For the words it was simple enough; but what to do for the tune? Technically I was ignorant of music; I could not read the hieroglyphics that are the language of Gounod and Rossini. I thought. Then I remembered Scheffer; he knew of my search for a song. He would understand. It was nearly eleven at night. With a feverish hand I was knocking at Scheffer's door.
"You are not in bed?"
"Not yet; but it's about time."
"Are you sleepy?"
"I could be—if I liked."
"In that case, let me come in." My friendly neighbour opened wide the door of his room. I hurried in.
"What is it?" said he, briskly.