and pitiless pain and misery.  Their life shall be as bitter to them as my death has been to me.  Their music shall fill the world with sweetness and ravish the ears of listening nations, but to them it shall bring no joy; for life like a cruel blade shall flay and lay bare their hearts, and sorrow like a searching wind shall play upon their souls and make them tremble, even as the scabbard of my body trembled in the breeze; and just as from that trembling husk of what was once myself there came forth sweet sounds, so shall it be with their souls, shivering and trembling in the cold wind of life.  Music shall come from them, but this music shall be born of agony; nor shall they utter a single note that is not begotten of sorrow or pain.  And so shall the children of Apollo suffer and share the pain of Marsyas.

“The voice died away, and a pitiful wail was heard as of a wind blowing through the reeds of a river.  And the Princess awoke, trembling with fear of some unknown and impending disaster.

“The next morning Franz, as he walked into the chapel to practice on the organ, was met by two soldiers, who bade him follow them, and he was shut up in the prison of the palace.  No word of explanation was given him; nor had he any idea what the crime might be of which he was accused, or of his ultimate fate.  But in the evening, when the gaoler’s daughter brought him his food, she made him a sign, and he found in his loaf of bread a rose, a file, and a tiny scroll, on which the following words were written; ‘Albrecht denounced you.  Fly for your life.  K.’  Later, when the gaolers had gone to sleep, the gaoler’s daughter stole to his cell.  She brought him a rope, and a purse full of silver.  He filed the bars and let himself down into a narrow street of the city.

“By the time the sun rose he had left the city far behind him.  He journeyed on and on till he passed the frontier of the Emperor’s dominions and reached a neighbouring State.  By the time he came to a city he had spent his money, and he was in rags and tatters; nevertheless, he managed to earn his bread by making music in the streets, and after a time a well-to-do citizen who noticed him took him into his house and entrusted him with the task of teaching music to his sons and of playing him to sleep in the evening.  Franz spent his leisure hours in composing an opera called ‘The Death of Adonis,’ into which he poured all the music of his soul, all his love, his sorrow, and his infinite desire.  He lived for this only, and during all the hours he spent when he was not working at his opera he was like a man in a dream, unconscious of the realities around him.  In a year his opera was finished.  He took it to the Intendant of the Ducal Theatre in the city and played it to him, and the Intendant, greatly pleased, determined to have it performed without delay.  The best singers were allotted parts in it, and it was performed before the Arch-Duke and his Court, and a multitude of people.