fe, and thought fled away
from him. On returning to his senses, he was lying on his own poor
truckle-bed; Conrector Paulmann was standing before him, and saying:
"For Heaven's sake, what mad stuff is this, dear Herr Anselmus?"

SIXTH VIGIL

Archivarius Lindhorst's Garden, with some Mocking birds. The Golden
Pot. English current-hand. Pot-hooks. The Prince of the Spirits.

"It may be, after all," said the student Anselmus to himself, "that
the superfine, strong, stomachic liqueur, which I took somewhat freely
at Monsieur Conradi's, might really be the cause of all these shocking
phantasms which so tortured me at Archivarius Lindhorst's door.
Therefore, I will go quite sober today, and so bid defiance to
whatever further mischief may assail me." On this occasion, as before,
when equipping himself for his first call on Archivarius Lindhorst,
the student Anselmus put his pen-drawings and calligraphic
masterpieces, his bars of Indian ink, and his well-pointed crow-pens,
into his pockets; and was just turning to go out, when his eye lighted
on the vial with the yellow liqueur, which he had received from
Archivarius Lindhorst. All the strange adventures he had met with
again rose on his mind in glowing colors; and a nameless emotion
of rapture and pain thrilled through his breast. Involuntarily he
exclaimed, with a most piteous voice: "Ah, am I not going to
the Archivarius solely for a sight of thee, thou gentle lovely
Serpentina!" At that moment he felt as if Serpentina's love might be
the prize of some laborious perilous task which he had to undertake,
and as if this task were no other than the copying of the Lindhorst
manuscripts. That at his very entrance into the house, or, more
properly, before his entrance, all manner of mysterious things might
happen, as of late, was no more than he anticipated. He thought no
more of Conradi's strong water, but hastily put the vial of liqueur
in his waistcoat-pocket that he might act strictly by the Archivarius'
directions, should the bronzed Apple-woman again take it upon her to
make faces at him.

And did not the hawk-nose actually peak itself, did not the cat-eyes
actually glare from the knocker, as he raised his hand to it, at the
stroke of twelve? But now, without further ceremony, he dribbled his
liqueur into the pestilent visage; and it folded and molded itself,
that instant, down to a glittering bowl-round knocker. The door went
up; the bells sounded beauti