Doctor fixed his eyes on the page. Latin characters without meaning or break were written in seven successive lines; under them was a name--F. Tobias Bachhuber.

"Compare these letters with the Latin annotation under the title of the mysterious manuscript. It is undoubtedly the same hand, firm characters of the seventeenth century; compare the 's,' 'r,' and 'f.'"

"It is the same hand!" exclaimed the Doctor with satisfaction.

"These unmeaning letters are a cipher, such as was used in the seventeenth century. In that case it is easily solved; each letter is exchanged with the one that follows. On this bit of paper I have put together the Latin words. The translation is, 'On the approach of the ferocious Swedes, in order to withdraw the treasures of our monastery from the search of these roaring devils, I have deposited them all in a dry, hollow place in the Manor of Bielstein.' The day Quasimodogeniti 37--that is on the 19th April, 1637. What do you say now, Fritz? It appears from this that in the time of the Thirty Years' War the manuscript had not been burned, for Frater Tobias Bachhuber--blest be his memory!--had at that time vouchsafed to look upon it with some consideration, and as in the record he had favored it with an especial remark, he probably did not leave it behind in his flight. The mysterious manuscript was thus in the Monastery of Rossau till 1637, and the friar, in the April of that year, concealed it and other goods from the Swedes in a hollow and dry spot in Manor Bielstein."

"Now the matter becomes serious!" cried the Doctor.

"Yes, it is serious, my friend; it is not impossible that the manuscript may still lie concealed somewhere."

"And Manor Bielstein?"

"Lies near the little town of Rossau. The monastery was in needy circumstances, and under ecclesiastical protection till the Thirty Years' War. In 1637 the town and monastery were desolated by the Swedes; the last monks disappeared and the monastery was never again re-established. That is all I have been able to learn up to this time; for anything further I request your help."

"The next question will be whether the manor-house outlasted the war," answered the Doctor, "and what has become of it now. It will be more difficult to ascertain where Brother Tobias Bachhuber ended his days, and most difficult of all to discover through what hands his little book has reached us."

"I obtained the book from a second-hand dealer here; it was a new acquisition, and not yet entered in his catalogue. To-morrow I will obtain all further information that the book-seller may be able to give. It will, perhaps, be worth while to investigate further," he continued, more coolly, endeavoring to restrain his intense excitement by a little rational reflection. "More than two centuries have elapsed since that cipher was written by the friar; during that period destructive agencies were not less active than before. Just think of the war and devastation of the years when the cloister was destroyed. And so we are no better off than if the manuscript had been lost several centuries previously."

"And yet the probability that the manuscript is preserved to the present day increases with every century," interposed the Doctor; "for the number of men who would value such a discovery has increased so much since that war, that destruction from rude ignorance has become almost inconceivable."

"We must not trust too much to the knowledge of the present day," said the Professor; "but if it were so," he continued, his eyes flashing, "if the imperial history of the first century, as written by Tacitus, were restored by a propitious fate, it would be a gift so great that the thought of the possibility of it might well, like Roman wine, intoxicate an honest man."

"Invaluable," assented the Doctor, "for our knowledge of the language, and for a hundred particulars of Roman history."

"And for the early history of Germany!" exclaimed the Professor.

Both traversed the room with rapid steps, shook hands, and looked at each other joyfully.

"And if a fortunate accident should put us on the track of this manuscript," began Fritz, "if through you it should be restored to the light of day, you, my friend, you are best fitted to edit it. The thought that you would experience such a pleasure, and that a work of such renown would fall to your lot, makes me happier than I can say."

"If we can find the manuscript," answered the Professor, "we must edit it together."

"Together?" exclaimed Fritz, with surprise.

"Yes, together," said the Professor, with decision; "it would make your ability widely known."

Fritz drew back. "How can you think that I would be so presumptuous?"

"Do not contradict me," exclaimed the Professor, "you are perfectly qualified for it."

"That I am not," answered Fritz, firmly; "and I am too proud to undertake anything for which I should have to thank your kindness more than my own powers."

"That is undue modesty," again exclaimed the Professor.

"I shall never do it," answered Fritz. "I could not for one moment think of adorning myself before the public with borrowed plumage."

"I know better than you," said the Professor, indignantly, "what you are able to do, and what is to your advantage."

"At all events, I would never agree that you should have the lion's share of the labor and secretly be deprived of the reward. Not my modesty, but my self-respect forbids this. And this feeling you ought to respect," concluded Fritz, with great energy.

"Now," returned the Professor, restraining his excited feelings, "we are behaving like the man who bought a house and field with the money procured by the sale of a calf which was not yet born. Be calm, Fritz; neither I nor you shall edit the manuscript."

"And we shall never know how the Roman Emperor treated the ill fated Thusnelda and Thumelicus!" said Fritz, sympathizingly to his friend.

"But it is not the absence of such particulars," said the Professor, "that makes the loss of the manuscript so greatly felt, for the main facts may be obtained from other sources. The most important point will always be, that Tacitus was the first, and in many respects is the only, historian who has portrayed the most striking and gloomy phases of human nature. His works that are extant are two historical tragedies, scenes in the Julian and Flavian imperial houses--fearful pictures of the enormous change which, in the course of a century, took place in the greatest city of antiquity, in the character of its emperors and the souls of their subjects--the history of tyrannical rule, which exterminated a noble race, destroyed a high and rich civilization, and degraded, with few exceptions, even the rulers themselves. We have, even up to the present day, scarcely another work whose author looks so searchingly into the souls of a whole succession of princes, and which describes so acutely and accurately the ruin which was wrought in different natures by the fiendish and distempered minds of rulers."

"It always makes me angry," said the Doctor, "when I hear him reproached as having for the most part written only imperial and court history. Who can expect grapes from a cypress, and satisfactory enjoyment in the grand public life of a man who, during a great portion of his manhood, daily saw before his eyes the dagger and poison-cup of a mad despot?"

"Yes," agreed the Professor, "Tacitus belonged to the aristocracy--a body unfit to rule, and unwilling to obey. In the consciousness of their privileged position they were the indispensable servants,