baron a hundred thousand dollars, he
would not sell you the property he inherited from his father," said a
sharp voice behind him. He angrily turned; the dream was gone; he stood
on the dusty highway, and saw a meanly-dressed youth, with a great
bundle under his arm, looking at him with cool familiarity.

"Is it you, Veitel Itzig?" cried Anton, without showing much pleasure at
the meeting. Indeed, young Itzig was by no means a pleasant apparition,
pale, haggard, red-haired, and shabbily clothed as he was. He came from
Ostrau, and had been a schoolfellow of Anton's, who had once fought a
battle on his behalf, and had stood between the young Jew and the
general ill-will of the other boys. But of late they had seldom met,
just often enough to give Itzig an opportunity of keeping up in some
measure their old schooldays' familiarity.

"They say that you are going to the great city to learn business," added
Veitel; "to be taught how to twist up paper bags and sell treacle to old
women. I am going there too, but _I_ mean to make my fortune."

To this Anton replied, dryly enough, "Go, then, and make it, and do not
let me detain you."

"There's no need to hurry," said the other, carelessly; "I will walk on
with you, if you are not ashamed of my dress." This appeal to our hero's
humanity was successful, and, casting a last look at the castle, he went
on his way, his unwelcome companion a foot or so behind him. At length
he turned, and inquired who the proprietor was.

Itzig displayed wonderful familiarity with the subject. The baron, said
he, had only two children, large flocks, and a clear estate. His son was
at a military school. Finally, observing Anton's interest, he remarked,
"If you wish for his property, I will buy it for you."

"Thanks," was the cold reply. "You have just told me he was not disposed
to sell."

"When a man is not disposed to sell, he must be forced to do so."

"You are the very person to force him, I suppose," replied Anton,
thoroughly out of patience.

"Whether I am or not, does not signify; there is a receipt for making
any man sell."

"What! can they be bewitched, or given some magic potion?" asked Anton,
contemptuously.

"A hundred thousand dollars is a potion that can work wonders; but a
poor man must get hold of a secret to accomplish his ends. Now, I am on
my way to town to get at the knowledge of this secret. It is all
contained in certain papers, and I will search for those papers til