I came down this morning in the most industrious mood, when the misfortune befell.  Close by the sanctum where the librarians sit are two desks where you write down the list of the books you want.  I was doing so at the right-hand desk, on which abuts the first row of tables.  Hence all the mischief.  Had I written at the left-hand desk, nothing would have happened.  But no; I had just set down as legibly as possible the title, author, and size of a certain work on Roman Antiquities, when, in replacing the penholder, which is attached there by a small brass chain, some inattentiveness, some want of care, my ill-luck, in short, led me to set it down in unstable equilibrium on the edge of the desk.  It tumbled-I heard the little chain rattle-it tumbled farther-then stopped short.  The mischief was done.  The sudden jerk, as it pulled up, had detached an enormous drop of ink from the point of the pen, and that drop—­Ah!  I can see him yet, as he rose from the shadow of the desk, that small, white-haired man, so thin and so very angry!

“Clumsy idiot!  To blot an Early Text!”

I leaned over and looked.  Upon the page of folio, close to an illuminated capital, the black drop had flattened itself.  Around the original sphere had been shed splashes of all conceivable shapes-rays, rockets, dotted lines, arrowheads, all the freakish impromptu of chaos.  Next, the slope lending its aid, the channels had drained into one, and by this time a black rivulet was crawling downward to the margin.  One or two readers near had risen, and now eyed me like examining magistrates.  I waited for an outbreak, motionless, dazed, muttering words that did not mend the case at all.  “What a pity!  Oh, I’m so sorry!  If I had only known—­” The student of the Early Text stood motionless as I. Together we watched the ink trickle.  Suddenly, summoning his wits together, he burrowed with feverish haste in his morocco writing-case, pulled out a sheet of blotting-paper, and began to soak up the ink with the carefulness of a Sister of Mercy stanching a wound.  I seized the opportunity to withdraw discreetly to the third row of tables, where the attendant had just deposited my books.  Fear is so unreasoning.  Very likely by saying no more about it, by making off and hiding my head in my hands, like a man crushed by the weight of his remorse, I might disarm this wrath.  I tried to think so.  But I knew well enough that there was more to come.  I had hardly taken my seat when, looking up, I could see between my fingers the little man standing up and gesticulating beside one of the keepers.  At one moment he rapped the damning page with his forefinger; the next, he turned sidewise and flung out a hand toward me; and I divined, without hearing a word, all the bitterness of his invective.  The keeper appeared to take it seriously.  I felt myself blushing.  “There must be,” thought I, “some law against ink-stains, some decree, some regulation, something drawn up for the protection of Early Texts.  And the penalty is bound to be terrible, since it has been enacted by the learned; expulsion, no doubt, besides a fine—­an enormous fine.  They are getting ready over there to fleece me.  That book of reference they are consulting is of course the catalogue of the sale where this treasure was purchased.  I shall have to replace the Early Text!  O Uncle Mouillard!”