m occasionally, but did not envy him his power of sleep. His
own reflections were in a measure more agreeable than any dream could have
been, certainly more so in his judgment than the visions of unlimited
cabbage soup, vodka, and fighting which were doubtless delighting
Dumnoff's slumbering soul.

As the church clocks struck one hour after another, his spirits rose. He
had, indeed, never had the least apprehension concerning his own liberty,
since he knew himself to be perfectly innocent. He only desired to be
released as soon as possible in order to repair the damage done to his
coat and collar before the earliest hour at which the messengers of good
news could be expected at his house. Meanwhile he cared little whether he
spent the night on a bench in the police-station, or on one of the rickety
wooden chairs which afforded the only sitting accommodation in his own
room. He could not sleep in either case, for his brain was too wide awake
with the anticipations of the morrow, and with the endless plans for
future happiness which suggested themselves.

At last he was aware that the nature of the light in the room was changing
and that the white ground glass of the lantern was illuminated otherwise
than by the little flame within. The high window, as he looked up, was
like a grey figure cut out of dark paper, and the dawn was stealing in at
last.

"Wednesday at last!" he exclaimed softly to himself. "Wednesday at last!"
A gentle smile spread over his tired face, and made it seem less haggard
and drawn than it really was.

The day broke, and somewhere not far from the window, the birds all began
to sing at once, filling the room with a continuous strain of sound, loud,
clear and jubilant. The soft spring air seemed to awake, as though it had
itself been sleeping through the still night and must busy itself now in
sending the sweet breezes upon their errands to the flowers.

"I always thought it would come in spring," thought the Count, as he
listened to the pleasant sounds, and then held one of his yellow hands up
to the window to feel the freshness that was without.

He wondered how long it would be before Fischelowitz would come and tell
the truth of the Gigerl's story. By his knowledge of the time of daybreak,
he guessed that it was not yet much past four o'clock, and he doubted
whether Fischelowitz would come before eight. The tobacconist was a kind
man, but a comfortable one, loving his rest and his breakfast a