by all manner of rogueries and waggeries, so to uplift the student Anselmus that he at last quite forgot his bashfulness, and jigged round the room with the light-headed maiden.  But here again the Demon of Awkwardness got hold of him; he jolted a table, and Veronica’s pretty little work-box fell to the floor.  Anselmus picked it up; the lid had sprung, and a little round metallic mirror was glittering on him, into which he looked with peculiar delight.  Veronica glided softly up to him, laid her hand on his arm, and, pressing close to him, looked over his shoulder into the mirror also.  And now Anselmus felt as if a battle were beginning in his soul; thoughts, images flashed out—­Archivarius Lindhorst—­Serpentina—­the green Snake—­at last the tumult abated, and all this chaos arranged and shaped itself into distinct consciousness.  It was now clear to him that he had always thought of Veronica alone; nay, that the form which had yesterday appeared to him in the blue chamber had been no other than Veronica; and that the wild legend of the Salamander’s marriage with the green Snake had merely been written down by him from the manuscript, but nowise related in his hearing.  He wondered not a little at all these dreams and ascribed them solely to the heated state of mind into which Veronica’s love had brought him, as well as to his working with Archivarius Lindhorst, in whose rooms there were, besides, so many strangely intoxicating odors.  He could not but laugh heartily at the mad whim of falling in love with a little green Snake and taking a well-fed Privy Archivarius for a Salamander:  “Yes, Yes!  It is Veronica!” cried he aloud; but on turning his head around he looked right into Veronica’s blue eyes, from which warmest love was beaming.  A faint soft Ah! escaped her lips, which at that moment were burning on his.

“O happy I!” sighed the enraptured student:  “What I yesternight but dreamed, is in very deed mine today.”

“But wilt thou really wed me, then, when thou art Hofrat?” said Veronica.

“That I will,” replied the student Anselmus; and just then the door creaked, and Conrector Paulmann entered with the words: 

“Now, dear Herr Anselmus, I will not let you go today.  You will put up with a bad dinner; then Veronica will make us delightful coffee, which we shall drink with Registrator Heerbrand, for he promised to come hither.”

“All, best Herr Conrector!” answered the student Anselmus, “are you not aware that I must go to Archivarius Lindhorst’s and copy?”

“Look you, Amice!” said Conrector Paulmann, holding up his watch, which pointed to half-past twelve.

The student Anselmus saw clearly that he was much too late for Archivarius Lindhorst; and he complied with the Corrector’s wishes the more readily as he might now hope to look at Veronica the whole day long, to obtain many a stolen glance and little squeeze of the hand, nay, even to succeed in conquering a kiss—­so high had the student Anselmus’ desires now mounted; he felt more and more contented in soul, the more fully he convinced himself that he should soon be delivered from all the fantastic imaginations, which really might have made a sheer idiot of him.