ng at such a rate, Herr Doctor?" he suddenly heard
some one call behind him. "One must borrow the wings of the morning to
overtake you."

It was extremely disagreeable to be compelled to stop and give his
pursuer a courteous answer. And yet the speaker was a man whom he was
usually by no means unwilling to meet, a Livonian baron, whose great
wealth gave him the means to indulge his passion for art and extend and
correct his powers of judgment by constant travel. He had a gay,
careless disposition, with which a sort of Berserker rage that
overwhelmed him whenever the conversation turned upon spurious pictures
or undeserved fame, oddly contrasted. One who saw him passing through
the streets in his negligent attire, with a broad brimmed black hat
crowded down over his bald head, and eyes that from constant searching
and gazing, protruded like a snail's, as if eager to touch everything
visible, would scarcely have expected to find the artistic judgment and
delicate enthusiasm, which had made him dear to Edwin.

But to-day nothing could have been more inopportune to our friend than
this meeting. He pleaded a business engagement as the cause of his
haste, but could neither decline the troublesome companionship, nor
conceal the goal of his walk.

When the baron heard the zaunkoenig's name, he paused in astonishment,
and with a "_Cospetto di Bacco!_" seized Edwin by the coat.

"Listen to me, my dear fellow," he exclaimed, "this is a dispensation
of Providence, or there is no God. Do you know I was just in the act of
taking the same walk, and grumbling because I was obliged to do so, and
now I'm heartily glad to be relieved of the necessity."

"Have you an errand to the artist, which I could perform in your
place?"

"If you will be so kind, my friend; for that you can do so, and ten
times better than I, is just the miracle. But first hear _di che si
tratta_. Last autumn, when the exhibition of paintings was held here, I
had the honor of escorting Prince Michael Paulovitsch Bataroff, our
great Maecenas, you know, a man who between ourselves has allowed a
wretched Byzantine daub to be imposed upon him for a Taddeo Gaddi, and
otherwise paid dearly enough for his connoisseurship. But that's of no
consequence if he's in the right hands, his money sometimes goes to the
right man. Well, I am, so to speak, his oracle. Whenever anything is
offered him, especially by a modern artist who is not yet famous, he
always wants to ascerta