Berlin and Munich would have appeared the
same, no argument could be founded upon
his language. He never entered into the
subject himself, but spoke with equal
indifference of all the nations he had seen. He
had travelled to the farthest east and farthest
west. He had lived in the desert, and in
Delhi, and why in the world did he now live
at Memel? He didn't know. Nobody knew.
But here, in a quiet hotel, in Quay Street, he
had resided for some months; and having a
passion, as he told us, for the study of medicine
and anatomy, had joined the students
at the hospital, and was the most attentive
and laborious of us all. He was also the most
assiduous in his devotions to Dutch, Holland,
and Prussian Kershwasser; not that he
seemed to like the liquors themselves, but
that they furnished him with an escape from
the pains of reflection. He rushed into the
excesses of hilarity without for a moment
being raised in spirits, and continued to
be a death's- head, in the midst of the
gayest company- sad, silent, and at times
really appalling from the apparent intensity
of his grief. We were all, of course, busy
with conjecture as to the causes of this
perpetual gloom. Love, war, misfortune,
crime were each in their turn considered the
sources of his regret; but he was so distant in
manner, and perhaps so superior to us in age,
that we had never put a question, point
blank, to him upon the subject.

I don't know whether Camillus might justly
have been called good-looking. I should say
not, judging from my own impression; for, in
spite of correctness of feature, and elegance
of shape and movement, the effect, upon the
whole, was repulsive and painful. I always felt
that there was something wrong—something
inexpressibly unfitting in the fineness and
manliness of the outward form; and in the
uneasy, scared, almost savage look about the
eyes, and strange contracted action in the
muscles of the lips. It appeared as if the
spirit within him rebelled against its confinement,
and beat itself like a tiger against the
bars of its cage.

One dreadfully cold and dark day in
February, near the end of my year of
residence, the good-natured Rupert Braunfeldt
announced to us, with many chucklings
and congratulations, that a dreadful accident
had happened on board of a Danish ship in
the harbour, by the bursting of a gun, and
that one of the worst wounded of the survivors
had been brought to the hospital-ward.

"An excellent case," he said. " The splinters
have torn his muscles without much
injury to any of the great vessels, so that,
if he die, he will actually die of pain."

"Who is he? " said some one of our
set.

'' A passenger on board the packet,"
replied Rupert; " that's all I know,—a rich
fellow, too, for his pockets were well filled
with notes and thalers. A strong-minded
hero as ever died at the stake: for he
disdains to groan, though his agony must be
excruciating."

At seven o'clock we were all assembled in
Rupert's room; a vast kettle was piping on
the stove; bottles and tobacco-pouches were
ranged upon the table, and anxious
enquiries made as to the condition of our
interesting patient.

"He was left entirely to the good pleasure of
Dame Nature," said our host. " Doctor Wolfgang
had merely looked at him and pronounced
his case hopeless. A few anodynes
were to be administered; but even that was
left to the discretion of the resident curator.
The pain was increasing every minute; and, by
twelve at latest, the great struggle would
come on, and we should be spectators of a
good stand-up battle between the powers of
Life and Death."

Before mixing our first tumblers and lighting
our first pipes we resolved to visit the
subject of all this talk. We passed along the
long, narrow gallery I mentioned before; and,
opening the door at the end, found ourselves
in the first or private ward, in which there
was only one bed, arid that occupied by the
object of our search. Rupert held the candle
—the only light in the miserable apartment
except the faint beams of a dingy lamp at the
end of the second chamber beyond—which
shone in at the half-opened door. We heard
nothing except quick and convulsive breathing;
but,when the light was thrown upon the couch,
we saw a face so pale, so ghastly, that, for a
moment, human feeling took possession of our
hearts, and we were respectfully silent. There
was a startled wildness in the eye when he
became aware of our presence, and instantly,
by a great effort, he quelled the agonising
sounds we had heard, and, half raising himself,
cried out, " Not yet, not yet !—I am not
ready yet! " and then, recognising Rupert,
he changed his tone.

"Doctor! " he said, " I have been wandering
in my mind. Is there no hope in science?
Must I die in all this agony ?—tell me, tell
me! " Rupert, gently, compassionately, quite
different from his ordinary style, answered
him that there was reason to fear the worst;
but that some of the pain might be
alleviated, and that he was to continue as quiet
as possible.

"That cannot be," said the poor fellow.
"There can be no quiet for me—no, not
when the dread hour is past. I wish it
were come, for, if I survive to-night, worse,
far worse than death will come upon me
to-morrow. Oh, let me die at once!" I
turned away my eyes, but not without
being noticed by some of my companions.
One pulled out his snuff-box, and pretended
to hold it to my nose as if I were fainting.
Another took me under the arm as we left
the room; and, with mock attentiveness, led
me down the passage. They called me Miss
or the Fraulein, all the night, and I began to