He was a man in whom some vein of superstition had outlived the cold reason and the cynical mockeries of the worldly experiences and opinions in which he was steeped. A shudder of cold ran through his blood as he opened his eyes upon that dim, tranquil, and vast apartment, with the stories of the Tannhäuser legend embroidered on the walls.
'I am he! I am he!' he thought incoherently, watching the form of the doomed knight speeding through the gloom and snow.
'How does the most high and honourable gentleman feel himself this morning?' asked of him, in German, a tall white-haired woman, who might have stepped down from an old panel of Metzu.
The simple commonplace question roused him from the mists of his fancies and fears, and realised to him the bare fact that he was a guest, unbidden, in the walls of Szaravola.
The physician also drew near his bed to question him; and a boy brought on a tray Rhine wine and Tokayer Ausbruck, coffee and chocolate, bread and eggs.
He broke his fast with a will, for he had eaten nothing since the day before at noon; and the Professor Greswold congratulated him on his good night's rest, and on his happy escape from the Szalrassee.
Then he himself said, with a little confusion:
'I saw a lady last night?'
'Certainly, you saw our lady,' said Greswold, with a smile.
'What do you call her?' he asked, eagerly.