin and her child. The Graf was aware of the danger to which the heir was exposed, the confusion which the resemblance of the child to his could in some future time occasion, and the misfortune which could occur after the Furst's death. He decided to take preventive measures.

He succeeded in entering the Furstin's antechamber late in the night, accompanied by two trusty councillors, by the guardian of the secret archives, by the doctor, by the surgeon, and by an old valet. The old nurse, who had also been made privy to the plan, brought the child in while the Furstin slept. The surgeon burned a little mark on the left breast of the child, which lay in a slumber induced by narcotics; then Graf Torny took the child and handed his own to the nurse. A precise document was drawn up describing all the circumstances and containing a drawing of the brand mark. The document was signed by all present, sealed, and handed over to the archivist to keep in the royal secret archives.

Thus it was that Graf Torny's son was taken away with the Furstin and the young Furst was raised by the Graf von Torny as his own son.

His wife, the Grafin, bowed with sorrow and inconsolable at the evil fate of her bosom friend, died shortly after their arrival in Switzerland.

Of the people present at the time of the deposition, the surgeon, the archivist, the nurse, the valet still lived and were at the castle as arranged by Graf von Torny.

The archivist produced the document, which was opened in the presence of the above mentioned persons and read aloud by the President of the State Council.

The young Furst bared his breast; the mark was found; all doubts vanished; and lusty cheers echoed from the hearts of the loyal vassals.

Furst Isidor had left with an expression of very deep anger while the document was being read. When the Furstin found herself alone with Graf von Torny and the two young men, she felt no longer able to conceal the multitude of emotions in her heart. She threw herself stormily on the Graf's breast and cried, as if dissolved in painful rapture, "Oh, Torny! You cast off your son, your child, to save the one that I bore! But I am returning your lost son to you! Oh, Torny, we no longer belong to the earth, no earthly sorrow has power over us from this time forth! Let us enjoy Heaven's peace and blessedness! A conciliated spirit hovers over us! But what have I forgotten! The blessed bride is waiting!"

The Furstin went into a side room and returned with Natalie, who was dressed as a bride. Incapable of speech, the young men had been staring at each other with glances reflecting a sinister fear. At the very moment the young men saw Natalie, a burning flame seemed to animate them. With a loud "Natalie!" both rushed to the angelic child. But a deep horror seized Natalie when she saw the two youths, a double image of the beloved whom she carried in her heart.

"Ha!" cried the raging young Torny. "Ha, Furst! Are you a doppelganger come from Hell who has stolen my ego, who is plotting to steal my Natalie and to snatch my life from my lacerated breast? Vain, mad thought! She is mine, mine!"

The young Furst replied, "Why are you thrusting into my ego? What do I have to do with you that you ape my features, ape my figure! Away with you! Natalie is mine!"

"Choose, Natalie!" cried Torny. "Speak! Did you not pledge me your troth a thousand times in those blissful hours when I painted you, when-"

"Ha!" the Furst interrupted. "Think of that hour in the ruined castle when you wanted to follow me-"

And then they both cried together, "Choose, Natalie, choose!" Then one said to the other. "Let's see which one succeeds in getting rid of the doppelganger-you shall bleed-bleed, if you are not a satanic illusion of Hell!"

Then Natalie cried in sorrowful tones of utter despair, "Just God, who is it, which of the two do I love? Has my heart broken and yet can live? just God-let me die, die in this moment-" Tears choked her voice. Then she bowed her head, held both hands before her face as if she wished to look into her own heart. She sank on her knees, raised her tear-stained face and her folded hands as if praying fervently, and spoke softly in a tone of deepest anguish, "Renounce!"

"It is the angel," said the Furstin with transfigured rapture. "It is the angel of eternal light who is speaking to you."

The young men were still staring at each other, fire in their eyes. Then suddenly a flood of tears poured from their eyes, they fell in each other's arms, they pressed one another to their hearts and stammered, "Yes! Renounce-renounce-forgive-forgive me, brother-"

Then the Furst said to young Torny, "For my sake your father cast you off-for my sake you have suffered. Yes, I renounce her!"

Then young Torny said to the Furst, "What is my renouncing to yours! It was you, the Furst of the country, for whom the princess had been chosen."

"Have thanks," cried Natalie, "have thanks, O eternal Might of Heaven. It is over!" Then she pressed a farewell kiss on the young men's foreheads and tottered away, supported by the Furstin's arm.

"I am losing you again," said Graf von Torny with the deepest pain when his son was about to leave.

"Father," he cried, "give me time, give me freedom lest I succumb, that my lacerated heart may mend!" Silently he again embraced the Furst, his father, and hurried away.

Natalie retired to a remote nunnery, becoming Abbess there. The Furstin, deceived of her last hope, had the border castle where she had been imprisoned comfortably furnished and chose it as her solitary dwelling. Graf Torny remained with the Furst. Both were happy that Furst Isidor had left the country again.

The two reconciled innkeepers of the Golden Ram and the Silver Lamb strolled up and down the street, both glowing in the thought that they supplied hospitality to their gracious sovereign, both happily adrniring the Vivat Princeps! that was being written in oil above their doors and which would flame high that evening when the town was illuminated. The Fiirst was expected in a few hours.

The painter George Haberland (young Graf Torny did not want to be anyone else at the present) quietly slipped through Neudorfer Gate, dressed for a journey, with his pack and portfolio on his back. "Hey!" Berthold called to him, "Well met! The best of luck to you, brother George! I know everything Thank God you are not a reigning Furst-all would be over. Your being a Graf does not bother me, for I know you are and will remain an artist. And the girl you love? She is not a creature of the earth, she does not live in the world, but in you yourself as the high and pure ideal of your art, which inspires you, which breathes from your works, which is enthroned above the stars.

"Brother Berthold!" cried George, his eyes shining with a di- vine fire. "Brother Berthold, you are right. She, she is art, in which my whole being breathes. I have lost nothing, and if earthly sorrow seizes me and bows me down when I have turned away from the divine-then you-your ever cheerful nature-

Friendship's ease you'll soon be feeling,
It's not vanished from your sight."

The young men wandered on over the mountains!