s. They jumped, and twirled, and tottered, and
stumbled, and straddled, and strutted, and swaggered along the gallery,
and then vanished behind one of the doors. But few of the beholders had
been able to laugh: so utterly were they amazed by the strange sight.
Suddenly a piercing shriek burst from one of the rooms, and there rushed
forth into the blood-red glow of the sunset the pale bride, in a short
white frock, round which wreaths of flowers were waving, with her lovely
bosom all uncovered, and her rich locks streaming through the air. As
though mad, with rolling eyes and distorted face, she darted along the
gallery, and, blinded by terror, could find neither door nor staircase;
and immediately after rushed Emilius in chase of her, with the sparkling
Turkish dagger in his high, upraised hand. Now she was at the end of the
passage; she could go no further; he reached her. His masked friends and
the gray old woman were running after him. But he had already furiously
pierced her bosom, and cut through her white neck; her blood spouted
forth into the radiance of the setting sun. The old woman had clasped
round him to tear him back; he struggled with her, and hurled himself
together with her over the railing, and they both fell, almost lifeless,
down at the feet of the relations who had been staring in dumb horror at
the bloody scene. Above and below, or hastening down the stairs and
along the galleries, were seen the hideous masks, standing or running
about in various clusters, like fiends of hell.

Roderick took his dying friend in his arms. He had found him in his
wife's room playing with the dagger. She was almost dressed when he
entered. At the sight of the hated red bodice his memory had rekindled;
the horrible vision of the night had risen upon his mind; and gnashing
his teeth he had sprung after his trembling flying bride, to avenge that
murder and all those devilish doings. The old woman, ere she expired,
confessed the crime that had been wrought; and the gladness and mirth of
the whole house were suddenly changed into sorrow and lamentation and
dismay.

LUDWIG TIECK.

The author of the foregoing tale, Ludwig Tieck, has lately been
introduced to the English reader by an admirable translation of his two
exquisite little novels, _The Pictures_ and _The Betrothing_. He is one
among the great German writers who made their appearance during the last
ten years of the eighteenth century; a period--whether from