and antique carvings.

The ceiling was low, with octagonal vaults like a cloister. On the
smoke-grimed walls, here and there, were mural paintings of knights in
armour, and fat peasants drinking, dimmed and half obliterated.
Beneath were legends and proverbs, printed in quaint, old-German
characters; while across one end, like a frieze, ran a ledge carven
with gargoyles, rude and misshapen. On the ledge were beer mugs of
every size and description, with queer tops and crooked handles.
Above, suspended from the ceiling by chains, hung a huge Fass; and from
the throats of the gargoyles, dragon and devil alike, dripped the beer,
turned on by small taps hidden.

In and out, among the tables, sped the waitresses in their Tyrolese
costume with its picturesque head-dress; and beyond lay the garden,
innumerable bulbs of light gleaming like fire-flies among the trees.

"Bitte um zwei Muenchener!"

"Sogleich, meine Herren."

"Ein Chartreuse und ein Pilsener!"

"Jawohl! Sofort!"

And the waitresses sped, vying with one another, coquetting with their
patrons, smiling gayly with sharp retorts; their eyes bright, their
trays laden with foaming beer mugs.

In one of the alcoves, far back in the shadow, sat two gentlemen. The
younger had removed his hat, and was pushing the hair impatiently back
from his brows. His eyes were dark and sleepy, half covered by the
brows, weighed down by the lids.

He was leaning on one elbow and responded languidly to his companion,
half heeding, toying with his hands, and strumming on the table with
his fingers, which were white, and supple, and full of magnetism.

Beside him lay a violin.

"You are nervous to-night, Velasco?"

"I am always nervous."

"What shall we eat and drink?"

"Donnerwetter--what you please! If I eat, I cannot play. Bring me
some of that Rhine wine, Fraeulein, the white in the slanting bottles,
and a plate of Pretzeln. No beer--bewahre!"

The Musician raised his hands with a shrug of his shoulders, and then
sank back in his former listless attitude.

"That is your Polish taste, Velasco. Try a bit of Schinken with me, or
a Stueckchen of Cervelat with cheese--eh? If you eat, you will be less
nervous, and your fingers will become warm. When you play, you are
abstinent as a priest before the mass."

The older man smoothed his beard, which was fast turning grey, and
lifted the beer mug to his lips.

"Ich danke!" said Velasco with irony: "My dear Kapell