“It is not so,” exclaimed his pupil, passionately. “I have striven to soar—and fallen to the earth, never more to rise. I have dreamed myself the favorite of art—and awaked to find myself outcast and scorned. My soul is dead within me. You must have foreseen this. Why prepare such anguish for one already the victim of misfortune?”
“Young man,” said the organist, impressively, “this feeling is morbid. I will not reason with you now; come with me, and let us see what change of subject——”
“Ay,” muttered Tartini, his face distorted, “to show the brethren what you have done; that they, too, may mock at me! I see them now—”
“Holy Mother! what ails you, my son?” cried Boëmo, much alarmed at the wild looks of his pupil.
“You will deem me mad, good father;” said Giuseppe in an altered voice, and grasping the monk’s arm; “but I swear to you—’tis the truth. I see them every night!”
“See whom?”
“The spirits—the demons, who come to mock at me! They range themselves around my cell—and grin and hiss at me in devilish scorn. As soon as it is dark they throng hither. See—they are coming now! stealing through the window——”
“My brother! my brother! is it come to this?” cried Boëmo in a tone of anguish.
“Sometimes,” said his pupil, “I have thought it but an evil dream. I strove against it till I knew too well it was no delusion of fancy.”
“Why—why did I not know of this before?”