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“It is Tieze,” said Schubert, with a smile. “Come in.”

His companion nodded. The next instant a swift waiter had served them, and three round, smiling faces surveyed one another above the foaming mugs.

“Ach!” said Tieze, looking more critically at the shorter man, “but you have grown thin, my friend. You are not so great.”

Schubert smiled complacently. He glanced down at his rotund figure.

“Nein, I am little,” he assented affably.

His companions broke into a roar of laughter.

“Drink her down, Franz! drink her down!” said Tieze, lifting the heavy stein.

Schubert wiped the foam from his lips.

“Ja, that is good!” He drew a deep sigh.

He reached out his hand for the open volume that lay by his companion’s hand. It was given over in silence, and he dipped into it as he sipped the beer, smiling and scowling and humming softly. Now and then he lifted his head and listened. His eyes looked across the noisy garden into space.

His companions ignored him. They laughed and chatted and sang. Other young men joined the group, and the talk grew loud. It was the Sunday festival of Warseck.

Schubert smiled absently across the babel.

“A pencil–quick!” he said in a low tone to Tieze. His hand holding the open book trembled, and the big eyes glowed with fire.

Tieze fumbled in his pockets and shook his head.

Schubert glared at the careless group.

“A pencil, I tell you!” he said fiercely.

There was a moment’s lull. Nobody laughed. Some one thrust a stub of pencil across the table. A fat young man sitting at Schubert’s side seized it and, drawing a few music-bars on the back of a programme, pushed it on to him.

“Ach!” said Schubert, with a grateful sigh, “Goot–goot!” In another moment he was lost.

The talk grew louder. Hurried waiters rushed back and forth behind his chair with foaming mugs and slices of black bread, and gray and brown. Fiddles squeaked, and skittle-players shouted. Now and then the noise broke off and changed to the national air, which the band across the garden played loudly. But through it all Schubert’s big head wagged absently, and his short-sighted eyes glared at the barred lines and flying pencil.

Suddenly he raised his head with a snort. His spectacles flew to his forehead, and his round face smiled genially at the laughing group.

“Done?” asked the fat young man with a smile. He reached out his hand for the scrawled page.

Schubert drew it jealously back.

“Nein,” he said quickly.

Tieze, who had come around the table, stood behind them, scanning the barred lines and the scattered shower of notes. He raised a quick hand to the group about the table.

“Gott im Himmel!” he said excitedly. “Listen, you dunderheads!”

Silence fell on the group. Every glance was turned to him. He hummed softly a few bars of sweetest melody–under the garden’s din…. The notes stopped in a choking gasp, Schubert’s hand on his throat.

“Stop that!” he said hoarsely. The paper had been thrust loosely into his coat pocket. His face worked fiercely.

Tieze drew back, half laughing, half alarmed.

“Franz! Franz!” he said.

The other brushed his hand across his forehead and drew a deep breath.

“Ja,” he said slowly, “I might have killed you.”

Tieze nodded. A look of curiosity held his face.

“It is schoen!” he said softly. “Schoen!”

Schubert turned abruptly.

“It is not for you…. For years I search that song, over mountains, in the storm, in the sunshine; but it has never come–till here.” His eye swept the crowded place. “Now I have it”–he patted the rough coat pocket–“now I have it, I go away.”

VI

The girl sitting on a rough bench by the low building stirred slightly. She glanced behind her. Deep blackness in the wood, shifting moonshine about her. She breathed a quick sigh. It was like that other night. Ah, he would not come!

Her face fell forward into her slender fingers. She sat immovable. The shadow trembled a little, but the girl by the low house was blind and deaf. Melodies of the past were about her. The shadow moved, but she had no eyes to see; slowly it travelled across the short-cropped grass, mystically green and white in the waning moon. Noiselessly it came; it sank noiselessly into the shadow of the low house. A sound clicked and was still. But the girl had not moved–memory music held her. It moved upon her spirit, low and sweet, and stirred the pulse, and breathed itself away.