the very spot whence I had removed it. And
then—"

Here the Baron paused—and relighted his
cigar.

"Well—and then?" we all asked.

"Then," replied the Baron, "I awoke
that is to say, if I had ever been asleep. And,
looking at the tumbler in which I had placed
the rose, I discovered that it was gone!"

"The chambermaid, possibly; or the waiter,
who may have entered your apartment for
orders—may have seen, admired, and carried
it away while you were slumbering,"
suggested the lively Frenchman. " And a very
lucky fellow you are not to have missed
your watch and your purse at the same time
and place."

"No," said the Baron, shaking his head.

"Perhaps," said Mr. West, "you had taken
more wine than usual?"

"No," was the reply. " The truth is that
the story I have related to you was written
by that great Austrian wit and satirist,
Saphir. It was one of his earlier compositions,
which, strange to say, were all of a very
melancholy cast. Saphir, however, to this
day asserts that his story of 'The Death
Rose' is a fact, and that it happened to himself."

One by one we dropt off to sleep, and slept
for about an hour and a-half. On awakening,
the Frenchman, West, and myself, almost
simultaneously exclaimed, " Confound your
Death Rose, Baron! " for the truth was that
the story had taken possession of our senses,
while we were asleep.

"I thought it would," said the Baron, laughing.
"Everybody dreams of the Death Rose
after I have told the story. But—ah! See
in the distance! Here are the coolies
returning! I can make out my guitar-box on
the head of one man. Ah! to-night we will
sing plenty of songs."

And in the evening the Baron sang for
several hours (we could have listened to him
all night) some of the most sentimental, and
some of the most humorous songs that I had
ever heard. Fortunately, I knew enough of
German to appreciate them; and my friend,
Mr. West, was equally fortunate. As for the
Frenchman, he understood and spoke—albeit
very imperfectly—every language current in
Europe. On that night we retired before
twelve, for we had agreed to rise and proceed
early on the morrow.

In pursuance of such agreement, as soon
as the day dawned we struck our tents,
packed up our traps, loaded the coolies, and
set out for a place called Demooltee, distant
some fourteen or fifteen miles. The road,
which had been very, very seldom travelled
over by Europeans, was a narrow and bad
road, winding round, and leading over lofty
peaks, some ten or eleven thousand feet above
the level of the sea. Above us and below
us we frequently saw herds of Ghooral and
other deer; but as we could not, or would
not rather, have stayed to pick up any that
we might kill, we suffered them to graze on,
and preserved our ammunition. By the way
we saw an animal which none of us had ever
seen before an animal called the Seron. It
is a species of Chamois, but larger and
stronger. Its colour was reddish, and it had
a quantity of stiff, short hair on the neck,
which gave it the appearance of a hogged
mane. The native guides told us that it was
a very shy animal, and only to be found
where there was a great quantity of wood.
The scenery of this part, in March, was
exceedingly beautiful and varied. At times we
had a good view of Mussoorie and the
surrounding country. At other times we moved
through vast forests of pine, and woods of
oak, rhododendron, and other magnificent
trees. In the midst of one of these woods our
halting-place was situated, a large grassy flat,
bounded on either side by a deep and steep
precipice, while, in every direction, the
surrounding mountains, which locked us in,
were covered thickly with the trees above
specified.

"What fools men are," exclaimed the
Baron, whilst the servants were unpacking,
"to huddle themselves together in old
countries, when lands like these remain uncultivated
and unenjoyed! And what fools are those
travellers who go, year after year, gazing on
comparatively paltry mountains and lakes
which the eyes of the vulgar, of all nations,
have beheld, when such fresh and gorgeous
scenery as this may be looked at! Travelling
in Switzerland and Italy!—bah!"

"But, my dear Baron," said the French-
man, "you forget that the Peninsular and
Oriental Company demand four pounds a
day for conveying you from England to India,
in consequence, they say, of the dearness of
coals."

"Ah, well," laughed the Baron, opening
with his own hand a bottle of hock, and
emptying the contents into a silver tankard,
"if you regard the matter in an economical
point of view, you at once cut short my
argument and my sentiment. Egad! what
grapes could be grown on yonder hill, in that
warm valley! What wine could be grown
there! I will come out to this country with
a few German peasants. I will have
vineyards. I will make a fortune so colossal
that Rothschild, when he is in difficulties,
will have to write to me. Yes, I will. The
thing is to be done, and I will do it!"

"But you forget," said Mr. West, "that
you are now some twelve or thirteen
hundred miles from the nearest sea-port,
Calcutta, and that there would be some little
difficulty in transmitting the produce to
Europe."

"Europe! Europe! Why do you talk of
Europe? Does not British India contain
enough of Europeans to make a market?
This bottle of good wine, which we are
going to drink, costs twelve shillings in this