“Hush! not a word—or you are his murderer!” whispered Boëmo, grasping the arm of the affrighted monk. Both gazed on the strange figure; the one in superstitious fear—the other in breathless anxiety. Boëmo now perceived that Giuseppe held his violin. After a short prelude he played a sonata so admirable, so magnificent, that both listeners forgot their apprehensions and stood entranced, as if the melody floating on the night wind had indeed been wafted downward from the celestial spheres.[2]
A dead silence—a silence of awful suspense, followed this strange interruption. Neither dared to speak; for Boëmo well knew that a single false step would cost his friend’s life. And he was well aware that the sleep-walker often passes in safety over places where no waking man could tread. The great danger was that his slumber might be suddenly broken.
The sonata was not repeated. The figure turned and slowly retraced his steps along the roof, taking the way to Tartini’s cell. Father Boëmo breathed not till his pupil was in safety; then with a faint murmur of thanksgiving he sank on his knees, while the liberated monk hastened to communicate to the superior what he had seen. The worthy organist watched by the bed of his friend, after blaming severely the negligence of the brother who had been left to guard him. Giuseppe awoke feverish and disturbed—the workings of an unquiet imagination had worn out his strength and an illness of many weeks followed. During all this his faithful friend scarcely left him, but sought to minister to the diseased mind as well as the feeble frame. His care was rewarded. With returning health, reason and cheerfulness returned.
It was a holiday in Assisi. The inhabitants came in crowds to the church to join in the services; in fact so goodly an assemblage had never been seen in that old place of worship. The fame of the admirable music to be heard there formed a powerful attraction. It is almost needless to say that the execution was that of the brothers of the Minors’ Convent.
Much curiosity had been excited among the people by the circumstance that a curtain was drawn across a part of the choir occupied by the musicians, during all parts of the service. As usual, general attention was fixed by the least appearance of mystery. The precaution had, in fact, been adopted for the sake of Tartini, who played the violin. He still stood in fear of the vengeance of the Cornaro family, who had spared no pains to discover his abode.
The service was nearly ended. While the music still sounded, the wind suddenly lifted the curtain and blew it aside for a moment. A suppressed cry was heard in the choir, and the violin-player ceased. He had recognized in the assembly a Paduan who knew him well.
The Guardian and Father Boëmo, when informed of this discovery, opposed Giuseppe’s resolution of quitting the convent. Both pledged themselves to protect him against the anger of the Bishop of Padua; besides, who knew that the same accident had discovered him? Even among the brethren he passed by an assumed name; it was probable that all was yet safe.
“Come, Giuseppe, you must play to-day in the chapel; the Guardian has guests, who have heard of our music, and we must do our best.”