Willing enough to accept this cheerful view, I flourished an imaginary
autograph upon the air with the end of my cane, and laughingly dismissed
the subject.

We then strolled back through the wood, treading the soft moss under our
feet, startling the brown lizards from our path and the squirrels from
the lower branches of the great trees, and, now and then, surprising a
plump little green frog, which went skipping away into the long grass,
like an animated emerald. Coming back to the gardens, we next lingered
for some time upon the terrace, admiring the superb panorama of
undulating woodland and cultivated champaign, which, seen through the
golden haze of afternoon, stretched out in glory to the remotest
horizon. To our right stood the prison-like chateau, flinging back the
sunset from its innumerable casements, and seeming to drink in the warm
glow at every pore of its old, red bricks. To our left, all lighted up
against the sky, rose the lofty tree-tops of the forest which we had
just quitted. Our shadows stretched behind us across the level terrace,
like the shadows of giants. Involuntarily, we dropped our voices. It
would have seemed almost like profanity to speak aloud while the first
influence of that scene was upon us.

Going on presently towards the verge of the terrace, we came upon an
artist who, with his camp-stool under his arm, and his portfolio at his
feet, was, like ourselves, taking a last look at the sunset before going
away. As we approached, he turned and recognised us. It was Herr Franz
Müller, the story-telling student of the _Chicards_ club.

"Good-afternoon, gentlemen," said he, lifting his red cap, and letting
it fall back again a little on one side. "We do not see many such