most thought I had was, that some act of his past life--some
piece of military severity, for which he now grieved deeply--had been
brought back to his memory by the sight of the poor deserter. It was
evident that the settled melancholy of his character referred to some
circumstance or event of his life; nothing confirmed this more than
any chance allusions he would drop concerning his youthful days, which
appeared to be marked by high daring and buoyant spirits.

While I pondered over these thoughts, a noise in the inn-yard beneath
my window attracted my attention. I leaned out, and heard the baron's
servant giving orders for post-horses to be ready by daybreak to take
his master's carriage to Meissner, while a courier was already preparing
to have horses in waiting at the stages along the road. Again my brain
was puzzled to account for this sudden departure, and I could not
repress a feeling of pique at his not having communicated his intention
of going, which, considering our late intimacy, had been only common
courtesy. This little slight--for such I felt it--did not put me in
better temper with my friend, nor more disposed to be lenient in judging
him; and I was already getting deeper and deeper in my suspicions, when
a gentle tap came to my door, and the baron's servant entered, with a
request that I would kindly step over to his master, who desired to see
me particularly. I did not delay a moment, but followed the man along
the corridor, and entered the room, which I found in total darkness.

'The baron is in bed, sir,' said the servant; 'but he wishes to see you
in his room.'

On a small camp-bed, which showed it to have been once a piece of
military equipment, the Baron was lying. He had not undressed, but
merely thrown on his _robe de chambre_ and removed his cravat from
his throat; his one hand was pressed closely on his face, and as he
stretched it out to grasp mine, I was horror-struck at the altered
expression of his countenance. The eyes, bloodshot and wild, glanced
about the room with a hurried and searching look, while his parched lips
muttered rapidly some indistinct sounds. I saw that he was very ill, and
asked him if it were not as well he should have some advice.

'No, my friend, no,' said he, with more composure in his manner; 'the
attack is going off now. It rarely lasts so long as this. You have never
heard perhaps of that dreadful malady which physicians call "angina,"
the most agonising of al