Weakened, not hardened, he stepped out into the enchanted land, besprinkled with glimmering jewels, and among the tones which came dancing more rapturously to meet him, and would fain snatch his soul away and lift it up and set it on high places, so that it might look down into far and wide spring-times of life! Here on this once blessed soil he saw lying the shattered, trampled pearl-string of his future days. "O how happy we might have been this evening!" thought he, and looked into the bright Feast of Tabernacles, into the gilded but living branchwork,--into the green, flitting reflection, rocked by the night-wind, and into the wild-fire of burning bushes in the flowing waters. On the arched triumphal gates stood lights like heaven-descended constellations of the wain, and behind him the dark cloister-wall of Tartarus, which showed sublimely in its summits only single small lights; and, over beyond, the silent mountains sleeping in night, and here the noisy life of men, playing with the night-butterflies about the lamps! Thus does the fire within us of itself create in us the storm-wind which fans it still higher. The tones that floated by him spoke to him every thought which he would fain kill. As man sees himself, so does he often hear himself, in the presence of a sound of music. At this moment Liana went off some distance from the crowd with Augusti. "I will speak with her, then it will be over," said he to himself, as he drew near her, battling and wrestling with himself: he saw plainly that she wanted to be back again among strange listeners. "Liana, what have I then done to thee?" said he, with the deep-souled tone of a tender heart, bitterly despising the Lector's presence and powers. "Only do not desire an answer to-day, dear Count," said she, turning back, and took in haste Augusti's arm; but he remarked not that she did it to avoid sinking. Upon this he cast at the Lector a fiery look, hoping to be offended and then avenged,--left her in haste and silence;--the sweetest wine of love a hot ray had sharpened into vinegar;--and he slipped away, without knowing it, into the temple of dream. He went up and down therein, murmuring, "_Je ne suis qu'un songe_"; but was soon driven out into Tartarus by his disgust at so many copies of himself moving round with him, and by the eternal spring of tones flying after him, which just now beside the upturned flower-bed of life was so intolerable.