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Rh “LLEZ, Fuchs! allez, lustig!” cried the impatient postilion to his horses, in accents which, like the wild echo of the Lurley Felsen, came first from one side of the river and then from the other,—that is to say, in words alternately French and German. The truth is, he was tired of waiting; and when Flemming had at length resumed his seat in the post-chaise, the poor horses had to make up the time he had lost in dreams on the mountain. This is far oftener the case than most people imagine. One half of the world must sweat and groan, that the other half may dream. It would have been a difficult task for the traveller or his postilion to persuade the horses that these dreams were all for their good. The next stopping-place was the little tavern of the Star, an out-of-the-way corner in the town of Salzig. It stands on the banks