He opened a door at the farther end of the library, and introduced them to a room of a different character. The sun, which was shining brightly, lent additional brilliancy to the rainbow-tinted birds of paradise, the crimson maccaws, and the green parroquets that glistened on the Indian paper, which covered not only the walls, but also the ceiling of the room. Over the fireplace a black frame, projecting from the wall, and mournfully contrasting with the general brilliant appearance of the apartment, inclosed a picture of a beautiful female; and bending over its frame, and indeed partly shadowing the countenance, was the withered branch of a tree. A harpsichord and several cases of musical instruments were placed in different parts of the room; and suspended by broad black ribbons from the wall, on each side of the picture, were a guitar and a tambourine. On a sofa of unusual size lay a Cremona; and as Mr. Beckendorff passed the instrument he threw by its side the bow, which he had hitherto carried in his hand. “We may as well now take something,” said Mr. Beckendorff, when his guests had sufficiently admired the room; “my pictures are in my dining-room; let us go there.” So saying, and armed this time not only with his bow but also with his violin, he retraced his steps through the library, and crossing a small passage which divided the house into two compartments, he opened the door into his dining-room. The moment they entered the room their ears were saluted, and indeed their senses ravished, by what appeared to be a concert of a thousand birds; yet none of the winged choristers were to be seen, and not even a single cage was visible. The room, which was simply furnished, appeared at first rather gloomy; for, though lighted by three windows, the silk blinds were all drawn. “And now,” said Mr. Beckendorff, raising the first blind, “you shall see my pictures. At what do you estimate this Breughel?” The window, which was of stained green glass, gave to the landscape an effect similar to that generally produced by the artist mentioned. The Prince, who was already puzzled by finding one who at the same time was both his host and his enemy so different a character from what he had conceived, and who, being by temper superstitious, considered that this preliminary false opinion of his was rather a bad omen, did not express any great admiration of the gallery of Mr. Beckendorff; but Vivian, who had no ambitious hopes or fears to affect his temper, and who was amused by the character with whom he had become so unexpectedly acquainted, good-naturedly humoured the fantasies of the Minister, and said that he preferred his picture to any Breughel he had ever seen. “I see you have a fine taste,” said Mr. Beckendorff, with a serious air, but in a courteous tone; “you shall see my Claude!” The rich yellow tint of the second window gave to the fanciful garden all that was requisite to make it look Italian.