waiters were leaning idly up against the pillars let into the walls.

In a corner of the vaulted room sat a fiddler and a fine-featured
gipsy-girl with a zither; their instruments lay in their laps, and
they seemed to be looking about them with an air of indifference.

A champagne cork popped off at the table occupied by the students.
"Drink, my gipsy darling!" cried a young man of aristocratic
appearance, holding out to the girl a glass full of wine.

"I don't care about it," she said, without altering her position.

"Well, then, give us a song," cried the young nobleman, and threw a
silver coin into her lap. The girl slowly ran her fingers through her
black hair while the fiddler whispered in her ear. But she threw back
her head, and rested her chin on her zither.

"For him," she said, "I'm not going to play."

Reinhard leapt up with his glass in his hand and stood in front of
her.

"What do you want?" she asked defiantly.

"To have a look at your eyes."

"What have my eyes to do with you?"

Reinhard's glance flashed down on her. "I know they are false."