the world of music; continued to play on until the walls echoed again; thus he chanced to touch the Signora somewhat ungently with his arm and the fiddle-bow.  She leapt back full of fury, shrieking that he was a “German brute,” snatched the violin from his hands, and dashed it on the marble table into a thousand pieces.  Krespel stood like a statue of stone before her; but then, as if awakening out of a dream, he seized her with the strength of a giant and threw her out of the window of her own house, and, without troubling himself about anything more, fled back to Venice—­to Germany.  It was not, however, until some time had elapsed that he had a clear recollection of what he had done; although he knew that the window was scarcely five feet from the ground, and although he was fully cognizant of the necessity, under the above-mentioned circumstances, of throwing the Signora out of the window, he yet felt troubled by a sense of painful uneasiness, and the more so since she had imparted to him in no ambiguous terms an interesting secret as to her condition.  He hardly dared to make inquiries; and he was not a little surprised about eight months afterwards at receiving a tender letter from his beloved wife, in which she made not the slightest allusion to what had taken place in her country house, only adding to the intelligence that she had been safely delivered of a sweet little daughter the heartfelt prayer that her dear husband and now a happy father would come at once to Venice.  That, however, Krespel did not do; rather he appealed to a confidential friend for a more circumstantial account of the details, and learned that the Signora had alighted upon the soft grass as lightly as a bird, and that the sole consequences of the fall or shock had been psychic.  That is to say, after Krespel’s heroic deed she had become completely altered; she never showed a trace of caprice, of her former freaks, or of her teasing habits; and the composer who wrote for the next carnival was the happiest fellow under the sun, since the Signora was willing to sing his music without the scores and hundreds of changes which she at other times had insisted upon.  “To be sure,” added his friend, “there was every reason for preserving the secret of Angela’s cure, else every day would see lady singers flying through windows.”  The Councillor was not a little excited at this news; he engaged horses; he took his seat in the carriage.  “Stop!” he cried suddenly.  “Why, there’s not a shadow of doubt,” he murmured to himself, “that as soon as Angela sets eyes upon me again, the evil spirit will recover his power and once more take possession of her.  And since I have already thrown her out of the window, what could I do if a similar case were to occur again?  What would there be left for me to do?” He got out of the carriage, and wrote an affectionate letter to his wife, making graceful allusion to her tenderness in especially dwelling upon the fact that his tiny daughter had, like him, a little mole behind the ear,