"You are not! Come instantly with me to Faustina Hasse's."
"Are you mad?"
"Not so near it as yourself, mon ami! The blind bird will not see the trap."
"What do you mean?"
"Sacré bleu! Come to Faustina's with me, or you are to-night on the road to Königstein. The lord minister knows all!"
All that afternoon Sebastian had spent in reading the latest exercises and compositions of his son Friedemann, handing sheet after sheet, when he had read it, to Philip. They called for lights as dusk came on. At length Sebastian asked his younger son what he thought of his brother.
Philip knew not what to answer.
"I admire Friedemann," he said. "His works move me. I seem at times to be reading your music, father; then comes something strange and different. I feel disturbed—I can not tell why. I like these compositions; but they give me not untroubled pleasure."
"You are right, Philip," said Sebastian, with a grave and thoughtful smile. "His works have something in them strange and paradoxical. I find this in his sketches more than in his elaborate compositions. But I am not disturbed thereby: I rejoice."