of his way. It was this that had reduced him to his present demoralized condition. But he would not disturb them on any account, and only asked for a drop of water and a corner where he could stretch himself out, for he was as tired as a dog, and would be content even with a dog's kennel.

He drained off a large glass of wine at a single swallow, then, with averted face, shook hands with his friends and made a few forced jokes--something he never thought of doing when he was quite himself. He flatly refused to accept of Kohle's offer to give up his bed to him, but gladly consented to be led into the studio, where, by the aid of a few blankets, a deer-skin, and a shawl, they succeeded in transforming an old garden-bench into a very respectable bed. Then, without even waiting for the others who had escorted him up-stairs to leave the room, he threw himself down upon the couch--"already half in the other world," he tried to say, jestingly, as he nodded good-night to the others.

Shaking their heads, his friends left him. It was evident that this late visit could be explained by no such innocent circumstances as had occasioned that of the two who had preceded him. But, while they were still standing outside the door exchanging remarks about Felix's singular condition, they learned from the deep breathing within that the object of their anxiety had fallen fast asleep.

CHAPTER III.

The clear song of the birds awoke him while it was still in the gray of the morning, and not a sound could be heard in the house below.

The tops of the pine-trees, seen through the broad studio-window, recalled to his mind where he was, and how and why he had strayed thither.

In the afternoon he had met the lieutenant, whom he had not seen before for a week, although he had zealously frequented all the places where Schnetz was generally to be found. He knew that Irene had left the city with her uncle. In his dull consternation upon learning this in reply to an indirect inquiry at the hotel, he had not even inquired in which direction they had gone. She had fled from him, that he knew; his mere silent presence sufficed to frighten her away, to make the town in which he lived distasteful to her. Whither had she fled? To Italy, as she had at first planned?--to the east or to the west? What did it matter to him, since he dared not follow her? Nor did he really care to make any inquiries of Schnetz, who undoubtedly knew all about it. And yet he was eager to see the only human being who might possibly give him news of her. And when at last he encountered him in the street, after a day of depression and brooding, on which he had not even seen Jansen and had neglected his work, his heart beat so fast and his face flushed so deeply that it seemed as if his unsuspecting friend could not help reading all his secret thoughts in his eyes. And it really did so happen that the very first words which Schnetz ejaculated, in reply to Felix's inquiry as to how he was, had reference to the fugitives.

Things went wretchedly with him. He had hoped to be rid of his serfdom and slavery to woman, now that his whimsical little princess had gone off with her servile valet of an uncle! Vain idea! The chain which held him now reached as far as Starnberg, and only an hour ago he had felt himself jerked by it in anything but a gentle way. A note from the uncle summoned him to come out in all haste on the following day. Visits had been announced for Sunday from all manner of youthful haute volés, noble cousins and their followers; but the old lion-hunter had previously accepted an invitation to a shooting-match at Seefeld, which it would be quite impossible for him to escape, and his niece, poor child, who, for some reason or other, was daily growing paler and more nervous in the country air, felt herself quite incapable of doing the honors of the little villa without the assistance of a zealous and active cavalier. Consequently, Schnetz was her last hope, and he could assure him of Irene's kindest welcome, and of his own eternal gratitude if he would come and be her knight! "You will readily understand, my dear baron," concluded the grumbling cavalier, slapping his high boots with his riding-whip, "that there are moral impossibilities which prevent the slave from breaking his chain. But to the hundred times I have already cursed this Algerian camp-friendship, I have added to-day the one hundred and first. It is true, I certainly have a certain curiosity to see how this 'kindest welcome' of her proud little highness will seem. You know I have a secret weakness for this gracious little tyrant of mine. But it is asking a great deal of me to expect that I should bear with her whims and humors for a whole day. Pity me, happy man! you who are free from all service, and receive no other orders than those which come from the genius of art."

His speech had been long enough for Felix to think of some appropriate and sufficiently cheerful answer.

"You are terribly mistaken, my dear friend," he said, "if you think I wear no chain. Art, do you say? She is a gracious mistress to him alone who has gotten so far as to be able to rule her while he serves her. But, as for a wretched beginner and blunderer to whom she has not yet given her little finger to kiss, no raftsman or woodsman in the mountains groans under such a load. A thousand times I ask myself whether it was not, after all, a piece of folly for me, at my time of life, to join the scholars who are learning her first A B C; and whether I shall not discover to my horror, after the lapse of many weary years, that all this precious time has been thrown out of the window of Jansen's studio. It is certainly large enough for such a purpose."

"Hm!" growled the tall lieutenant. "You are singing a bad song to an old tune. Nowhere do you come across existences that are failures, more frequently than in a city of art like this. It's so damned seductive to go singing--