The master of the castle was in a condition of strange excitement; he could not sleep. He took the candle, and walked through all the apartments to plan their future distribution, and to find out where Eva would be most comfortable. He first entered his library; it was a magnificent apartment, the shelves, containing books, reached up to the ceiling. The newest poets and authors of Germany, bearing well-known names, were not missing. Blanden esteemed it to be his duty to buy their works--a duty towards literature, which but few of his equals recognised. In addition to these he also possessed all the newest foreign classics, numberless political, historical and philosophical works. A division that occupied one entire wall, was filled with works of travel of all descriptions; on one spot he perceived a conspicuous gap; several volumes were missing--who could have borrowed them? A stuffed royal tiger, which he himself had killed on the coast of Coromandel, stood before the shelves; beside it several stuffed Asiatic birds, amongst them one of Paradise, whose splendid tail sparkled in the light of the lamp which Blanden held in his hand. Then he imagined that a small piece of paper was placed in the rare bird's bill; it was no delusion, he seized the paper and read the following words, traced upon it in unfamiliar handwriting-- "The bird of Paradise, according to the legends of Eastern nations, has no feet; such a bird of Paradise is the happiness of love. It may not take a firm foothold upon earth, else its sparkling brilliancy, its Argus-eyed splendour, its Paradise will be lost to it." Blanden was astonished. Who could have written these lines? How came they hither? Was it a warning which met him just when he was about to found a lasting happiness upon earth? Yet it was impossible--no one even knew of it as yet. He examined the other birds, and even at last the royal tiger, whether they, perhaps, could belong to the race of speaking animals and were supplied with significant notes; but all these creatures preserved unoffending silence. A lion's skin was extended as a rug before the library table, towards which Blanden stepped, and whereon he perceived three open volumes were lying; they were plainly those works of travel which were missing from the shelf, writings upon Italy. The opened chapters treated of Lago Maggiore; red roses lay between the pages. Blanden almost started affrightedly at the spirit which, during his absence, had bewitched his castle. Who could know of that secret meeting on the Lago Maggiore? The amber merchant, who pretended to have met him on the shores of that lake once, rose to his mind. Yet, the red roses and the very pregnant sentence could have no connection with that disagreeable companion. Thoughtfully, Blanden examined the handwriting--it seemed to be that of some woman.