Never before had Egbert heard anything like that prayer; never after was he destined to hear it again.
Christina drew a long sigh, as if such beauty were too heavenly to be gazed upon without pain, and turning to the young man:
"I am glad," she said, "I cannot play the piano. One could not dare to touch the instrument after that, unless it were to destroy it!"
"You are right," he answered slowly and musingly; "but where can he have learnt the things he puts into his music?"
"In his prayers, Herr Stanway."
A dark shade of melancholy passed over Egbert's face; there was pain at the implied rebuke, and a vague sorrow, as for something lost, in that fugitive expression, but the music chased it away as the violins were tuning up again for Beethoven's "Septet."
So the evening wore away, and chorus and concerted piece followed fast upon one another, till the musicians were so excited they could hardly speak. The maestro conducted all through, and as he shook his hair like a mane about his eyes and swayed to and fro in the intensity of his enthusiasm, Egbert whispered to Christina:
"He is the magician of music, is he not?"
When all was over, and some of the guests had left in singing groups that would probably serenade the town for the rest of the night, the great artist called the young Englishman, and asked him to show him the way home.
"I am somewhat of a stranger here, my friend, and there is no one whose company I would more gladly ask under the pretence of wanting a guide home."