“Give the gentleman his cloak, Belotti, and tell him I came to beg him to pardon your forgetfulness.”

With these words Henrica Van Hoogstraten turned towards the door, but Wilhelm took two hasty strides after her, exclaiming: 

“Not yet, not yet, Fraulein!  I am the one to apologize.  But if you have ever been amazed by a resemblance—­”

“Anything but looking like other people!” cried the girl with a repellent gesture.

“Ah, Fraulein, yet—­”

“Let that pass, let that pass,” interrupted Henrica in so irritated a tone that the musician looked at her in surprise.  “One sheep looks just like another, and among a hundred peasants twenty have the same face.  All wares sold by the dozen are cheap.”

As soon as Wilhelm heard reasons given, the quiet manner peculiar to him returned, and he answered modestly: 

“But nature also forms the most beautiful things in pairs.  Think of the eyes in the Madonna’s face.”

“Are you a Catholic?”

“A Calvinist, Fraulein.”

“And devoted to the Prince’s cause?”

“Say rather, the cause of liberty.”

“That accounts for the drumming of the war-song.”

“It was first a gentle gavotte, but impatience quickened the time.  I am a musician, Fraulein.”

“But probably no drummer.  The poor panes!”

“They are an instrument like any other, and in playing we seek to express what we feel.”

“Then accept my thanks for not breaking them to pieces.”

“That wouldn’t have been beautiful, Fraulein, and art ceases when ugliness begins.”

“Do you think the song in your cloak—­it dropped on the ground and Nico picked it up—­beautiful or ugly?”

“This one or the other?”

“I mean the Beggar-song.”

“It is fierce, but no more ugly than the roaring of the storm.”

“It is repulsive, barbarous, revolting.”

“I call it strong, overmastering in its power.”

“And this other melody?”

“Spare me an answer; I composed it myself.  Can you read notes,
Fraulein?”

“A little.”

“And did my attempt displease you?”

“Not at all, but I find dolorous passages in this choral, as in all the Calvinist hymns.”

“It depends upon how they are sung.”

“They are certainly intended for the voices of the shopkeepers’ wives and washerwomen in your churches.”

“Every hymn, if it is only sincerely felt, will lend wings to the souls of the simple folk who sing it; and whatever ascends to Heaven from the inmost depths of the heart, can hardly displease the dear God, to whom it is addressed.  And then—­”

“Well?”

“If these notes are worth being preserved, it may happen that a matchless choir—­”

“Will sing them to you, you think?”

“No, Fraulein; they have fulfilled their destination if they are once nobly rendered.  I would fain not be absent, but that wish is far less earnest than the other.”