tand Latin."

"But you told us lately that you understood it a little," persevered
the boy, "so translate me the subscription. I should like to know what
the mad picture means. Only look, now, there stands a stately knight in
a circle of dead men's bones and strange signs, holding a goblet in his
hand, and a beautiful woman touches him with a wand, and a mist spreads
over the country, and the knight has already got a horrid snout, as if
he were just being changed into an abominable beast, and below is
written:

"In turpes abiere feras quicunque biberunt
Dulcia Circaea pocula mixtu manu."

"Pray, now, tell me what it means?"

And Tausdorf, confused, translated it: "All were turned into vile brutes
who drank of the sweet cup that was mixed by the hand of Circe."

"Now I am as wise as before," rejoined the boy. "Who was this Circe?
She is right handsome here in the picture; but then she looks at the
poor knights with such hateful eyes that I can't bear her."

"She was a wicked enchantress of the old heathen time," said Tausdorf.
"To all voyagers who visited her island, she offered a rich draught,
and when they drank of it, she touched them with her magic rod, and
they became beasts."

"But why did the foolish people drink of it?"

"They knew not the evil consequences," replied Tausdorf, leaning his
heavy head in his hand, "or they had not done so."

"Ah! they should have been more on their guard with strange cunning
women," rejoined Henry. "You certainly would not have drank of it, Herr
Tausdorf!"

"Who knows, my child?" said Tausdorf, the innocent remark going to his
heart: "Perhaps I might."

"Wicked witch!" cried the boy, and threatened the picture with his
fist. "But did she not at last find her master?"

"Oh yes," said Tausdorf, turning over the leaf. "On this Ulysses was
depicted, holding his sword to the breast of the enchantress, without
fear of her powerful wand, or of the devil-masks that surrounded him,
grinning and menacing."

"Heaven be praised!" cried Henry; "there's a German subscription again.
He read,

"Ulysses compels her to disenchant his companions."

"That's right!" he cried--"who was Ulysses?"

"A Greek hero," replied Tausdorf. "The heathen god, Mercury, had
supplied him with a herb, called _moy_, that protected him against the
enchantment."

"Or he too had been metamorphosed?" asked Henry with vexation.

"No doubt," replied the knight mournfully. "He