No trace of passion or grief distorted Sebastian's features, but, instead, his countenance was singularly serene. Turning toward his brother with a smile of mysterious power and sweetness, he said,—
"You may lock my book behind twenty iron doors if you wish, Christoff, but the music is all written in my heart. You can bury my volume in the earth or the ocean, but you never can take the fugues away from me again, for I have memorized them, every one."
Many years later King Frederick II. of Prussia assembled his brilliant court in the throne room at Potsdam to listen to a concert arranged by the musicians of the royal palace.
The program was but fairly begun when a page entered the hall, and dropped upon his knee before the king, with a whispered message.
Frederick bent with impatience toward the lad who had dared to bring a petition from any one at a moment so ill chosen, and was about to dismiss him abruptly, when his ear caught one word of the boy's tremulous speech.
The monarch's look of annoyance changed to one of joyful surprise, and rising quickly, he commanded the musicians to instant silence.
"Bach has come," declared the king in exultant tone; "Bach has come; the mighty maker of music. Bring him hither that we may do him homage!"
A hundred exclamations greeted the king's announcement, and presently a man of distinguished appearance and quiet dignity was ushered into the apartment.
Down from his throne stepped the king, advancing half-way up the hall to meet the new-comer. By a quick gesture, he forbade the stranger to bend the knee, but said simply,—