e hill where we found him at the beginning
of this narrative. Throughout the journey he had been the amiable and
happy young man whom no one could see without liking.

Having reached Mannheim, he took a room at the Weinberg, and wrote his
name as "Henry" in the visitors' list. He immediately inquired where
Kotzebue lived. The councillor dwelt near the church of the Jesuits; his
house was at the corner of a street, and though Sand's informants could
not tell him exactly the letter, they assured him it was not possible to
mistake the house. [At Mannheim houses are marked by letters, not by
numbers.]

Sand went at once to Kotzebue's house: it was about ten o'clock; he was
told that the councillor went to walk for an hour or two every morning in
the park of Mannheim. Sand inquired about the path in which he generally
walked, and about the clothes he wore, for never having seen him he could
only recognise him by the description. Kotzebue chanced to take another
path. Sand walked about the park for an hour, but seeing no one who
corresponded to the description given him, went back to the house.

Kotzebue had come in, but was at breakfast and could not see him.

Sand went back to the Weinberg, and sat down to the midday table d'hote,
where he dined with an appearance of such calmness, and even of such
happiness, that his conversation, which was now lively, now simple, and
now dignified, was remarked by everybody. At five in the afternoon he
returned a third time to the house of Kotzebue, who was giving a great
dinner that day; but orders had been given to admit Sand. He was shown
into a little room opening out of the anteroom, and a moment after,
Kotzebue came in.

Sand then performed the drama which he had rehearsed upon his friend A.
S. Kotzebue, finding his face threatened, put his hands up to it, and
left his breast exposed; Sand at once stabbed him to the heart; Kotzebue
gave one cry, staggered, and fell back into an arm-chair: he was dead.

At the cry a little girl of six years old ran in, one of those charming
German children, with the faces of cherubs, blue-eyed, with long flowing
hair. She flung herself upon the body of Kotzebue, calling her father
with piercing cries. Sand, standing at the door, could not endure this
sight, and without going farther, he thrust the dagger, still covered
with Kotzebue's blood, up to the hilt into his own breast. Then, seeing
to his surprise that notwithstanding the terr