his pocket, and when Gunther came up to him, he said:

"Here's a paper for you."

Gunther read the note, and then rubbed his eyes and passed his hand
across his face, as if to awaken himself.

"Who sent you?" he asked.

"I guess that'll tell you--our Irmgard."

Gunther started at the mention of the name, here before the very door,
when within sat the king and the queen--

He went up to the lamp in the corridor, and read the note again. There
it stood:

"Eberhard's daughter sends for Gunther."

This man, who had a right to boast that he was always calm and
composed, was obliged to support himself by the balusters, and it was
some time before he could utter a word. When he looked up, his glance
met that of the little pitchman.

"Who are you?" he asked, at last.

"I'm from the freehold farm. Walpurga's my niece--"

"Very well; go outside and wait for me. I'll be there directly."

The little pitchman went out, and Gunther summoned all his
self-command, in order to return to the card-room to excuse himself,
and say that he had been summoned to the bedside of one who was
dangerously ill. He scarcely knew how he could, without betraying
his emotion, mention this to those who were so directly concerned,
but he hoped to do so, nevertheless.

At that moment, he fortunately met Paula and Bronnen, who had been
walking in the garden and were just about to enter the house.

"The very thing!" exclaimed Gunther, addressing them. "Paula, send me
my hat; and you, dear Bronnen, present my excuses to their majesties,
and tell them I am required instantly, by one who is dangerously ill.
Pray do this without exciting attention; and, Paula, don't mention it
to your mother until you're on the way home. I shall be gone all
night."

"Can't Dr. Sixtus go?" asked Bronnen.

"No. Pray ask me no more. I shall be home early to-morrow morning; but
if I don't come, I will meet you by the waterfall, at dinner-time."

Bronnen and Paula went into the house, and, a few moments later, a
lackey brought Gunther his hat.

Gunther hurried off with the little pitchman. Only once did he turn
back to look at the brilliantly lighted windows, and to think of those
who were sitting within, void of care and foreboding naught. How
startled they would be if they had heard the tidings that affected him
so powerfully. On the way to his house, he had but little to say to the
little pitchman. He did not care to question him more closely, for he
fear