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Wilfred, now thoroughly out of patience, was about to reply, but the traveler, urging his horse into a gallop, had already crossed the broad Avenue d’Electeur. An immense flock of crows flew up from the plain and seemed to be following him, filling the heavens with their cawing. We reached Heidelberg at about seven o’clock, and we did indeed see Pimenti’s magnificent posters on all the walls of the city, which read: “Grand Concert Solo.”

That same evening in visiting the various inns, we met many old comrades from the Black Forest, who engaged us to play in their troupe. There was old Bremer, the ‘cellist, his two sons, Ludwig and Karl, both good second violins; Heinrich Siebel, the clarionet player, and Bertha with her harp; Wilfred with his double-bass and I with my violin made up the number. We agreed to travel together after the Christmas concert and divide the proceeds among us. Wilfred had already hired a room for us both on the sixth floor of the Pied de Mouton Tavern, which stood halfway down the Holdergasse, and for it he was to pay four kreutzers a day. Properly speaking, it was nothing but a garret, but fortunately there was a stove in it, and we lighted a fire to dry ourselves.

As we were comfortably seated, toasting chestnuts over the fire and enjoying a jug of wine, little Annette, the housemaid, appeared in a black calico dress and velvet turban, with rosy cheeks and lips like a cluster of cherries. She came running up the stairs, gave a hasty knock and threw herself joyfully into my arms. I had known the pretty little girl for a long time; we were of the same village, and if truth must be told, her sparkling eyes and frolicsome ways had quite won my heart. “I came up to have a little talk with you,” she said, dropping into a chair. “I saw you come up a moment ago and here I am.”

She began to chatter away, asking for this one or that one of the village and hardly giving me time to reply. Every now and then she would pause and look at me with the greatest tenderness. We might have continued thus until the next morning had not Dame Gredel Dick begun to call from the foot of the stairs: “Annette! Annette! Are you never coming?” “Right away, ma’am!” answered the poor child reluctantly. She tapped me lightly on the cheek and ran toward the door; but just as she was crossing the threshold, she suddenly stopped. “By the way,” she cried, “I was forgetting to tell you; but perhaps you have heard about it?” “About what?” “The death of our precentor, Zahn.” “But how does that, affect us?” “To be sure; only see that your passport is all right Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock they will come to examine it. Everybody is being arrested in the last fortnight. The precentor was assassinated last night in the library of Saint Christopher’s Chapel, and only a week ago, old Ulmet Elias, the sacrificer, was similarly murdered in the Rue des Juifs. Some days before that Christina Haas, the old midwife, was also killed, as well as the agate dealer Seligmann of the Rue Durlach. So look out for yourself, dear Kasper, and see that your passport is all right.”

While she was speaking, Dame Gredel’s voice came again from below: “Annette! will you come here? The good-for-nothing child, leaving me to do all the work!”

And the sound of men’s voices calling for wine, beer, ham, or sausages mingled with her own. Further delay was out of the question. Annette hastened down the stairs, crying as she went: “Goodness, ma’am! what has happened? One would think that the house were afire!” Wilfred crossed the room and closed the door behind her; then returning to his chair, we looked at each other, not without a feeling of apprehension.