ained it frequently till their faces
glowed, and many a broad jest cast the reflection of this red upon the
delicate cheeks of the ladies. Tausdorf only sat still and wrapt up in
himself, and with his fork scratched letters on the pewter-dish before
him.

"What ails you?" said the mild Althea sportively, and passed her white
hand across his eyes. "You are not yourself, and cannot plead in excuse
that your thoughts are absent with the object of your passion, for she
sits by you in her honoured person, and you trouble yourself but little
about her."

"My good Althea!" sighed Tausdorf, and with a mournful smile kissed the
hand that caressed him.

"And what are you graving so earnestly upon the plate? I must see it,
and woe betide you if it should be the name of a fortunate rival."

She bent down more closely to read what he had written.

"_Memento mori!_ For God's sake, how is it that you are seized on a
sudden with these death-thoughts at a pleasure-banquet?"

"It is a way of mine to think on death in the midst of enjoyment. I
deem it pardonable at least, as in return one can blend with death the
thought of the eternal joy that waits us in the world beyond."

"My worthy Herr von Tausdorf," interrupted Christopher with a
disagreeable laugh, "I do not doubt your oratorical powers, or your
piety, and am convinced that you could, if you pleased, make an
excellent funeral sermon extempore; but that would be too dull an
entertainment with the full goblet: therefore take up the glass before
you, and pledge me as fairly as I pledge you to the health of your
noble bride."

Tausdorf seized the goblet, but again lost himself in a sea of thought,
and forgot to pledge.

"Well, dreamer," said the intended bride with good-humoured reproach,
"do you hesitate to drink the health of your Althea?"

He raised the cup mechanically, drank, and set it down again. Schindel,
who sat near him, was surprised.

"What is the matter with you, Tausdorf? I never saw you thus before?"

"I do not comprehend myself. An anxiety has possessed me, as if I were
to commit a murder. It must have been so that the poor king, Saul, felt
when the evil spirit was upon him. I am ashamed of this childish
feeling, and yet I can so little master it, that I shudder every time
the door opens, thinking that some great misfortune must enter under a
dreadful form."

"All this comes only of thick blood," replied Schindel; "you must be
bled."

As he spoke the