INTRODUCTION.
The honest and peaceful inhabitants of Mannheim, the capital of the Palatinate, had long since retired to rest; the streets were deserted, and the houses wrapped in darkness. Only high up in the little bow window of a corner house on the Palace Square still glimmered a faint light like the subdued gleam of a lamp in a sick-chamber.
But the watch, who had just proclaimed at the corner in stentorian tones the third hour of the morning, knew better; and, as he entered the square, he again looked up at the illuminated window, gravely shaking his head.
“Mr. Schiller has not yet gone to bed,” said he to himself; “writing all night again, I suppose. But I will not stand it! Did I not promise Mr. Streicher that I would always look up at his window, and, whenever I found the light burning after one o’clock, protest against it? Well, then, I’ll try it to-night, and keep my word, as an honest man should.”
And in stentorian tones the watchman cried out, “Mr. Schiller! Halloo! Mr. Schiller!”
For a moment the window was darkened by a shadow, and then opened, and a hoarse voice demanded, “Who called? who called my name?”
“I, Mr. Schiller. I, the watchman, Fabian,” roared the man in response.
“And what do you desire of me, worthy guardian of the worthy city of Mannheim?”
“I wish to beg of you, Mr. Schiller, to be so good as to put out your light and go to bed.”