ck could reflect on
the causes which gave this new turn to his thoughts. The defeat he had
sustained--his insane anger against his Straduarius--his attempt at
suicide--his meeting with the stranger, and his extraordinary
disappearance amidst the waves of the lake.

But, with the exception of the first of these incidents, had any of them
really happened? He could not believe it. Was it not rather the sport of
a deceitful dream? His fiddle--he held it in his hands--he never _could_
have broken it. In fact, the beginning of it all was his despair at
being beaten, and he was indebted to his excited imagination for the
rest--the suicide, the lake, and the mysterious Unknown.

"That must be it," he cried at last, delighted at finding a solution to
the mystery, and walking joyously up and down his chamber. "I have had a
horrible dream--a dream with my eyes open; that is all."

Two gentle taps at the door made him start; but the visitor was only one
of the brewery boys, who gave him a letter from the burgomaster.

"Yoran, did you see me go out about two hours ago?" asked Frederick
anxiously.

"No, meinheer," said the boy.

"And you did not see me come in?"

"No, meinheer."

"That's all right," said the youth, signing for Yoran to retire. "Now,
then," he said, "there can be no doubt whatever that it was all a
dream." Opening the burgomaster's letter, he ran through it in haste.
The first magistrate of Haarlem informed Frederick Katwingen that he had
an important communication to make to him, and requested him to come to
his house.

The musician again placed his lips on his instrument, and again pressed
it gratefully to his heart; and then placed it with the utmost care
within its beautiful case, which he covered with a rich cloth. Locking
the case, and looking at it as a mother might look at the cradle of her
new-born baby, he betook himself to the mansion of Jansen Pyl.

That stately gentleman was luxuriously reposing in an immense armchair,
covered with Hungary leather. His two elbows rested on the arms and
enabled him to support in his hands the largest, the reddest, the
fattest face that had ever ornamented the configuration of a Dutch
functionary before. Mr Jansen Pyl wore at that moment the radiant look
of satisfaction which only a magistrate can assume who feels conscious
that he is in the full sunshine of the approbation of his sovereign. His
whole manner betrayed it--the smile upon his lip, the fidgety motio