It was early; no one was in Count Peter’s bower—­the gardens were deserted.  I traversed all the well-known paths, and penetrated even to the dwelling-house itself.  The same rustling sound became now more and more audible.  With anguished feelings I sat down on a seat placed in the sunny space before the door, and actually felt some invisible fiend take a place by me, and heard him utter a sarcastic laugh.  The key was turned in the door, which was opened.  The forest-master appeared with a paper in his hand.  Suddenly my head was, as it were, enveloped in a mist.  I looked up, and, oh horror! the grey-coated man was at my side, peering in my face with a satanic grin.  He had extended the mist-cap he wore over my head.  His shadow and my own were lying together at his feet in perfect amity.  He kept twirling in his hand the well-known parchment with an air of indifference; and while the ranger, absorbed in thought, and intent upon his paper, paced up and down the arbour, my tormentor confidentially leaned towards me, and whispered, “So, Mr. Schlemihl, you have at length accepted my invitation; and here we sit, two heads under one hood, as the saying is.  Well, well, all in good time.  But now you can return me my bird’s nest—­you have no further occasion for it; and I am sure you are too honourable a man to withhold it from me.  No need of thanks, I assure you; I had infinite pleasure in lending it to you.”  He took it out of my unresisting hand, put it into his pocket, and then broke into so loud a laugh at my expense, that the forest-master turned round, startled at the sound.  I was petrified.  “You must acknowledge,” he continued, “that in our position a hood is much more convenient.  It serves to conceal not only a man, but his shadow, or as many shadows as he chooses to carry.  I, for instance, to-day bring two, you perceive.”  He laughed again.  “Take notice, Schlemihl, that what a man refuses to do with a good grace in the first instance, he is always in the end compelled to do.  I am still of opinion that you ought to redeem your shadow and claim your bride (for it is yet time); and as to Rascal, he shall dangle at a rope’s end—­no difficult matter, so long as we can find a bit.  As a mark of friendship I will give you my cap into the bargain.”

The mother now came out, and the following conversation took place:  “What is Minna doing?” “She is weeping.”  “Silly child! what good can that do?” “None, certainly; but it is so soon to bestow her hand on another.  O husband, you are too harsh to your poor child.”  “No, wife; you view things in a wrong light.  When she finds herself the wife of a wealthy and honourable man, her tears will soon cease; she will waken out of a dream, as it were, happy and grateful to Heaven and to her parents, as you will see.”  “Heaven grant it may be so!” replied the wife.  “She has, indeed, now considerable property; but after the noise occasioned by her unlucky affair with that adventurer, do you imagine that she