“Brander!  Brander!” screamed a youth, whose face was hot and flushed with supper and with beer; “Brander, I say?  Thou art a Doctor!  No,—­a Pope;—­thou art a Pope, by—­”

These words were addressed to a pale, quiet-looking person, who sat opposite, and was busy in making a wretched, shaved poodle sit on his hind legs in a chair, by his master’s side, and hold a short clay pipe in his mouth,—­a performance to which the poodle seemed no wise inclined.

“Thou art challenged!” replied the pale Student, turning from his dog, who dropped the pipe from his mouth and leaped under the table.

Seconds were chosen on the spot; and the arms ordered; namely, six mighty goblets, or Bassglaser, filled to the brim with foaming beer.  Three were placed before each duellist.

“Take your weapons!” cried one of the seconds, and each of the combatants seized a goblet in his hand.

“Strike!”

And the glasses rang, with a salutation like the crossing of swords.

“Set to!”

Each set the goblet to his lips.

“Out!”

And each poured the contents down his throat, as if he were pouring them through a tunnel into a beer-barrel.  The other two glasses followed in quick succession, hardly a long breath drawn between.  The pale Student was victorious.  He was first to drain the third goblet.  He held it for a moment inverted, to let the last drops fall out, and then placing it quietly on the table, looked his antagonist in the face, and said;

“Hit!”

Then, with the greatest coolness, he looked under the table and whistled for his dog.  His antagonist stopped midway in his third glass.  Every vein in his forehead seemed bursting; his eyes were wild and bloodshot, his hand gradually loosened its hold upon the table, and he sank and rolled together like a sheet of lead.  He was drunk.

At this moment a majestic figure came stalking down the table, ghost-like, through the dim, smoky atmosphere.  His coat was off, his neck bare, his hair wild, his eyes wide open, and looking right before him, as if he saw some beckoning hand in the air, that others could not see.  His left hand was upon his hip, and in his right he held a drawn sword extended, and pointing downward.  Regardless of every one, erect, and with a martial stride he marched directly along the centre of the table, crushing glasses and overthrowing bottles at everystep.  The students shrunk back at his approach; till at length one more drunk, or more courageous, than the rest, dashed a glass full of beer into his face.  A general tumult ensued, and the student with the sword leaped to the floor.  It was Von Kleist.  He was renowning it.  In the midst of the uproar could be distinguished the offensive words;

“Arrogant!  Absurd!  Impertinent!  Dummer Junge!”

Von Kleist went home that night with no less than six duels on his hands.  He fought them all out in as many days; and came off with only a gash through his upper lip and another through his right eyelid from a dexterous Suabian Schlaeger.