lament on the subject. Now you are in possession
of all that you need know about him. Tell
me something of yourself; and first, have you
served?"

"Never."

"Was your father a soldier, or your
grandfather?"

"Neither."

"Have you any connexions on the mother's
side in the army?"

"I am not aware of one."

He gave a short, hasty cough, and walked the
room twice with his hands clasped at his back,
and then, coming straight in front of me, said,
"And your name? What's your name?"

"Potts! Potts!" said I, with a firm energy.

Potztausend!" cried he, with a grim laugh;
"what a strange name!"

"I said Potts, Herr Rittmeister, and not
Potztausend," rejoined I, haughtily.

"And I heard you," said he; "it was involuntary
on my part to add the termination. And
who are the Pottses? Are they noble?"

"Nothing of the kind— respectable middle-class
folk; some in trade, some clerks in mercantile
houses, some holding small government
employments, one, perhaps the chief of the
family, an eminent apothecary!"

As if I had uttered the most irresistible joke,
at this word, he held his hands over his face
and shook with laughter.

"Heilige Joseph!" cried he, at last, "this is
too good! The Prince Max going out with an
apothecary's nephew, or, maybe, his son!"

"His son upon this occasion," said I, gravely.

He did not reply for some minutes; and then,
leaning over the back of a chair, and regarding
me very fixedly, he said:

"You have only to say who you are, and
what your belongings, and nothing will come of
this affair. In fact, what with your little knowledge
of German, your imperfect comprehension
of what the prince said, and your own station in
life, I'll engage to arrange everything and get
you off clear!"

"In a word," said I, "I am to plead in
formâ inferioris— isn't that it?"

"Just so," said he, puffing out a long cloud
from his pipe.

"I'd rather die first!" cried I, with an energy
that actually startled him.

"Well," said he, after a pause, "I think it's
very probable that will come of it; but, if it be
your choice, I have nothing to say."

"Go back, Herr Rittmeister," cried I, "and
arrange the meeting for the very earliest
moment.''

I said this with a strong purpose, for I felt if
the event were to come off at once, I could
behave well.

"As you are resolved on this course," said
he, "do not make any such confidences to others
as you have made to me; nothing about those
Pottses in haberdashery and dry goods, but just
simply you are the high and well-born Potts of
Pottsheim. Not a word more."

I bowed an assent, but so anxious was he to
impress this upon me, that he went over it all
once more.

"As it will be for me to receive the prince's
message, the choice of weapons will be yours.
What are you most expert with? I mean, after
the pistol?" said he, grinning.

"I am about equally skilled in all. Rapier,
pistol, or sabre are all alike to me."

"Der Teufel!" cried he; "I was not counting
upon this; and as the sabre is the prince's
weakest arm, we'll select it."

I bowed again, and more blandly.

"There is but one thing more," said he, turning
about just as he was leaving the room.
"Don't forget that in this case the gross
provocation came from you, and therefore be
satisfied with self-defence, or at most a mere
flesh wound. Remember that the prince is a
near connexion of the royal family of England,
and it would be irreparable ruin to you were he
to fall by your hand." And with this he went
out.

Now, had he gravely bound me over not to
strangle the lions in the Tower, it could not
have appeared more ridiculous to me than this
injunction, and if there had been in my heart
the smallest fund of humour, I could have
laughed at it; but, Heaven knows, none of my
impulses took a mirthful turn at that moment,
and there never was invented the drollery that
could wring a smile from me.

I was sitting in a sort of stupor— I know not
how long— when the door opened, and the
Rittmeister's head peered in.

"To-morrow morning at five!" cried he. "I
will fetch you half an hour before." The door
closed, and he was off.

It was now a few minutes past eight o'clock,
and there were therefore something short of
nine hours of life left to me. I have heard that
Victor Hugo is an amiable and kindly disposed
man, and I feel assured, if he ever could have
known the tortures he would have inflicted, he
would never have designed the terrible record
entitled Le Dernier Jour d'un Condamné. I
conclude it was designed as a sort of appeal
against death punishments. I doubt much of
its efficacy in altering legislation, while I feel
assured that if ever it fall in the way of one
whose hours are numbered, it must add
indescribably to his misery.

When, how, or by whom my supper was
served, I never knew. I can only remember that
a very sleepy waiter roused me out of a
half-drowsy reverie about midnight by asking if he
to remove the dishes, or let them remain
till morning. I bade him leave them, and me
also, and when the door was closed I sat down
to my meal. It was cold and unappetising.
I would have deemed it unwholesome, too, but
I remembered that the poor stomach it was
destined for would never be called on to digest it,
and that for once I might transgress without
the fear of dyspepsia. My case was precisely
that of the purseless traveller, who, we are told,
can sing before the robber, just as if want ever
suggested melody, or that being poor was a