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“I still believe that I stopped here. ‘To-morrow night our compact will be concluded,’ whispered Aurora, and I felt that she was about to vanish from my arms. I pressed her to me with greater force, she seemed to struggle in vain, when suddenly–I awoke from deep slumber, thinking of the Devil Amor, and the seductive Biondetta. What I had done in that fatal night fell heavily upon my soul. I thought of that unholy invocation by the horrible O’Malley, of the warnings of my pious young friend. I believed that I was in the toils of the evil one–that I was lost. Torn to the very depth of my soul, I sprang up and hastened into the open air. In the street I was met by the major, who held me fast while he said: ‘I congratulate you, lieutenant! To tell you the truth, I scarcely gave you credit for so much courage and resolution; you outstrip your master.’ Glowing with rage and shame, incapable of uttering a single word, I freed myself from his grasp and pursued my way. The major laughed behind me, and I could detect the scornful laughter of Satan. In the road near those fatal ruins, I perceived a veiled female form, who, lying under a tree, seemed absorbed in a soliloquy. I approached her cautiously, and overheard the words: ‘He is mine, he is mine–Oh! bliss of heaven! Even the last trial he has withstood. If men are capable of such love, what is our wretched existence without it?’ You may guess that it was Aurora whom I found. She threw back her veil, and love itself cannot be more charming. The delicate paleness of her cheeks, the glance that was sublimed into the sweetest melancholy, made me tremble with unspeakable pleasure. I felt ashamed of my dark thoughts; yet at the very moment when I wished to throw myself at her feet, she had vanished like a form of mist. At the same time I heard a sound in the hedges, as of one clearing one’s throat, and out stepped my honest Eulenspiegel, Paul Talkebarth. ‘Whence did the devil bring you, fellow?’ I began.

“‘No, no,’ said he, with that queer smile which you know, ‘the devil did not bring me here, but very likely he met me. You went out so early, gracious lieutenant, and had forgotten your pipe and tobacco, and I thought so early in the morning, in the damp air–for my aunt at Genthin used to say–‘

“‘Hold your tongue, prattle, and give me that,’ cried I, as I made him hand me the lighted pipe. Scarcely, however, had we proceeded a few paces, than Paul began again very softly, ‘My aunt at Genthin used to say, the Root-mannikin (Wurzelmaennlein) was not to be trusted; indeed, such a chap was no better than an incubus or a chezim, and ended by breaking one’s heart. Old coffee Lizzy here in the suburbs–ah, gracious sir, you should only see what fine flowers, and men, and animals she can pour out. Man should help himself as he can, my aunt at Genthin used to say. I was yesterday with Lizzy and took her a little fine mocha. One of us has a heart as well as the rest–Becker’s Dolly is a pretty thing, but then there is something so odd about her eyes, so salamander-like’–

“‘What is that you say, fellow?’ I exclaimed, hastily. Paul was silent, but began again in a few seconds: ‘Yes, Lizzy is a good woman after all; she said, after she had looked at the coffee grounds, that there was nothing the matter with Dolly, and that the salamander look about the eyes came from cracknel-baking or the dancing-room; but, at the same time, she advised me to remain single, and told me that a certain good gentleman was in great danger. These salamanders, she said, are the worst sort of things that the devil employs to lure a poor human soul to destruction, because they have certain passions–ah, one must only stand firm and keep God in one’s heart–then I myself saw in the coffee grounds Major O’Malley quite like and natural.’