"You know!--ah, indeed!" replied the professor, with a Mephistophelian smile, which gleamed unpleasantly behind his glasses. "Oh, well; then the hardest part of my task has been performed by others. Well, sir, if you know it already I will not detain you by telling you how the first spark of suspicion fell into my simple soul; how subsequent observations fanned this into a bright flame, which threatened to consume this heart of mine, that only beats for the welfare of my brethren [here the professor laid his hand with its black glove on the left side]. I dared not forbid my wife all intercourse with the person in question. You know, sir, poetic minds are apt to be eccentric, and the æsthetic standpoint from which----" "But I pray you, professor, come to the point," said Cloten, who was standing upon coals. "What was on the paper?" "Why, you see," said Jager, opening the paper, "it is the rough sketch of a poem, which I found quite wet yet on my wife's bureau; the servant told me she had just left the house to pay a visit. Shall I read it to you?" "Yes; in the devil's name!" cried Cloten, who hardly knew what he was saying. Professor Jager arranged his spectacles carefully on his nose, drew the light somewhat nearer, and read, in a half-loud, rattling voice, while the young nobleman was looking over his shoulder: "'Grunwald, December 10, 1847.' You see the date corresponds exactly. 'FOR THE ALBUM OF AN ESCAPING PRISONER. 'You flee!--by the light of the twinkling stars, In rapturous flight through Cimmerian night; You flee! and alas I would break all the bars, I, who have watched over you day and night! But terrible bonds have forged me a chain, Which ever in bondage will here me retain. You flee!--and I stay in Cimmerian night.' "You see this poetical eccentricity of a soul generally chaste and full of affection," said the professor, who had read the last lines with a somewhat unsteady voice. "Go on! go on!" urged Cloten, whose sufferings made him indifferent to the sufferings of others. The professor continued: "'You flee! and the icicles glitter so bright, The hoofs now thunder on quivering ice, You are not frightened by terrible night, You follow the lurings of glorious price. You flee! and you do what is proper and right! Why should you remain with a wretched wight A puppet of wood on a couch of ice?'" "That is meant for me!" said Cloten, furiously, grinding his teeth. "Certainly, certainly!" said the professor; "but listen: