‘By Jove!’ exclaimed the Emperor excitedly, as he critically scanned the mysterious figure, ‘I could swear those were thy dark curls clustering round thine ears!’ ‘Curls are common enough, Sire, and dark hair is no rarity in thy realms,’ replied Swami evasively, who seemed a little put out at the king’s speech. Felicitas gazed with feelings of wonder and envy, intermingled with regret, upon the picture which glowed with resplendent colouring; every figure in which presented such an apparent natural roundness that it was difficult to imagine they were not endowed with life and motion. The lineaments of those with whom he was acquainted were so exactly delineated, and the natural pose and bearing of each individual so vividly represented that he was impelled to put out his hand to touch one of them. ‘Hold!’ exclaimed Swami quickly, ‘touch it not, or thou art a dead man! The shock would kill thee instantly, for these psychodevelopments are wrought and illumined by strong frictional electricity of the deadliest kind; the current of which is so powerful that it infinitely exceeds that of forked lightning.’ ‘Ha!’ ejaculated Felicitas paling, ‘it is certainly foolhardy to meddle with such trickery; but, in truth, I had forgotten myself completely. It is without doubt the most beautiful creation I have ever seen! How wonderfully art thou endowed, Swami, I would I were only half as gifted as thou art.’ Then, the Emperor fixing his gaze upon the beauteous face of Mercia, who formed the central figure in the scene, and whose countenance expressed the sweetest grace and modesty; commenced to thus apostrophise her—‘This then is the end and issue of my suit——’ ‘Which suit, thy lovesuit, or thy lawsuit?’ interrupted Swami lightly; for the Emperor’s love-raptures for some reason annoyed him. ‘Which suit?’ repeated Felicitas dreamily. ‘Both suits, I suppose,’ added Swami laughingly. ‘Ah truly,’ sighed the Emperor, ‘the twain have proved an utter failure. I thought to bring her low—to humiliate her—to place her in such a position as would force her to accept my royal clemency and bounty; but alas, I have only brought about a public triumph for her, and public dishonour to myself! Oh, Swami let not this be the finishing scene; thou art all-powerful, make another wherein Mercia is my bride, the crowned Empress of the Teutonic Empire.’ ‘Be it so, Sire, a fourth picture shall appear wherein the completion of her triumph shall be projected. Retire a few moments, and I will conjure it presently.’