In a low, sing-song, dreary tone, he began to recite the titles and dignities of the Emperor. I listened for a while; but as he got down to the Banat and Herzégovine, sleep overcame me, and I dozed away, waking up to hear him detailing what seemed his own greatness, how he was “Ober” this, and “Unter” that, till I fairly lost myself in the maze of his description. Judging from the monotonous, business-like persistence of his manner, that he had a long road before him, I wrapped myself comfortably in the bedclothes, closed my eyes, and soon slept.
There were two candles burning on the table when I next opened my eyes, and my friend the procurator was reading away as before. I tried to interest myself for a second or two; I rubbed my eyes, and endeavored to be wakeful; but I could not, and was fast settling down into my former state, when certain words struck on my ear and aroused me:
“The well-born Herr von Rigges further denounces the prisoner Harpar—”
“Read that again,” cried I, aloud, “for I cannot clearly follow what you say.”
“'The well-born Herr von Rigges, '” repeated he, “'further denounces the prisoner Harpar as one of a sect banded together for the darkest purposes of revolution!'”
“Forgive my importunity, Herr Procurator,” said I, in my most insinuating tone, “but in compassion for the weakness of faculties sorely tried by fever, will you tell me who is Rigges?”
“Who is Rigges? Is that your question?” said he, slowly.
“Yes, sir; that was my question.”
He turned over several pages of his voluminous report, and proceeded to search for the passage he wanted.
“Here it is,” said he, at last; and he read out: “'The so-called Rigges, being a well-born and not-the-less-from-a-mercantile-object-engaging pursuit highly-placed and much-honored subject of her Majesty the Queen of England, of the age of forty-two years and eight months, unmarried, and professing the Protestant religion.' Is that sufficient?”