No sooner did Peregrine perceive his friend than he let go of the microscopist, and, going up to him, asked anxiously if that strange frenzy were over which had so dangerously possessed him. Pepusch seemed softened almost to tears, and protested that he had not in all his life committed so many follies as in the course of that one day. Amongst these not the least was, that after he had sent a ball through his head in the forest, he had gone into a tavern,--where he did not know,--had talked to people of strange things, and murderously set upon the host, because, from his broken speech, he gathered that which was the very happiest thing that could befall him. All his paroxysms would now soon have reached the highest pitch, for the bystanders had taken his words for insanity, and he had to fear, instead of reaping the fruit of the happiest event, that he would be confined in a madhouse. With this he explained what the host had let drop concerning Peregrine's conduct and declarations, and asked, with downcast eyes, whether such an act of self-denial, in favour of an unhappy friend, was probable, or even possible, in the present day, when heroism had vanished from the earth. At these declarations from his companion, Peregrine revived in his inmost heart. He protested with warmth, that for his part he was far removed from doing any thing that might in the least annoy his tried friend; that he solemnly renounced all pretensions to the heart and hand of the fair Dörtje Elverdink, and willingly gave up a paradise, though it had, indeed, opened upon him most seductively. "And it was you," said Pepusch, rushing into his friend's arms,--"it was you that I would have murdered, and, because I did not believe you, I therefore shot myself. Oh, the madness of a mind ill at ease!" "I pray you," said Peregrine, "I pray you come to your senses. You speak of having shot yourself, and yet stand fresh and sound before me. How do these things agree?" "You are right," replied Pepusch, "it seems as if I could not speak to you so rationally as I really do, if I had actually sent a ball through my brain. The people, too, maintain that my pistols were not particularly dangerous, nor, indeed, of iron, but of wood--in fact mere toys--and so neither the duel nor the suicide could have been any thing more than a pleasant mockery. We must have changed our parts; and I have begun to mystify myself and play the child at the moment you have left the world of dream to enter into real life. But be this as it may, it is requisite that I should be certain of your generosity and my fortune, and then the clouds will dissipate which trouble my sight, or perhaps deceive me with the illusions of the _Fata Morgana_. Come, my Peregrine, accompany me to the fair Dörtje Elverdink."