She stood, amazed.  What could this mean?  At first she thought he might be making game of her, but the look of bitter sorrow on his face convinced her that this could not be.  “You, father!” she exclaimed.  “No; I will not allow it!  Why—­why—­”

She made a move as if to cast her arms around his neck in her appeal.  He stepped back to avoid her and held his hand up warningly.

“Do not touch me,” he said, chokingly.  “I must be strong—­strong enough, my little one, to tell you.  Ah, my little girl, I go out of your life; but I shall not forget!  I shall remember all our songs, and the old flute—­when I play the old flute, Anna, always shall I think of you.”

She would not be held back, but ran to him and put her hand upon his arm and thus stood, looking up into his face with pleading eyes.

“I will not give you up!” she cried.  “You shall not go!  Why ... why ...”

Here was the opportunity for which the old man had been waiting; here was his chance to pay in full for every pang, the haughty woman who had so egregiously insulted his and him; here the chance to show a parvenu her place—­and yet to do these things without discourtesy.  Drawing himself up proudly, without the scornful look which one of less fine sensibility might have thrown at her in similar circumstances, he gave his calm and dignified explanation with the air of a true prince.

“It is because,” said he, “that in my family no father ever has allowed his daughter to marry any one who is not by birth her equal.”

There could be no mistaking the amazement which his words aroused among his hearers.  Anna and the youth who held her hand looked at him in frank surprise; but it was on the face of Mrs. Vanderlyn that most emotion showed.  It was plain that the grand lady found it hard to credit what her ears assured her they had heard.  Upon the ship she had remarked that Kreutzer looked as if he might belong to a distinguished family.  Now his attitude and carriage were the attitude and carriage of a king—­a dignified, but kind and gentle king; not arrogant, as her instincts would have made her in like circumstances, but stately and—­decisive.  The aristocracy of centuries expressed itself in his straight back; his face was that of one born over-lord of thousands; his steady and unwavering glance was that of a real Personage looking kindly but not with any fellowship upon a commoner, as it calmly swung from its intent pause on his daughter’s face to hers.

“Of equal birth!” said she, amazed.  “Why, what—­”

“Madame,” said he, with no abatement of his kindly dignity, “I must explain some things.  My life has been a very hard one and my Anna has been all which made it livable.  When her mother died—­there were objections to the marriage and I also had some wicked enemies—­they would have taken my dear child from me.  Twenty years of dread of this, of dodging and evasion like a fugitive, in humble places have succeeded.  Had they found me, then I might have lost my Anna, for her mother’s relatives, who hate me, they are very, very powerful.  I have worried, worried, worried, ever, lest I lose her.  Even have I had to hide my little artistry in my profession because, had I exploited it, it would have told my enemies where they could find me.  Such has been the life which I have led because I loved my daughter.