"Again, again, again," thundered the organist; "again you have stolen my book, despite your promise!"
Sebastian struggled to his feet, and confronted his accuser quietly.
"I have not stolen your book. This one is mine."
"Yours," sneered Christoff; "pray, where did you get a book of Pachelbel's fugues?"
Further concealment was useless, now that his brother had discovered the existence of his manuscript, so Sebastian in a few words told the story of his painful and valiant achievement.
Christoff listened amazedly, but no relenting gleam softened his look of scorn. He laughed harshly when the tale was ended, and, catching the fated book from the rack, rolled it tightly and crowded it into his leathern girdle.
"I'll end this pretty business at once," he shouted, bringing his teeth together with a snap. "Finding that steel lattices are not sufficient protection against your prying fingers, I'll lock my book behind a door of solid iron, and," triumphantly tapping the volume in his belt, "I'll put this one along with it for safe keeping."
"Christoff, husband!" cried Mrs. Bach, her voice breaking into sobs; "do not be so cruel as to take his book away. He has worked so long, so hard—"
She ended her defence abruptly as her eyes fell upon the boy.