“And now I am at last alone,” said Eckhof; “now I must study my new role; now stand by me, ye gods, and inspire me with your strength; give me the right tone, the right emphasis to personate this rare and wonderful Hippolytus, with which I hope to win the stern professors of Halle!”

Walking backward and forward, he began to declaim the proud and eloquent verses of Corneille; he was so thoroughly absorbed that he did not hear the oft-repeated knock upon the door; he did not even see that the door was softly opened, and the young Lupinus stood blushing upon the threshold.  He stood still and listened with rapture to the pathetic words of the great actor; and as Eckhof recited the glowing and innocent confession of love made by Hippolytus, a burning blush suffused the cheek of the young student, and his eyes were filled with tears.  He overcame his emotion, and advanced to Eckhof, who was now standing before the glass, studying the attitude which would best accord with this passionate declaration.

“Sir,” said he, with a low and trembling voice, “pardon me for disturbing you.  I was told that I should find Eckhof in this room, and it is most important to me to see and consult with this great man.  I know this is his dwelling; be kind enough to tell me if he is within.”

“This is his home, truly, but he is neither a great nor a wise man; only and simply Eckhof the actor.”

“I did not ask your opinion of the distinguished man whom I honor, but only where I can find him.”

“Tell me first what you want of Eckhof.”

“What I want of him, sir?” said the youth, thoughtfully; “I scarcely know myself.  There is a mystery in my soul which I cannot fathom.  Eckhof has age, wisdom, and experience—­perhaps he can enlighten me.  I have faith in his eyes and in his silver beard, and I can say freely to him what I dare not say to any other.”

Eckhof laughed merrily.  “As to his white beard, you will find that in his wardrobe; his wisdom you will find in the books of the authors, to whose great thoughts he has only given voice; he is neither old, wise, nor experienced.  In short—­I, myself, am Eckhof.”

“You are Eckhof!” said Lupinus, turning deadly pale, and, stepping back a few paces, he stared with distended eyes at the actor, whose noble and intellectual face, glowing with youthful fire, was turned toward him.

“I am Eckhof, and I hope you will forgive me for being a little younger, a little browner, and somewhat less wise than the great Cato, in which character you no doubt saw me last night.  I dare hope that my confession will not shake your confidence in me; with my whole heart I beg you will tell me how I can be useful to you and what mystery you wish to have explained.”

“No, no!  I cannot explain,” cried the youth; “forgive me for having disturbed you.  I have nothing more to say.”  Confused and ashamed, Lupinus left the room.  The actor gazed after him wonderingly, convinced that he had been closeted with a madman.