ture of my own mind; yet there also I can trace the main outlines. The heat of passion was past; I was no longer in the stir of rivalry. I knew that it was through and because of Coralie that I had come into this position, and that Wetter had done what he had. But the thought of her, and the desire to conquer him in her favour or punish him for seeking it, were no more my foremost impulses. I can claim no feeling so natural, so instinctive, so pardonable because so natural. I was angry with him. I had waived my rank and set aside my state; that still I was eager and glad to do; but I waived them and forgot them, because only thus could I avenge them. By his challenge, his insult, his defiance, he had violated what I held sacred in me, and almost the only thing that I held sacred. I hear now the Englishman's mocking epithet in my ears—"Mediæval!" I did not hear it then. Wetter had insulted the King; the King would cease to be the King to punish him. I had this cool anger in my heart when I went with Vohrenlorf to the Pavilion at six in the morning. But half the bitterness of it was due to my own inmost knowledge that my acts had led him on; that, if he had committed the sacrilege, my hand had flung open the doors of the shrine. He had defaced the image; it was I who had taught him no more to reverence it. Because he reminded me of this, I thought that I hated him, as we took our way to the Pavilion.
Men who have been through many of these affairs have told me that on the first occasion they felt some fear, or, at least, an excitement so great as to seem like fear. I recollect no such feeling. This was not because I was especially courageous or more indifferent to death than other men; it did not occur to me
