August stood like a creature paralysed.  His eyes were wide open, fastened on his father’s with terror and incredulous horror; his face had grown as white as his sister’s; his chest heaved with tearless sobs.

“It is not true!  It is not true!” he echoed stupidly.  It seemed to him that the very skies must fall, and the earth perish, if they could take away Hirschvogel.  They might as soon talk of tearing down God’s sun out of the heavens.

“You will find it true,” said his father, doggedly, and angered because he was in his own soul bitterly ashamed to have bartered away the heirloom and treasure of his race, and the comfort and healthgiver of his young children.  “You will find it true.  The dealer has paid me half the money to-night, and will pay me the other half to-morrow when he packs it up and takes it away to Munich.  No doubt it is worth a great deal more—­at least I suppose so, as he gives that—­but beggars cannot be choosers.  The little black stove in the kitchen will warm you all just as well.  Who would keep a gilded, painted thing in a poor house like this, when one can make two hundred florins by it?  Dorothea, you never sobbed more when your mother died.  What is it, when all is said?—­a bit of hardware, much too grand-looking for such a room as this.  If all the Strehlas had not been born fools it would have been sold a century ago, when it was dug up out of the ground.  ‘It is a stove for a museum,’ the trader said when he saw it.  ’To a museum let it go.’”

August gave a shrill shriek like a hare’s when it is caught for its death, and threw himself on his knees at his father’s feet.

“Oh, father, father!” he cried, convulsively, his hands closing on Strehla’s knees, and his uplifted face blanched and distorted with terror.  “Oh, father, dear father, you cannot mean what you say?  Send it away—­our life, our sun, our joy, our comfort? we shall all die in the dark and the cold.  Sell me rather.  Sell me to any trade or any pain you like; I will not mind.  But Hirschvogel! it is like selling the very cross off the altar!  You must be in jest.  You could not do such a thing—­you could not—­you who have always been gentle and good, and who have sat in the warmth here year after year with our mother.  It is not a piece of hardware, as you say; it is a living thing, for a great man’s thoughts and fancies have put life into it, and it loves us, though we are only poor little children, and we love it with all our hearts and souls, and up in heaven I am sure the dead Hirschvogel knows!  Oh, listen; I will go and try and get work to-morrow; I will ask them to let me cut ice or make the paths through the snow.  There must be something I could do, and I will beg the people we owe money to, to wait; they are all neighbours, they will be patient.  But sell Hirschvogel! oh, never! never! never!  Give the florins back to the vile man.  Tell him it would be like selling the shroud out of mother’s coffin, or the golden curls off Ermengilda’s head!  Oh, father, dear father! do hear me, for pity’s sake!”