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But when the king sent for the Master to come to court the Master returned him answer: “No, I am old and feeble. To leave my home would weary me unto death. Let me die here as I have lived these long years, weaving my music for hearts that need my solace.”

Then the people wondered. But the king was not angry; in pity he sent the Master a purse of gold, and bade him come or not come, as he willed. Such honor had never before been shown any subject in the kingdom, and all the people were dumb with amazement. But the Master gave the purse of gold to the poor of the village wherein he lived.

In those days Herman died, full of honors and years, and there was a great lamentation in the land, for Herman was beloved by all. And Eloise wept unceasingly and would not be comforted.

On the seventh day after Herman had been buried there came to the castle in the park an aged and bowed man who carried in his white and trembling hands a violin. His kindly face was deeply wrinkled, and a venerable beard swept down upon his breast. He was weary and foot-sore, but he heeded not the words of pity bestowed on him by all who beheld him tottering on his way. He knocked boldly at the castle gate, and demanded to be brought into the presence of Eloise.

And Eloise said: “Bid him enter; perchance his music will comfort my breaking heart.”

Then, when the old man had come into her presence, behold! he was the Master,–ay, the Master whose fame was in every land, whose heart-music was on every tongue.

“If thou art indeed the Master,” said Eloise, “let thy music be balm to my chastened spirit.”

The Master said: “Ay, Eloise, I will comfort thee in thy sorrow, and thy heart shall be stayed, and a great joy will come to thee.”

Then the Master drew his bow across the strings, and lo! forthwith there arose such harmonies as Eloise had never heard before. Gently, persuasively, they stole upon her senses and filled her soul with an ecstasy of peace.

“Is it Herman that speaks to me?” cried Eloise. “It is his voice I hear, and it speaks to me of love. With thy heart-music, O Master, all the sweetness of his life comes back to comfort me!”

The Master did not pause; as he played, it seemed as if each tender word and caress of Herman’s life was stealing back on music’s pinions to soothe the wounds that death had made.

“It is the song of our love-life,” murmured Eloise. “How full of memories it is–what tenderness and harmony–and oh! what peace it brings! But tell me, Master, what means this minor chord,–this undertone of sadness and of pathos that flows like a deep, unfathomable current throughout it all, and wailing, weaves itself about thy theme of love and happiness with its weird and subtile influences?”

Then the Master said: “It is that shade of sorrow and sacrifice, O Eloise, that ever makes the picture of love more glorious. An undertone of pathos has been my part in all these years to symmetrize the love of Herman and Eloise. The song of thy love is beautiful, and who shall say it is not beautified by the sad undertone of Ludwig’s broken heart?”

“Thou art Ludwig!” cried Eloise. “Thou art Ludwig, who didst love me, and hast come to comfort me who loved thee not!”

The Master indeed was Ludwig; but when they hastened to do him homage he heard them not, for with that last and sweetest heart-song his head sank upon his breast, and he was dead.

1885.