n't jest about that," Cyprian said, very solemnly. "Don't make jokes
on that subject, Lothair. At this moment I see that beautiful creature
before my eyes, that lovely terrible mystery (I do not know what other
name to call her by). It was I who had that bridecake sent to me;
glittering in diamonds, flashing like lightning, wrapped in priceless
sables----"

"Listen," cried Vincenz. "We are getting at it now. The Saxon
maid-servant--the Russian Princess--Moskow--Dresden-- Has not Cyprian
always spoken in the most mysterious language, and with the most
recondite allusions, of a certain period of his life just after the
first French war? It is coming out now! Speak! Let all your heart
stream forth, my Cyprianic Serapion and Serpiontic Cyprian."

"And how if I keep silence?" answered Cyprian, suddenly drawing in his
horns, and growing grave and gloomy. "And how if I am obliged to keep
silence? And I _shall_ keep silence!"

He spoke those words in a strangely solemn and exalted tone, leaning
back in his chair, and fixing his eyes on the ceiling, as was his wont
when deeply moved.

The friends looked at one another with questioning glances.

"Well," said Lothair at last, "it seems that somehow our meeting of
to-night has fallen into a strange groove of ill-fortune, and it appears
to be hopeless to expect any comfort or enjoyment out of it. Suppose we
have a little music, and sing some absurd stuff or other as vilely as
we can."

"Yes," said Theodore, "that is the thing." And he opened the piano. "If
we don't manage a canon--which, according to Junker Tobias is a thing
which can reel three souls out of a weaver's body--we will make it
awful enough to be worthy of Signor Capuzzi and his friends. Suppose we
sing an Italian _Terzetto buffo_ out of our own heads. I'll be the
prima donna, and begin. Ottmar will be the lover, and Lothair had
better be the comic old man, and come in, raging and swearing in rapid
notes."

"But the words, the words," said Ottmar.

"Sing whatever you please," said Theodore; "Oh Dio! Addio! Lasciami mia
Vita."

"No, no," cried Vincenz. "If you won't let me take part in your
singing--although I feel that I possess a wonderful talent for it,
which only wants the voice of a Catalani to produce itself in the
work-a-day world with drastic effect, allow me at least to be your
librettist--your poet-laureate. And here I hand you your libretto at
once."

He had found on Theodore's writing-table the