Down the principal street of old Ohrdruf came a procession of boys singing a New Year's anthem. The cantor marched before them, wielding his baton high above his head, so that those following could watch its motions and keep in perfect accord. Behind him marched the singers, two by two. They carried neither book nor music sheet, but every eye was fixed steadily upon the silver-tipped baton, and forty voices rose in harmony so splendid and exact that passers-by stopped, listened, and turned to follow the procession down the street.

The singers wore students' caps and gowns of black, and upon the breast of each shone an embroidered Maltese cross of gold, while below it appeared the crimson letters, S. M. C., which denoted that these were the choir-boys of St. Michael's Church.

Marching into an open square, they formed a compact group about the cantor, and started a fresh and stirring hymn; and presently stepped forth the smallest boy of them all, who paused a pace or two in advance of the others, and took up the strain alone. Clear and sweet rang out his voice upon the frosty air, and listeners by the way turned to one another with nods and smiles of pleasure.

"That's little Bach," announced one.

"They say he is one of the best sopranos at St. Michael's," murmured another.

The lad seemed quite unconscious of the impression he was making, for his manner was as unaffected as though he were singing only to the barren trees. His dark face was not noticeably handsome, but was very earnest; and a certain plaintive note in his voice appealed to the company with singular power, for while the carol falling from his lips was blithe indeed, the eyes of his hearers were wet. Fervently he hymned the New Year's joy, now trilling, trilling, like a rapturous bird at springtime; now softly crooning with the sound of a distant violin.

When his solo ended, a round of applause and many bravos burst from his audience, but the boy stepped quickly back to his former place and finished the choral with the others.

In the crowd of bystanders, a man wearing a coat and cap of rough gray fur smiled broadly when the people applauded little Bach.

"Who is the boy?" inquired a stranger at his elbow.

"He is Sebastian Bach and my brother," announced the fur-coated man. "I am the organist at St. Michael's, and he is one of the leading sopranos."

"You should be proud of the child, for he sings remarkably well."

"I am proud of him—ah, here come the collectors."

The singing was done, and in and out among the bystanders went the boys, passing their wooden plates for pennies in exchange for their serenade.

Nearly every one contributed something, for the people of Ohrdruf were genuine music-lovers, and they knew that the money gathered in this fashion would be divided equally among the boys, to use as they pleased.

The choir broke ranks, having paraded and collected in all the streets of the town, and black-robed boys scurried away in every direction.

"Are you bound for home now, Sebastian?" asked Georg Erdmann, the soloist's marching companion.

"No," replied the other, "I am going to the church to practise."

"Oh, little Bach is going to practise on the organ," exclaimed a woman who had overheard the boy's speech. "Come, sister, let's go in and listen while he plays."

Whereupon the two matrons followed him across the square, and the fur-coated organist, who had lately seemed so gratified at Sebastian's success, scowled fiercely.

"I wish that boy would stick to his singing, and let the organ alone," he muttered. "People tell me every day that if I don't look sharp my little brother will beat me at my own profession. He would make me a nice return for my kindness, if, after I have taken him into my house, fed him, clothed him, and taught him everything that he knows about music, he should try to outstrip me in my own work and shame me before my friends. I won't have it! I won't bear it! I'll admit that the boy is industrious and generally obedient, but I sha'n't let him impose on me, if he is of my own flesh and blood. Why should these people go to hear him practise? Why don't they drop in while I am playing? I am the organist, although people seem to forget the fact. I think I'll step over to the church and see what these people are going mad about."

Into the shadowy edifice he stole, taking up his position behind the two women whose coming had so clearly annoyed him. The peal of the organ was filling the place from floor to dome, but though the women listened with eager attention, the face of Christoff Bach gradually softened.

"He is playing his studies, just as I have taught him. Any boy who is willing to work could do as well. There is nothing remarkable in that performance. I needn't be worried for my position yet awhile."

High in the organ-loft Sebastian practised faithfully, unaware of the presence of kindred or stranger. Page after page he rehearsed, sometimes repeating a difficult passage many times before leaving it.

At length he removed the thick scroll from the rack, and replaced it with a second book of musical manuscript. Then the church re-echoed with sounds of a brilliant fugue.

At the first note Christoff Bach started violently and his mouth fell open with astonishment. He strained forward to be sure that he heard aright, and as the inspiriting theme rolled through the vaulted spaces his eyes grew sinister and his hands were clenched so tightly that his nails dug savagely into his palms.

"My book," he gasped; "the music that I copied at Arnstadt for my own use! When did he decide to steal it, and undertake to learn my best selections? He can't keep to his own pieces, but must filch out mine during my absence, and fumble them on the organ so that my friends can laugh at me for being outdone by a ten-year-old. The braggart! I'd thrash him soundly if I hadn't promised father that I'd keep my hands off him; but I'll settle this business before I sleep. The upstart!"

Raging inwardly, Christoff Bach stalked from the church; and half an hour later Sebastian quietly took his music bag under his arm and started homeward, conscious that he was very hungry, and that an appetizing New Year's dinner would be ready when he arrived.

Sebastian Bach had lost both parents by death, and for nearly a year he had lived with his brother at Ohrdruf. Seldom does an orphan fall into such kindly hands, for Christoff had generously supplied the boy's needs, and the organist's young wife had cared for Sebastian with all the gentleness of a sister. They sent him to the Lyceum school, and Christoff taught him music at home. At first the elder brother rejoiced over the boy's progress in organ playing, and often rubbed his hands with pride as he predicted for his pupil a future filled with musical successes. But as the months rolled by, and the lad acquired greater knowledge, Christoff became silent.

Had Sebastian been content to dawdle at his practising, or even to work with moderate zest, his experience might have proved no different from that of most music students; but he did nothing by halves, and whether he worked or whether he played, whether he studied grammar or whether he led the games at school, he attacked the enterprise with such force that he usually came off victorious. Bringing this same determination to bear upon his music, he soon left his fellow-students far behind; and practising hour after hour and day after day, with his mind set upon conquering all obstacles as soon as they appeared, he climbed and presently leaped into musicianly skill. Some of his music mates complained that Sebastian learned more in one week than they did in three or four, and their conclusion was wholly correct; but while they grumbled they forgot that he daily spent twice as many hours at the organ as did any one of them, toiling steadily, unfalteringly, until he had acquired a skill far exceeding theirs.

He was such a good comrade, however, that they readily forgave him his musical progress, and in every game and contest on the playground he was eagerly sought as an ally.

Strangely enough, as Sebastian's facility increased, his teacher's brow clouded. The boy could not understand why his brother was more plainly vexed over a perfect lesson than with a faulty one. In the beginning Christoff had cheered Sebastian on, but of late he had grown crabbed and irritable, and the lessons had come to be hours of harsh and sneering criticism. Sebastian did not dream that his brother was jealous, but this was really the case; and Christoff heard the boy's lessons with deepening anxiety and distaste. Never, however, until to-day had the organist admitted, even to himself, that he was afraid of his younger brother, that he dreaded lest he himself should be outstripped by his pupil.

When Sebastian opened the door of the great kitchen, which served the family for dining-room and living-room as well, a savory odor floated out to greet him.

"Hurrah for the goose, Schwester! I hope it is nearly done!" he cried, throwing down his music and hanging his cap and cloak on a peg beside the door.

Mrs. Bach was kneeling before the open fireplace, busily engaged in turning the fowl that browned so temptingly above the blaze; but upon Sebastian's entrance, she rose and approached him with a troubled look.

"Christoff is very angry with you," she whispered, indicating the chamber above with a motion of her hand.

"Angry with me? What for? What's wrong?" exclaimed Sebastian astonished. Before she could reply, a door above was heard to open, and down the wooden stairway at the end of the kitchen rushed Christoff Bach, his face purple, his eyes gleaming.

Seizing Sebastian roughly by the arm, he loudly demanded,—

"What do you mean by stealing my pieces, and trying to learn them behind my back, so that the town can laugh at me when you perform?"

"Steal! Laugh!" echoed Sebastian blankly, unable to comprehend his brother's meaning.

"Don't pretend to be innocent! You can't hoodwink me any longer, my young cub. I'll see that nothing like this occurs again."

"What have I done, Christoff? I don't know what you mean."

"You stole my book that I copied at Arnstadt, taking pains to lay hold of it while I was safe at Gotha."

"I didn't steal it," returned Sebastian horrified.

"You didn't? What do you call your going into my room, taking music without my permission, and practising it while I am out of town?"

"I didn't suppose you would care a bit. I thought if I learned one or two of Pachelbel's fugues, it would be a nice surprise for you when you came back from Gotha."

"A nice surprise! Ha, ha! Ho, ho! I suppose that next time I go from home for a week you will surprise me by pilfering the contents of my money-drawer."

"I didn't steal, I didn't steal the book," protested Sebastian, paling under the sting of his brother's taunt.

"No, no, Christoff, I'm sure the boy meant no harm," interposed Mrs. Bach, touching her husband's arm with a coaxing gesture; "I knew that he borrowed your music book, but I thought also that you would be pleased with his desire to study it."

"Then you, too, are engaged in a plot to ruin me!" shrieked the organist, carried quite beyond himself by the fury of his jealousy; "I'll see whether I am not to be master in my own house. If I can't leave my belongings in my room without fear that my brother will use them expressly to injure me, and that my wife will help him along with the scheme, I'll begin to put them out of reach!"

Snatching up Sebastian's music bag, Christoff, too impatient to loose its fastenings of hook and tape, ripped it apart, seized his roll of manuscript, thrust it into the shelf of a side cupboard, slammed the steel wicker door, locked it grimly, and pocketed the key.

"Let's have dinner," he growled, drawing out his chair noisily, and dropping into his place at table without a glance toward either member of his household.

Mrs. Bach brought on the steaming goose, but everybody was dismally uncomfortable throughout the meal. The organist's rosy-cheeked wife tried to banish the gloom by speaking cheerily upon subjects not akin to music; but Christoff would not reply, and Sebastian could not, so her brave attempts soon failed, and the room was left in silence.

Sebastian's appetite was gone, and as soon as possible he hurried away to his own room, where, deeply dejected, he sat with his face buried in his folded arms.

As the shade of twilight fell across his bowed figure, a quick footstep sounded behind him, and a soft hand was laid upon his head.

"Come, BÜbchen," said Mrs. Bach kindly, "don't worry any more. Christoff didn't mean all that he said to-day, and he is sorry that he spoke as he did. See, I have brought you a bowl of bread and milk, for I noticed that you ate no dinner. So now forgive Christoff for what he said when he was angry, and forget all that happened this afternoon. If you act toward him just as usual, he will do the same with you, and we shall all be happy again."

Sebastian eagerly raised his head.

"He won't think me a thief any longer?"

"No, no. Certainly not. After he had cooled down a bit I explained to him what you meant by borrowing his book, and how hard you practised to learn the second fugue against his return; and he said that he believed that you were truly honest, and he was sorry that he had accused you wrongfully."

"And he'll let me use his book hereafter, and learn to play the fugues?" cried Sebastian joyfully.

Mrs. Bach shook her head slowly, her blue eyes fixed sorrowfully upon the boy.

"No," she said, "you cannot use his book any more. He said that he would never scold you again for having taken it last week, but that you must send him your promise never to play out of it again."

"Schwester!" ejaculated the boy in keen distress, "why does he forbid me to use it?"

"I do not know; I do not know."

"I may as well give up my playing altogether, for I have finished my own pieces; Christoff himself said I might leave them now, and I have no others to study. Music is so costly that I cannot buy any for myself,—yes, I may as well forget that I wished to be a great, great musician. Schwester!" The boy's eyes kindled and his cheeks glowed as he continued ardently,—

"I'd like to play so wonderfully by the time I'm a man that whole audiences would sometimes smile and sometimes cry with the sweetness of my music, and little children would drop their toys in the street and stand in my garden listening. But how can I learn without any music to study?"

"Buy a book from the cantor with the money you earned to-day in the parade," suggested Mrs. Bach hopefully.

Sebastian shook his head. "I can't," he explained, "because I gave half of it to Georg Erdmann, so that he might go to Gotha to visit his grandmother, and I paid the rest to a gardener for a present that I brought home yesterday for you."

Throwing open the door of his closet, Sebastian stepped inside, and quickly emerged, bearing in his arms a tiny rose-tree in full bloom.

"I got it for your New Year's gift, and meant to put it on the dinner table, but the trouble with Christoff made me forget all about it."

"Oh, oh, it is a beautiful present, and so fragrant, so fragrant! But, BÜbchen," she said in a fondly chiding tone, "you should not have spent your pennies for me; I have so much and you so little."

"I have you, and—and Christoff, and music," returned Sebastian soberly.

"You are truly a man, and surely a baby," said Mrs. Bach, laughing merrily. At sound of a voice from below stairs she grew instantly serious.

"Christoff is calling me, and I must go down. You promise, Sebastian, never to play out of his book again?"

The boy nodded quickly.

"I promise," he said.

After she had gone Sebastian sat for hours, thinking. Again and again he lived over the bitter scene of the afternoon, wincing painfully every time that memory whispered the word "stole." The murmur of voices below ceased finally, and he realized that the rest of the household was wrapped in sleep. He lighted his candle and tried to study his lessons for school, but a sense of sickening disappointment bore down upon him so heavily that, though his eyes sternly travelled the printed lines, his mind had room for no other thoughts than these,—

"I cannot play. I have no music."

He was startled from his reverie by the sound of a piteous whine. He listened for a repetition of the plaint, and when the whine expanded to a howl, Sebastian leaped from his chair, and dashed through the corridor and down the kitchen stair, with a pang of recollection.

"I forgot to let Grubel in, and it's bitter cold outside!"

He made his way swiftly through the dark room, unbolted the outer door, and flung it wide.

A huge St. Bernard bounded into the room, and Sebastian, brushing the snow from the shaggy coat, caressed his pet affectionately.

"Now, Grubel, Schwester doesn't like you to stay in this room. Come along, old fellow, into the passage!"

The dog obediently followed his master across the dark kitchen, and trotted through the door that Sebastian held open for him.

As the boy sought the stairway again, his attention was arrested by a flood of moonlight pouring through the uncurtained pane and illuminating one of the much-used music sheets that had fallen from the bag which Christoff had thrown into the window-sill after locking his own book behind the wicker door.

"How bright the night is," thought Sebastian. "One could read the notes, I believe, without a candle."

Bending over the pages, he found it to be quite true that the dots and lines were clearly definable.

"I wonder if I could write well by such a light; I'll try it," and idly lifting a pen from his sister's table, he dipped it and scribbled his name across the top of the music sheet.

"Very good," observed he, eyeing the scrawl with admiration; then a thought shot through his brain that seemed to turn him to stone, for he stood motionless, with head thrown back and pen uplifted, while the silvery moonlight, bathing him from head to foot, transfixed him into a marble statue of expectancy.

"I wonder if I could, I wonder if I could!" he whispered excitedly. "I'll try now, this very night. If I could get hold of Christoff's fugues, and copy them here in the moonlight, I should have a book of my own, and still keep my promise not to play out of his."

Turning to the cupboard that held the coveted treasure, Sebastian gazed wistfully into its second shelf. The doors were of strong steel lattice work, and Sebastian saw that it would be impossible either to insert his hand through the finely interlaced bars, or to bend them in the hope of securing a wider opening.

The boy's burning desire to obtain the music, and his sense of the justice of his purpose, would not let him draw back without a mighty effort.

Casting about for some means of assistance, his eye fell upon his brother's violin case. Opening this, he hastily extracted the bow, strong and slender, inserted it between the powerful wires, deftly worked the roll of music to and fro, drawing it ever nearer until it lay at the outer edge of the shelf. Slipping one finger and thumb through the mesh, he seized the roll firmly and drew it from the cabinet. For a moment he could do nothing but hug the volume madly to his breast, in the joy of his accomplishment; then running noiselessly up to his room for copy-paper, he speedily returned, spread the sheets before him on his sister's table, drew up a chair, and set to work.

Swiftly and steadily he wrote, bending very low above the page, that he might read his text correctly. He took no note of the flight of time, but as the moon rose higher in the heavens, his pages grew shadowy, and he was obliged to draw the table into the sheen of her passing radiance. The fire died out, the room grew cold, and the boy from time to time threw down his pen, and beat and blew upon his benumbed fingers, warming them to further activity.

At last the light failed utterly, and in the gloom Sebastian rose, carefully rolled his brother's manuscript, strapped it as usual, pushed it through the lattice, adjusted it to its former position by aid of the violin bow, gathered up his freshly written sheets, and crept cautiously to his room.

Next morning he met his brother at breakfast, and Christoff secretly wondered that the boy wore so cheerful a countenance. No reference was made to the distressing scene of yesterday, and the brothers set off together, Christoff on his way to a pupil, and Sebastian to school, quite as though the painful episode had not happened.

Sebastian attended his various classes like one in a dream, for his mind was filled with his daring enterprise, and the tremendous effort he must put forth before his book should be completed.

His zeal did not abate, and at evening he waited breathlessly until the household fell into heavy slumber; then once again he stole down to the kitchen, arranged his materials at the window, and toiled feverishly until the white light faded.

Night after night he repeated his adventurous vigil, and no one of the family suspected that anything extraordinary was taking place in the house.

To Sebastian's surprise, he discovered that the moon rose later each night; and ere long he was obliged to wait up so late for his shimmering torch that he was forced to bathe his face in icy water, tramp up and down his chamber, and bite his tongue severely in order to keep awake. Even these heroic measures failed when the moon was delayed until the middle of the night; and Sebastian realized with dismay that he must set his work aside until the time in the following month when his friendly lantern would begin again to mount the sky at an early hour.

Laboring with such hindrances as dim and fleeting light, nearsighted eyes, loss of sleep, and piercing cold, the lad's progress was necessarily slow. Week after week, month after month, he continued at his weighty task; but never once did his interest flag nor his patience fail. His organ lessons with Christoff were carried on in a half-hearted fashion, old selections being rehearsed, and studies previously finished, indifferently played and heard. Had not Sebastian been fired with a dominant purpose, and bent upon mastering his art at any cost to himself, he would doubtless, at this period of cold laxity on his teacher's part, have abandoned his music altogether. But deep in his breast there was rooted a desire so strong, a hope so pure, that even Christoff's unjust denial had not power to discourage him.

If the elder Bach had been less orderly in his habits, Sebastian would not always have found the manuscript within reach; but though Christoff took it daily from the cabinet, he always returned it precisely to the place and position which it had occupied before.

One night Sebastian barely escaped detection. He had just descended to the kitchen, and was groping about for the violin box, when accidentally he stumbled upon the hearth-rug, and overturned a chair with a great clatter. Christoff, roused by the unwonted noise, bounded from his bed and made for the stair, pausing just long enough on the way to light a candle.

Sebastian was appalled at hearing his brother's step. Dropping to the floor, he crept hastily under the dining-table, convinced that its drapery would not screen him from his brother's eagle eye. He shook from head to foot, not with fear of punishment, but with dread of losing his chance at the fugues.

Christoff, however, came only half-way down, and stood upon the stair, holding the candle high above his head and peering about the dusky kitchen for traces of intruders. Nothing out of the ordinary greeted his gaze, for Sebastian had hastily righted the chair before beating his retreat, and the music roll had not yet been taken from the cupboard. The organist, perceiving no mark of robbers, heaved a sigh of relief and quickly repaired to his room, deciding that the disturbance must have been an ugly dream.

Six months had glided slowly by, bringing their gifts of increasing warmth and fragrance, when, one clear midsummer's night, Sebastian finished his book. He was so beset with agitation upon discovering that only one page remained to be copied that he could scarcely command himself to pen the finishing notes.

"I'm almost done," he murmured over and over, as his quill flew across the paper. "One line more, and the fugues will be mine! Now, a single measure, a single measure! One note—ah—it is done, it is done!"

The monument to little Bach's courage and fidelity was built.

The pen dropped from his aching fingers, and, overcome with weariness, he laid down his head beside the closely written sheets and fell asleep.

His friend, the moon, shone upon him brightly for a time, and in her pearly beams the tired child's face was as white as the page beside it. Even she withdrew at length, and nothing disturbed the silence of the room but the regular breathing of the sleeper.

He was awakened by a voice exclaiming,—

"BÜbchen, what are you doing here?"

Sebastian started up, bewildered, for Mrs. Bach stood beside him, and the kitchen was blazing with sunshine.

"Sebastian started up, bewildered."

"I—I don't understand," whispered he, dazed by the brightness and the woman's presence.

Mrs. Bach laughed and shook him good-naturedly.

"You're still asleep, that's what is the matter. See, it's breakfast time, and I am ready to put the kettle on. What have you been doing here?"

Sebastian merely pointed to his final page, lying next Christoff's, and Mrs. Bach gathered the truth at once.

Up went her hands in astonishment, but prudence stifled the comments that rose to her lips.

"Quick! Run up to your room with your papers, and I'll get this roll back into the cabinet. Hurry, for Christoff will be down in a minute!"

Sebastian obeyed, and from the bottom of the stairs Mrs. Bach called him as usual when breakfast was ready.

The following months were filled with delight for Sebastian, who studied his fugues with ever-deepening happiness. For this practice, he intentionally chose the hour when his brother was engaged in teaching at a distant quarter of the town. Every day, when Christoff set off to the house of his pupil, Sebastian would hurry to the church, and play from his precious book until time for the organist to return for his own organ-work.

Winter had come again to Ohrdruf, and one day Sebastian climbed to the organ-loft, placed his cherished book upon the rack, and began to play the Pachelbel fugues.

Mrs. Bach, walking in the street, heard the music and entered the church. Passing up the stair, she drew a stool from a shadowy corner and sat down to listen and enjoy.

Sebastian welcomed her with a nod and smile, for the sympathy of his sister-in-law was his daily comfort.

One number after another he played, and the harmonies swelling from the organ at touch of his flying fingers vibrated through the sacred place from threshold to chancel.

Musician and listener were so absorbed that they failed to hear a footfall upon the stair, and both were unaware that a third presence was added to the gallery.

Like a thunderbolt out of a blue heaven came a derisive hoot in Sebastian's ear. His hands were grasped as in a vise, and Christoff's face bent menacingly above him.

"Again, again, again," thundered the organist; "again you have stolen my book, despite your promise!"

Sebastian struggled to his feet, and confronted his accuser quietly.

"I have not stolen your book. This one is mine."

"Yours," sneered Christoff; "pray, where did you get a book of Pachelbel's fugues?"

Further concealment was useless, now that his brother had discovered the existence of his manuscript, so Sebastian in a few words told the story of his painful and valiant achievement.

Christoff listened amazedly, but no relenting gleam softened his look of scorn. He laughed harshly when the tale was ended, and, catching the fated book from the rack, rolled it tightly and crowded it into his leathern girdle.

"I'll end this pretty business at once," he shouted, bringing his teeth together with a snap. "Finding that steel lattices are not sufficient protection against your prying fingers, I'll lock my book behind a door of solid iron, and," triumphantly tapping the volume in his belt, "I'll put this one along with it for safe keeping."

"Christoff, husband!" cried Mrs. Bach, her voice breaking into sobs; "do not be so cruel as to take his book away. He has worked so long, so hard—"

She ended her defence abruptly as her eyes fell upon the boy.

No trace of passion or grief distorted Sebastian's features, but, instead, his countenance was singularly serene. Turning toward his brother with a smile of mysterious power and sweetness, he said,—

"You may lock my book behind twenty iron doors if you wish, Christoff, but the music is all written in my heart. You can bury my volume in the earth or the ocean, but you never can take the fugues away from me again, for I have memorized them, every one."

Many years later King Frederick II. of Prussia assembled his brilliant court in the throne room at Potsdam to listen to a concert arranged by the musicians of the royal palace.

The program was but fairly begun when a page entered the hall, and dropped upon his knee before the king, with a whispered message.

Frederick bent with impatience toward the lad who had dared to bring a petition from any one at a moment so ill chosen, and was about to dismiss him abruptly, when his ear caught one word of the boy's tremulous speech.

The monarch's look of annoyance changed to one of joyful surprise, and rising quickly, he commanded the musicians to instant silence.

"Bach has come," declared the king in exultant tone; "Bach has come; the mighty maker of music. Bring him hither that we may do him homage!"

A hundred exclamations greeted the king's announcement, and presently a man of distinguished appearance and quiet dignity was ushered into the apartment.

Down from his throne stepped the king, advancing half-way up the hall to meet the new-comer. By a quick gesture, he forbade the stranger to bend the knee, but said simply,—

"Play for us."

Without a word the visitor sat down before the piano, and speedily the room was filled with such music as had never before been heard in the king's palace.

Frederick would not permit him to leave the instrument, but sat close by, in rapt enjoyment, while Bach gave one after another of his marvellous compositions.

"For a long, long time I have known of you, Sebastian Bach," murmured the king, when at last they parted for the night. "Strange tales have come to my ears of the court composer of Poland and Saxony. I have heard of the princes who are proud to take you by the hand; of the beggars that listen in companies before your door; but I never imagined that music could be such music as you have given us here."

That night, had the palace of Potsdam had heart to feel and brain to understand, it surely would have throbbed with hospitality, for within its well-defended walls slept two who led the world in thought and action: one was Frederick the Great; the other, Bach the Victor.

[3] Bach (pronounced Bakh).