Now Hans, when he went with Walther to his bedroom, had left the manuscript of the great song upon the table, and no sooner had he gone out than Beckmesser, looking through the window and finding the place empty, slipped in. He was limping from the effects of the fight and altogether cut a most ridiculous figure. He was very richly dressed, but that did not conceal his battered appearance. Every step he took he rubbed first his back and then his shins. He should have been in bed and covered with liniments. Suddenly he espied the song upon Hans's table. He believed that after all Hans was going to sing, and if he should, all would be up with himself. Wild with rage, Beckmesser picked up the song and stuffed it into his pocket. No sooner had he done so than the bedroom door opened, and Hans Sachs came out in gala dress, ready for the festival; seeing Beckmesser, he paused in surprise.
"What, you? Sir Marker? Surely those shoes of yours do not give you trouble so soon?"
"Trouble! The devil! Such shoes never were. They are so thin, I can feel the smallest cobblestone through them. No matter about the shoes, however—though I came to complain to you about them—for I have found another and far worse cause of complaint. I thought you were not to sing."
"Neither am I."
"What, you deny it—when I have just found you out!" Beckmesser cried in a foaming rage. Hans looked at the table and saw that the manuscript was gone. He grinned.
"So, you took the song, did you?" he asked.
"The ink was still wet."
"True, I'll be bound!"
"So then I've caught you deceiving!"
"Well, at least you never caught me stealing, and to save you from the charge I'll just give you that song," Hans replied, still smiling. Beckmesser stared at him.