ad unceasingly made
after their lost relative, had put them, about three years previous to
this time, upon the trace of a clarinet-player who had been seen at
Venice and Trieste, and went by the name of Voltojo. This might have
been a name adopted by Bernard, as being nearly the Italian equivalent
of Geyer, or hawk, the name of his native town; and Solling was not
without a faint hope, that in the course of his journey to Rome he
might obtain some tidings of his brother.

He was roused from his reverie by the postilion shouting out to the
guard of the mail, which was just before them on the road, to know
when they were to take up the passenger who was to occupy the
remaining seat in the caleche.

"Where will the Thirteenth meet us?" asked the man.

"At the inn at Schoneber," replied the guard.

_The Thirteenth!_ The word made the painter's blood run cold. The
horse-dealer and the sergeant, who had begun to doze in their
respective corners, were also disturbed by the ill-omened sound.

"The Thirteenth! The Thirteenth!" muttered the Jew in his beard, still
half asleep. "God forbid! Let's have no thirteenth!"

A company of travelling comedians, who occupied the mail, took up the
word. "The Thirteenth is coming," said one.

"Somebody will die," cried another.

"Or we shall be upset and break our necks," exclaimed a third.

"No Thirteenth!" cried they all in chorus. "Drive on! drive on! he
sha'n't get in!"

This was addressed to the postilion, who just then pulled up at the
door of a village inn, and giving a blast with his horn, shouted
loudly for his remaining passenger to appear.

The door of the public-house opened, and a tall figure, with a small
knap-sack on his shoulder and a knotty stick in his hand, stepped out
and approached the mail. But when he heard the cries of the comedians,
who were still protesting against the admission of a Thirteenth
traveller, he started suddenly back, swinging his cudgel in the air.

"To the devil with you all, vagabonds that ye are!" vociferated he.
"Drive on, postilion, with your cage of monkeys. I shall walk."

At the sound of the stranger's voice, Solling sprang up in the
carriage and seized the handle of the door. But as he did so, a strong
arm grasped him by the collar, and pulled him back into his seat. At
the same moment the carriage drove on.

"The man is drunk," said the sergeant, who had misinterpreted his
fellow-passenger's intentions. "It is not worth while