Old Walther was exceedingly vexed at the occurrence of such scenes in his house. As he had been obliged already at table to give up the Unknown, so he now gave up the thought of ever proposing the young painter as his son-in-law. He addressed himself in a pacifying tone to the stranger, who in his anger was bestowing a greater degree of attention on the Höllenbreughel than he would otherwise have done. "Is it not," he began, "an excellent picture of its kind?" "The finest of this master I ever saw," answered the young man, out of humour. He took his glass to his assistance to examine it more accurately. "What is this?" cried he, suddenly. "Do you see, where the legs of the two devils and the fiery tail of the third come together, there is formed a face, a truly strange expressive profile, and, if I am not mistaken, a striking likeness of your old friend the worthy artist?" All crowded to the place; no one had remarked this singular device. The rogue, Eulenböck, acted surprise most to the life. "That a memorial of me," said he, "should be preserved in this singular remembrancer, I could never have dreamt; if the spiteful painter had a presentiment of my profile, it was too cruel to make this fiery tail just form my nose, though it has a reddish tinge." "The thing," said Erich, "is so singularly introduced, that one really cannot ascertain whether it be design or mere accident." Walther examined the profile in the picture, then perused the physiognomy of his friend, shook his head, grew pensive, and made his bow with an absent air when the stranger took his leave with Eulenböck, who had begged his company to shew him his paintings. "What is the matter with you?" asked Erich, who had stayed behind with the old gentleman in the saloon. "You seem out of humour at this curious sport of chance which extorted laughter from all of us; the sot is surely sufficiently punished by having his portrait so nicely formed by this devil's crew."