Muffled sounds came to him through the shutters from the streets below—­the rolling of wheels, the clanging of church bells, and bursts of that military music which is so seldom silent in the streets of Munich.  An hour perhaps passed by; sounds of steps on the stairs kept him in perpetual apprehension.  In the intensity of his anxiety, he forgot that he was hungry and many miles away from cheerful, Old World little Hall, lying by the clear gray river-water, with the ramparts of the mountains all around.

Presently the door opened again sharply.  He could hear the two dealers’ voices murmuring unctuous words, in which “honor,” “gratitude,” and many fine long noble titles played the chief parts.  The voice of another person, more clear and refined than theirs, answered them curtly, and then, close by the Nurnberg stove and the boy’s ear, ejaculated a single “Wunderschon!” August almost lost his terror for himself in his thrill of pride at his beloved Hirschvogel being thus admired in the great city.  He thought the master-potter must be glad too.

“Wunderschon!” ejaculated the stranger a second time, and then examined the stove in all its parts, read all its mottoes, gazed long on all its devices.

“It must have been made for the Emperor Maximilian,” he said at last; and the poor little boy, meanwhile, within, was “hugged up into nothing,” as you children say, dreading that every moment he would open the stove.  And open it truly he did, and examined the brass-work of the door; but inside it was so dark that crouching August passed unnoticed, screwed up into a ball like a hedgehog as he was.  The gentleman shut to the door at length, without having seen anything strange inside it; and then he talked long and low with the tradesmen, and, as his accent was different from that which August was used to, the child could distinguish little that he said, except the name of the king and the word “gulden” again and again.  After a while he went away, one of the dealers accompanying him, one of them lingering behind to bar up the shutters.  Then this one also withdrew again, double-locking the door.

The poor little hedgehog uncurled itself and dared to breathe aloud.

What time was it?

Late in the day, he thought, for to accompany the stranger they had lighted a lamp; he had heard the scratch of the match, and through the brass fretwork had seen the lines of light.

He would have to pass the night here, that was certain.  He and Hirschvogel were locked in, but at least they were together.  If only he could have had something to eat!  He thought with a pang of how at this hour at home they ate the sweet soup, sometimes with apples in it from Aunt Maila’s farm orchard, and sang together, and listened to Dorothea’s reading of little tales, and basked in the glow and delight that had beamed on them from the great Nurnberg fire-king.

“Oh, poor, poor little ’Gilda!  What is she doing without the dear Hirschvogel?” he thought.  Poor little ’Gilda! she had only now the black iron stove of the ugly little kitchen.  Oh, how cruel of father!