the studio
door. One stooped and listened at the keyhole, then tried to look
through it. "Not there?" whispered another.

"No light," was the whispered reply. They spoke now in French, now in
English.

"He has heard us and hid himself. He is a strange man, this Scotchman.
He did not attend the 'Vernissage,' nor the presentation of prizes,
yet he wins the highest." The owl stretched out an arm, bare and
muscular, from under his wing and tried the door very gently. It was
not locked, and he thrust his head within, then reached back and took
a candle from the ghost. "This will give light enough. Put out the
rest of yours and make no noise."

Thus in the darkness they crept into the studio and gathered around
the table. There they saw the unopened envelopes.

"He is not here. He does not know," said one and another.

"Where then can he be?"

"He has taken a panic and fled. I told you so," said the ghost.

"Ah, here he is! Behold! The Hamlet of our ghost! Wake, Hamlet; your
father's spirit has arrived," cried one in English with a very French
accent.

They now gathered before the dais, shouting and cheering in both
English and French. One brought the envelopes on a palette and
presented them. The young man gazed at them, stupidly at first, then
with a feverish gleam in his eyes, but did not take them.

"Yes, I found them when I came in--but they are--not for me."

"They are addressed to you, Robert Kater, and the news is published
and you leave them here unopened."

"He does not know--I told you so."

"You have the packet in your hand. Open it. Take it from him and
decorate him. He is in a dream. It is the great medal. We will wake
him."

They began to cheer and cheer again, each after the manner of the
character he had assumed. The ass brayed, the owl hooted, the ghost
groaned. The ape leaped on the back of the throne whereon the young
man still sat, and seized him by the hair, chattering idiotically
after the manner of apes, and began to wag his head back and forth. In
the midst of the uproar Demosthenes stepped forward and took the
envelopes from the palette, and, tearing them open, began reading them
aloud by the light of a candle held for him by Lady Macbeth, who now
and then interrupted with the remark that "her little hand was stained
with blood," stretching forth an enormous, hairy hand for their
inspection. But as Demosthenes read on the uproar ceased, and all
listened with courteous attention. The