song win its meed of applause and laughter, every little figure act with
the spirit and gayety of life. The other self hovered somewhere in the air
among the rafters of the hall, critically watching the whole scene. He
remembered a sensation something like it when he and Cimarron had crossed
a mountain torrent in Spain on a log a hundred and fifty feet above the
jagged rocks and tearing waters. And as on that occasion, Cimarron did his
part as calmly and indifferently as if he were mending a strap in the
donkey's harness.

Certainly the play was a success. Giovanni had never met with greater
applause or received more substantial rewards. The ladies gathered to
inspect his wooden figures after the play, like children at a fair. He was
just leaving the hall when a page came to him and directed him to wait in
an ante-room until the Emperor should be at leisure.

It was cold and bleak, and Giovanni's tense nerves shivered as he waited.
The noise of departing guests and the tramp of hoofs died away. It grew
colder and stiller in the small grim room. At last the Emperor came in,
and seated himself in a great chair. A servant brought in a brazier full
of coals and went away. The ruler of the Holy Roman Empire, a small man
with red hair and beard, and cold eyes, looked Giovanni over from head to
foot.

"You go," he said, "to the court of Henry Duke of Saxony?"

"Aye, Sire," said the youth.

"It is not a very safe journey. There are robbers in the forest."

"Surely," said Giovanni humbly, "a poor showman might hope to escape