Even the little Saxe poodle howled for a master forever lost; and only the swords went on quarrelling, and made such a clattering noise that the Japanese bonze rode at them on his monster and knocked them both right over, and they lay straight and still, looking foolish, and the little Nymphenburg maid, though she was crying, smiled and almost laughed.

Then from where the great stove stood there came a solemn voice.

All eyes turned upon Hirschvogel, and the heart of its little human comrade gave a great jump of joy.

“My friends,” said that clear voice from the turret of Nuernberg faience, “I have listened to all you have said.  There is too much talking among the Mortalities whom one of themselves has called the Windbags.  Let not us be like them.  I hear among men so much vain speech, so much precious breath and precious time wasted in empty boasts, foolish anger, useless reiteration, blatant argument, ignoble mouthings, that I have learned to deem speech a curse, laid on man to weaken and envenom all his undertakings.  For over two hundred years I have never spoken myself:  you, I hear, are not so reticent.  I only speak now because one of you said a beautiful thing that touched me.  If we all might but go back to our makers!  Ah, yes! if we might!  We were made in days when even men were true creatures, and so we, the work of their hands, were true too.  We, the begotten of ancient days, derive all the value in us from the fact that our makers wrought at us with zeal, with piety, with integrity, with faith—­not to win fortunes or to glut a market, but to do nobly an honest thing and create for the honour of the Arts and God.  I see amidst you a little human thing who loves me, and in his own ignorant childish way loves Art.  Now, I want him forever to remember this night and these words; to remember that we are what we are, and precious in the eyes of the world, because centuries ago those who were of single mind and of pure hand so created us, scorning sham and haste and counterfeit.  Well do I recollect my master, Augustin Hirschvogel.  He led a wise and blameless life, and wrought in loyalty and love, and made his time beautiful thereby, like one of his own rich, many-coloured church casements, that told holy tales as the sun streamed through them.  Ah, yes, my friends, to go back to our masters!—­that would be the best that could befall us.  But they are gone, and even the perishable labours of their lives outlive them.  For many, many years I, once honoured of emperors, dwelt in a humble house and warmed in successive winters three generations of little, cold, hungry children.  When I warmed them they forgot that they were hungry; they laughed and told tales, and slept at last about my feet.  Then I knew that humble as had become my lot it was one that my master would have wished for me, and I was content.  Sometimes a tired woman would creep up to me, and smile because she was near me, and point out my golden crown or my ruddy fruit to a baby in