the plate.

The scholar was again alone. The golden light of the lamp fell on his countenance and on the books which lay around him; the white pages rustled under his hand; and his features worked with strong excitement.

There was a knock at the door; the expected visitor entered.

"Good evening, Fritz," said the Professor to his visitor; "sit in my chair, and look here."

The guest, a man of slender form, with delicate features, and wearing spectacles, seated himself at the bidding of his friend, and seized a little book which lay in the middle of a number of open volumes of every age and size. With the eye of a connoisseur he examined the first cover--discolored parchment, upon which were written old church hymns with the accompanying music. He cast a searching glance on the inside of the binding, and inspected the strips of parchment by which the poorly-preserved back of the book was joined to the cover. He then examined the first page of the contents, on which, in faded characters, was written, "The Life of the Holy Hildegard." "The handwriting is that of a writer of the fifteenth century," he exclaimed, and looked inquiringly at his friend.

"It is not on that account that I show you the old book. Look further. The Life is followed by prayers, a number of recipes and household regulations, written in various hands, even before the time of Luther. I had bought this manuscript for you, thinking you might perhaps find material for your legends and popular superstitions. But on looking through it, I met with the following passage on one of the last pages, and I cannot yet part with the volume. It seems that the book has been used in a monastery by many generations of monks to note down memoranda, for on this page there is a catalogue of all the church treasures of the Monastery of Rossau. It was a poverty-stricken cloister; the inventory is either small or incomplete. It was made by an ignorant monk, and, as the writing testifies, about the year 1500. See, here are entered church-utensils and a few ecclesiastical vestments; and further on some theological manuscripts of the monastery, of no importance to us, but amongst them the following title: 'Das alt ungehür puoch von ussfahrt des swigers.'"

The Doctor examined the words with curiosity. "That sounds like the title of a tale of chivalry. And what do the words themselves mean! 'The old, immense book of the exit or departure of the swiger.' Does swiger here mean son-in-law or a tacit man?"

"Let us try to solve the riddle," continued the Professor, with sparkling eyes, pointing with his finger to the same page. "A later hand has added in Latin, 'This book is Latin, almost illegible; it begins with the words lacrimas et signa, and ends with the words--here concludes the history--actorum--thirtieth book.' Now guess."

The Doctor looked at the excited features of his friend. "Do not keep me in suspense. The first words sound very promising, but they are not a title; some pages in the beginning may be deficient."

"Just so," answered the Professor, with satisfaction. "We may assume that one or two pages are missing. In the fifth chapter of the Annals of Tacitus there are the words lacrimas et signa."

The Doctor sprang up, and a flush of joy overspread his face.

"Sit down," continued the Professor, forcing his friend back into the chair. "The old title of the Annals of Tacitus, when translated, appears literally 'Tacitus, beginning with the death of the divine Augustus.' Well, an ignorant monk deciphered perhaps the first Latin words of the title, 'Taciti ab excessu,' and endeavored to translate it into German; he was pleased to know that tacitus meant schweigsam (silent), but had never heard of the Roman historian, and rendered it in these words, literally, as 'From the exit of the tacit man.'"

"Excellent!" exclaimed the Doctor. "And the monk, delighted with the successful translation, wrote the title on the manuscript? Glorious! the manuscript was a Tacitus."

"Hear further," proceeded the Professor. "In the third and fourth century A. D., both the great works of Tacitus, the 'Annals' and 'History,' were united in a collection under the title, 'Thirty Books of History.' For this we have other ancient testimony. Look here!"

The Professor found well-known passages, and placed them before his friend. "And, again, at the end of the manuscript record there were these words: 'Here ends the Thirtieth Book of the History.' There remains, therefore, no doubt that this manuscript was a Tacitus. And looking at the thing as a whole, the following appears to have been the case. There was, at the time of the Reformation, a manuscript of Tacitus in the Monastery of Rossau, the beginning of which was missing. It was old and injured by time, and almost illegible to the eyes of the monks."

"There must have been something peculiar attaching to the book," interrupted the Doctor, "for the monk designates it by the expression, 'Ungeheuer,' which conveys the meaning of strange, monstrous."

"It is true," agreed the Professor. "We may assume that some monastic tradition which has attached to the book, or an old prohibition to read it, or, more probably, the unusual aspect of its cover, or its size, has given rise to this expression. The manuscript contains both the historical works of Tacitus, the books of which were numbered consecutively. And we," he added, in his excitement throwing the book which he held in his hand on the table, "we no longer possess this manuscript. Neither of the historical works of the great Roman have been preserved in its entirety; for the sum of all the gaps would fully equal one-half of what has come down to us."

The Professor's friend paced the room hurriedly. "This is one of the discoveries that quicken the blood in one's veins. Gone and lost forever! It is exasperating to think how nearly such a precious treasure of antiquity was preserved to us. It has escaped fire, devastation, and the perils of cruel war; it was still in existence when the dawn of a new civilization burst upon us, happily concealed and unheeded, in the German monastery, not many miles from the great high road along which the humanists wandered, with visions of Roman glory in their minds, seeking after every relic of the Roman times. Universities flourished in the immediate vicinity; and how easily could one of the friars of Rossau have informed the students of their treasure. It seems incomprehensible that not one of the many scholars of the country should have obtained information concerning the book, and pointed out to the monks the value of such a memorial. But, instead of this, it is possible that some contemporary of Erasmus and Melanchthon, some poor monk, sold the manuscript to a book-binder, and strips of it may still adhere to some old book-cover. But, even in this case, the discovery is important. Evidently this little book has occasioned you much painful pleasure."

The Professor clasped the hand of his friend, and each looked into the honest countenance of the other. "Let us assume," concluded the Doctor, sorrowfully, "that the old hereditary enemy of preserved treasures, fire, had consumed the manuscript--is it not childish that we should feel the loss as if it had occurred today?"

"Who tells us that the manuscript is irretrievably lost?" rejoined the Professor, with suppressed emotion. "Once more consult the book; it can tell us also of the fate of the manuscript."

The Doctor rushed to the table, and seized the little book of the Holy Hildegard.

"Here, after the catalogue," said the Professor, showing him the last page of the book, "there is still more."

The