Both turned as I came in, and Sigmund sprung up, but ere he had advanced two paces, paused and stood still, as if overcome with languor or weariness.
“Sigmund, I have come to see you,” said I, coming to the fire and greeting the old man, who welcomed me hospitably.
I took Sigmund’s hand; it was hot and dry. I kissed him; lips and cheeks were burning and glowing crimson. I swept the hair from his brow, that too was burning, and his temples throbbed. His eyes met mine with a strange, misty look. Saying nothing, I seated myself in a low chair near the fire, and drew him to me. He nestled up to me, and I felt that if Eugen could see us he would be almost satisfied. Sigmund did not say anything. He merely settled his head upon my breast, gave a deep sigh as if of relief, and closing his eyes, said:
“Now, Brunken, go on!”
“As I was saying, mein Liebling, I hope to prove all former theorists and writers upon the subject to have been wrong—”
“He’s talking about a Magrepha,” said Sigmund, still not opening his eyes.
“A Magrepha—what may that be?” I inquired.
“Yes. Some people say it was a real full-blown organ,” explained Sigmund, in a thick, hesitating voice, “and some say it was nothing better than a bag-pipe—oh, dear! how my head does ache—and there are people who say it was a kettle-drum—nothing more nor less; and Brunken is going to show that not one of them knew anything about it.”
“I hope so, at least,” said Brunken, with a modest placidity.
“Oh, indeed!” said I, glancing a little timidly into the far recesses of the deep, ghostly room, where the fire-light kept catching the sheen of metal, the yellow whiteness of ivory keys or pipes, or the polished case of some stringed instrument.