a now took possession of him. He had been "sold,"
"taken in," "done for." He saw it all. In a state of intoxication he
had lost his way, had been dragged into some vile den, stripped of his
clothes and valuables, and turned adrift upon the quiet town in this
shameless masquerade. How should he keep his appointment? how inform
the police of this outrage upon a stranger and an American citizen? how
establish his identity? Had they spared his papers? He felt feverishly
in his breast. Ah!--his watch? Yes, a watch--heavy, jewelled,
enamelled--and, by all that was ridiculous, FIVE OTHERS! He ran his
hands into his capacious trunk hose. What was this? Brooches, chains,
finger-rings,--one large episcopal one,--ear-rings, and a handful
of battered gold and silver coins. His papers, his memorandums, his
passport--all proofs of his identity--were gone! In their place was the
unmistakable omnium gatherum of an accomplished knight of the road. Not
only was his personality, but his character, gone forever.

It was a part of Mr. Clinch's singular experience that this last stroke
of ill fortune seemed to revive in him something of the brutal instinct
he had felt a moment before. He turned eagerly about with the intention
of calling some one--the first person he met--to account. But the house
that he had just quitted was gone. The wall! Ah, there it was, no
longer purposeless, intrusive, and ivy-clad, but part of the buttress
of another massive wall that rose into battlements above him. Mr. Clinch
turned again hopelessly toward Sammtstadt. There was the fringe of
poplars on the Rhine, there were the outlying fields lit by the same
meridian sun; but the characteristic chimneys of Sammtstadt were gone.
Mr. Clinch was hopelessly lost.

The sound of a horn breaking the stillness recalled his senses. He now
for the first time perceived that a little distance below him, partly
hidden in the trees, was a queer, tower-shaped structure with chains
and pulleys, that in some strange way recalled his boyish reading.
A drawbridge and portcullis! And on the battlement a figure in a
masquerading dress as absurd as his own, flourishing a banner and
trumpet, and trying to attract his attention.

"Was wollen Sie?"

"I want to see the proprietor," said Mr. Clinch, choking back his rage.

There was a pause, and the figure turned apparently to consult with
some one behind the battlements. After a moment he reappeared, and in a
perfunctory monotone, wit