“No doubt,” answered my enthusiastic Teutomane, “as far as that side of the question is concerned. You have been saying something equivalent to telling me that the orchestra is preferable to a single violin or cornet, while I was speaking of the intrinsic merit of each of those individual instruments.”
“Well,” I said, “now tell me something about the tone of these instruments. You know I have been very little in Germany, and I should be glad to hear something worth hearing, something that one would not find in the guide-book, nor in the volume of self-important nonsense occasionally thrust upon the public by a gushing sister or a city alderman.”
“You are very caustic,” said my friend with a laugh. “If I must travel so far out of the beaten track to please you, why not plunge at once into a volume of mediæval legends?”
“Is it in print? Because in that case I could see for myself, and therefore would not care to hear it,” I answered teasingly.
“It is not in print, Sir Doubter, and, what is more, it is not even in manuscript.”
I began to feel interested. “A popular tradition, then?” I asked.
“Exactly. It is not worth much, only I happened to see the places mentioned, the quaint house that is standing yet, though very much disguised of course, and the dark street leading to the cathedral. It happened in Augsburg, and the cathedral, as you know, is Protestantized, though still very well kept. I was only in the town for two days, so you may imagine I know little of it beyond what my narrator told me.”
“And pray who was your narrator?”
The father of a girl in an old book-stall, where I had stopped attracted by some rare copy of a Catholic work, of which she did not seem to know the value. Equally surprised at seeing the book there and at finding her ignorant of its worth, I asked her how she got it. She lifted up her head, which had been bent on some mysterious turning-point of her knitting, and said smilingly:
“Mein Herr is a Catholic, then?”