“So you are the same?  The master having begun it, all misjudge and crush me!  Instead of giving me an opportunity to show what I can do in a solo part, I am forced back into the crowd.  My best work disappears in the chorus.  And yet, Sir Wolf, in spite of all, I heard the master’s own lips say in Brussels—­I wasn’t listening—­that he had never heard what lends a woman’s voice its greatest charm come so softly and tenderly from the throat of a boy.  Those are his own words.  He will not deny them, for at least he is honest.  What is to become of the singing without Johann and Benevenuto?  But if they would try me, and at least trust a part of Bosco’s music to me—­”

Here he stopped, for Master Appenzelder was just coming from the door of the sick-room into the corridor; but Wolf, with a playful gesture, thrust his fingers through the lad’s bushy coal-black hair, turned him in the direction from which he came, and called after him, “Your cause is in good hands, you little fellow with the big name.”

Then, laying his hand on the arm of the deeply troubled musician, and pointing to the boy who was trotting, full of hope, down the corridor, he said:  “‘Hannibal ante portas!’ A cry of distress that is full of terror; but the Maltese Hannibal who is vanishing yonder gave me an idea which will put an end to your trouble, my dear Maestro.  The sooner the two poisoned lads recover the better, of course; yet the Benedictio Mensae need not remain unsung on account of their heedlessness, for little Hannibal showed me the best substitute.”

This promise flowed from Wolf’s lips with such joyous confidence that the grave musician’s sombre face brightened; but it swiftly darkened again, and he exclaimed, “We don’t give such hasty work!” When the knight tried to tell him what he had in mind, the other brusquely interrupted with the request that he would first aid him in a more important matter.  Wolf was acquainted with the city, and perhaps would spare him a walk by informing him where the sick lads would find the best shelter.  The Stag was overcrowded, and he was reluctant to leave the poor fellows in the little sleeping room which they shared with their companions.  The Ratisbon physician had ordered them to be sent to the hospital; but the boy from Cologne opposed it so impetuously that he, Appenzelder, thought it his duty to seek another shelter for the sufferers.

When Wolf with the older man entered the low, close chamber, he found the lad, a handsome, vigorous boy, with his fair, curling hair tossed in disorder around his fevered face, standing erect in his bed.  While the doctor was trying to compel him to obey and enter the litter which stood waiting for him, he beat him back with his strong young fists.  He would rather jump into the open grave or into the rushing river, he shrieked to the corpulent leech, than be dragged into the hospital, which was the plague, death, hell.

He emphasized his resistance with heavy blows, while his Italian companion in suffering, livid, ashen-gray, with bowed head and closed lids, permitted himself to be placed in the litter without moving.