of their number, a Saxon painter, by name Carl
Solling, was about to take his departure for Italy. His place was
taken in the Halle mail, his luggage sent to the office, and the coach
was to call for him at midnight at the tavern, whither a number of his
most intimate friends had accompanied him, to drink a parting glass of
Rhenish wine to his prosperous journey.

Supper was over, and some magnificent melons, and peaches, and plates
of caviare, and other incentives to drinking, placed upon the table; a
row of empty bottles already graced the sideboard, while full ones of
that venerable cobweb-mantle appearance, so dear to the toper, were
forthcoming as rapidly as the thirstiest throats could desire. The
conviviality was at its height, and numerous toasts had been given,
among which the health of the traveller, the prosperity of the art
which he cultivated, and of the land of poetry and song to which he
was proceeding, had not been forgotten. Indeed, it was becoming
difficult to find any thing to toast, but the thirst of the party was
still unquenched, and apparently unquenchable.

Suddenly a young man started up, in dress and appearance the very
model of a German student--in short frock coat and loose sacklike
trousers, long curling hair hanging over his shoulders, pointed beard
and mustache, and the scars of one or two sabre cuts on his handsome
animated countenance.

"You want a toast, my friends!" cried he. "An excuse to drink, as
though drinking needed an excuse when the wine is good. I will give
you one, and a right worthy one too. Our noble selves here assembled;
all, so many as we are!" And he glanced round the table, counting the
number of the guests. "One, two, three, four--thirteen. We are
Thirteen. _Es lebe die Dreizehn!_"

He raised his glass, in which the golden liquor flashed and sparkled,
and set it down, drained to the last drop.

"_Thirteen!_" exclaimed a pale-faced, dark-eyed youth named Raphael,
starting from his seat, and in his turn counting the company. "'Tis
true. My friends, ill luck will attend us. We are Thirteen, seated at
a round table."

There was evidently an unpleasant impression made upon the guests by
this announcement. The toast-giver threw a scornful glance around
him--

"What!" cried he, "are we believers in such nursery tales and old
wives' superstitions? Pshaw! The charm shall soon be broken. Halls!
Franz! Winebutt! Thieving innkeeper! Rascally corkdrawer! where are
you h