Michael Petroff, on the contrary, had gone to bed with complete unconcern. He lay, with his arms under his head, and pondered over a suitable title for his next paper. For this time he would take the Doctor by surprise, he would catch him—just wait and see! What was the sense of a title like the Non-Partisan, if you please? Could one overcome this case-hardened Doctor with that? What? Oh, no, no. Surely not. The title must smell of fire and brimstone. It must be like the stroke of a sword, like the muzzle of a gun aimed at the Doctor—for Dr. März must be startled when he reads the title! And after much reflection, Michael Petroff decided that this time he would call his paper The Sword of the Archangel. He could plainly see this Archangel sweeping obliquely forward, with terrible fluttering garments and an appalling and angry mien, holding his sword with both hands somewhat backward above his head. And this sword, that was as sharp as a razor and very broad at the back, slit the firmament open and a steaming bloodred stream appeared. This steaming red stream gave Michael Petroff a feeling of luxurious delight. He sat up and said: "Just wait! Ha, ha!"
But suddenly he covered his eyes with his hand. A dim, longing pain had come over him, and he could not tell why.
"Michael Petroff—?" said he softly, "Michael Petroff—?" and the tears sprung to his eyes. And so, with his hand over his wet eyes and a confused sorrow in his heart, he fell asleep.
He was sleeping soundly when he was awakened by a knock at his door: "It is I, the attendant, don't be startled."
"What is it!"
The attendant stepped in and said in an undertone: "Dr. März told me to ask you to come. The teacher wants to speak to you."
"The teacher?"
"The 'Rajah,' you know."
"You do not know what he wants of me?"
"No, Dr. März has sent for you."