Registrator Heerbrand came, as he had promised, after dinner; and coffee being over, and the dusk come on, the Registrator, his face puckering up to a smile and gaily rubbing his hands, signified that he had something about him which, if mingled and reduced to form, as it were paged and titled, by Veronica’s fair hands, might be pleasant to them all, on this October evening.

“Come out, then, with this mysterious substance which you carry with, you, most valued Registrator,” cried Conrector Paulmann.  Then Registrator Heerbrand shoved his hand into his deep pocket, and at three journeys brought out a bottle of arrack, some citrons, and a quantity of sugar.  Before half an hour had passed, a savory bowl of punch was smoking on Paulmann’s table.  Veronica served the beverage; and ere long there was plenty of gay, good-natured chat among the friends.  But the student Anselmus, as the spirit of the punch mounted into his head, felt all the images of those wondrous things, which for some time he had experienced, again coming through his mind.  He saw the Archivarius in his damask nightgown, which glittered like phosphorus; he saw the azure room, the golden palm-trees; nay, it now seemed to him as if he must still believe in Serpentina; there was a fermentation, a conflicting tumult in his soul.  Veronica handed him a glass of punch; and in taking it, he gently touched her hand.  “Serpentina!  Veronica!” sighed he to himself.  He sank into deep dreams; but Registrator Heerbrand cried quite aloud:  “A strange old gentleman, whom nobody can fathom, he is and will be, this Archivarius Lindhorst.  Well, long life to him!  Your glass, Herr Anselmus!”

Then the student Anselmus awoke from his dreams, and said, as he touched glasses with Registrator Heerbrand “That proceeds, respected Herr Registrator, from the circumstance that Archivarius Lindhorst is in reality a Salamander, who wasted in his fury the Spirit-prince Phosphorus’ garden, because the green Snake had flown away from him.”

“How?  What?” inquired Conrector Paulmann.

“Yes,” continued the student Anselmus; “and for this reason he is now forced to be a Royal Archivarius, and to keep house here in Dresden with his three daughters, who, after all, are nothing more than little gold-green Snakes, that bask in elder-bushes, and traitorously sing, and seduce away young people, like so many sirens.”

“Herr Anselmus!  Herr Anselmus!” cried Conrector Paulmann, “is there a crack in your brain?  In Heaven’s name, what monstrous stuff is this you are babbling?”

“He is right,” interrupted Registrator Heerbrand; “that fellow, that Archivarius, is a cursed Salamander, and strikes you fiery snips from his fingers, which burn holes in your surtout like red-hot tinder.  Ay, ay, thou art in the right, brotherkin Anselmus; and whoever says No, is saying No to me!” And at these words Registrator Heerbrand struck the table with his fist, till the glasses rattled.