VI
The choirmaster smiled deprecatingly. He had small, obsequious eyes and narrow shoulders. "If the gracious Herr would be so good," he said, shrugging them a little. "The people have assembled." He glanced back over the fast-filling church and raised his eyebrows a trifle to indicate the honor.
Bach smiled gravely. A humorous look came into his eyes. "Let the service go on as usual," he said quietly. "When it is done, I will play—if time allows."
The choirmaster squeezed his moist palms and wiped an anxious brow. "And that, too—will be well," he murmured gratefully. "It will please the old organist," he added apologetically.
Bach nodded his head. "I had thought of that."
The other stared. "You know Reinken?" he asked.
The great organist shook his head. "I have seen him." The humorous smile played about his lips. "I have never spoken with him."
"He has been a great player—in his day," said the choirmaster. The note of apology in his voice had deepened.
"That I know," said Bach shortly.
"And now it is the people—they will not let him go," murmured the choirmaster despairingly. "Each Sunday he must play—every motet and aria and choral—and he is ninety-nine. Mein Gott!" The choirmaster wiped his brow.