the coils of a
snake.]

But the tide soon turned, and Florian lost. He now wandered about the
board, passed every number, and changed his bet before the throw fell.
When, at such times, the deserted number proved the winning one, he
laughed aloud. Fortune frowned more and more, though he returned to his
old system of remaining true to certain numbers. Taking his last
groat, he laid it upon the table with such force as to make the table
quiver,--and lost.

Florian continued to regard the board intently, with breath almost
suppressed, though a tempest of emotion was raging within him. Having
stayed long enough to prevent his acquaintances from suspecting the
true state of the case, he stole away. Now he had neither vows nor
curses, neither good nor evil intentions: he wandered from place to
place like a body without a soul, without thoughts, without will, dull,
hollow, and ruined.

The sound of music awakened him from his trance, and he found himself
before the Rose Inn. The French simpleton, who was standing at the door
and waiting for somebody to treat him, cried, "_Drenda marioin_," and
made a sign of thirst; but Florian pushed him aside and went up into
the dancing-hall.

Every one treated him: he only sipped at the glass and offered to set
it down again. "It's in good hands," was the cry,--meaning, "Drink it
all." "High up behind, they say at the Rhine," he would then say, and
drain the glass at a draught.

The frequent repetition of this ceremony infused new life into him: the
various kinds of wine had the same effect, and he wiped his forehead.
At length Peter came up to him, saying, "Have you seen Crescence? She
is sitting at the Knight with the geometer."

Florian hardly stayed to drain his friend's glass. An object had
appeared upon which to vent his wrath: he had an excuse for committing
a crime, for destroying himself and others. Through lanes and alleys,
passing the little apothecary-shop where the crowd never came, he made
his way to the Knight, and bounded up-stairs, taking three steps at a
time.

Oh that men would run to do good with half the impetuosity which wafts
them on the road to evil! How often do they scorn wind and weather,
distance and darkness, in the gratification of their baser passions!
but, when a duty is to be done, every breath is too rude, and every
pebble an insurmountable hindrance.

As he entered the room, panting and out of breath, Crescence ran to
meet him with beaming e