I obeyed: there was a humming noise in my ears, but my step was firm; and if my heart beat violently in my breast, it was certainly not with fear. As I entered, a tall black figure slowly rose from my father's large study-chair---my father allowed no sofa in his house--it was Professor Lederer. I stood near the door, my father to the right, by the stove, the professor at the writing-table in front of the lamp, so that his shadow reached from the ceiling to the floor, and fell directly upon me. No one moved or spoke; the professor wished to leave the first word to my father, and my father was under too much excitement to speak. In this way we stood for about half a minute, which seemed to me an eternity, and during which the certainty flashed into my mind that if the professor did not immediately leave the room and the house, all possible chance of an explanation between my father and myself was cut off. "Misguided young man," at last began the professor. "Leave me alone with my father, Herr Professor," I interrupted him. The professor looked at me as if he could not believe his ears. A delinquent, a criminal--for such I was in his eyes--to dare to interrupt his judge in such a tone, and with such a request--it was impossible. "Young man," he began again, but his tone was not as assured as the first time. "I tell you, leave us alone together," I cried with a louder voice, and making a motion towards him. "He is mad," said the professor, taking a hasty step backwards, which brought him in contact with the table. "Sirrah!" exclaimed my father, stepping quickly forward, as if to protect the professor from my violence. "If I am mad," I said, turning my burning eyes from one to the other, "so much the greater reason for leaving us alone." The professor looked round for his hat, which stood behind him on the table. "No; remain, remain," said my father, his voice quivering with passion. "Is this audacious boy again to have his insolent way? I have too long been culpably negligent; it is high time to take other measures." My father began to pace up and down the room, as he always did when violently agitated. "Yes, to take other measures," he continued. "This has gone on far too long. I have done all I could; I have nothing to reproach myself with; but I will not become a public by-word for the sake of a perverse boy. If he refuses to do what is his plain duty and obligation, then have I no further duty or obligation towards him; and let him see how he can get through the world without me." He had not once looked at me while he uttered these words in a voice broken with passion. Later in life I saw a painting representing the Roman holding his burning hand in the glowing coals, and looking sideways upon the ground with an expression of intensest agony. It brought at once into my mind the remembrance of my father at this fateful moment.