Erdman smiled pettishly. "There isn't a moon--always," he said, after a
moment.
"And that also is true," quoth the boy gravely. "But some time, late or
early, one gets a glimpse of her--if one lies awake to see," he added
softly.
The other glanced again at the book. "Let me look at it," he pleaded.
Sebastian smiled and reached over a hand to the book. "Don't touch. I'll
show it thee." He untied the strings and spread it on the ground,
throwing himself in front of it and resting his chin in his hands.
"Come," he said, "I'll show it thee."
Erdman threw off his heavy cap and bent toward the book, with a little
gesture of wonder. "I heard about Christoph's book--a good many times,"
he said softly.... "I didn't ever think I'd see it." He reached out his
hand and touched the open page.
"Nobody ever saw it," said Sebastian absently. He was humming to
himself. "Listen to this!" he said eagerly. He hummed a few bars.
"That's Buxtehude's--isn't it great!" His face went tumpty-tumpty with
the notes, and the blue eyes shone. "But this is the one I like
best--listen!" He turned over the pages rapidly. "Here it is. This is
Reinken's. 'By the waters of Babylon, by the waters, by the waters of
Babylon.'" He hummed the tune below his breath--and then louder and
fuller.... The clear, sweet soprano of the notes died away softly. "Some
day I shall play it," said Sebastian lingeringly. "Some day. See--here
is the place for the harps! And here are the great horns. Listen!" His
voice droned away at the bass and ran into the swift high notes of the
treble. "Some day I shall play it," he repeated wistfully.
Erdman's slow gaze was following the page. "I can't read so fast," he
said enviously.
Sebastian smiled back. "I know it by heart--almost. When the moon was
behind the clouds I waited. I sang them over and over."
"Very softly," said Erdman, as if seeing the picture of the boy and the
darkened room.
"Very softly," assented Sebastian, "so that no one should hear. And now
I have them all!" He spoke exultingly. "And next month I shall see
Reinken.... I shall hear him play!"
The other stared at him. "But Reinken is at Hamburg," he said at last.
"And that, too, is so," said Sebastian smiling.
"And we go to Lueneburg----"
"And we go to Lueneburg!" repeated the boy, with a mocking lilt in his
voice. "And Lueneburg is twenty miles from Hamburg. Hadst thought of
that!" He laughed exultingly.
The other shook his head. "I don't know what you mean," he said.
Sebastian was fastening the big violin in place on his back. He looked
up under smiling brows, as he bent to draw the last strap. Then he
touched his sturdy legs with his hand and laughed. "I mean that these
are the horses to carry me to Hamburg and back many times. I shall hear
the great Reinken play!--And I, too, shall play!" he added proudly.
"Do you never doubt, Sebastian?" asked the other thoughtfully, as they
moved on.
"Doubt?"
"Whether you will be a great musician?... Sometimes I see myself going
back--" He paused as if ashamed to have said so much.
Sebastian shook his head. His blue eyes were following the clouds in the
spring day. "Sometimes I doubt whether I am among the elect," he said
slowly. "But never that I am to be a musician." His full lips puckered
dreamily, and his golden head nodded, keeping slow time. "By the
waters--" he broke out into singing. "Is it not wunderschoen!" The blue
eyes turned with a smile. "It is wunderschoen! Ach--wunderschoen! Is it
not, Erdman?" He seemed to awake and laid his hand affectionately on the
boy's shoulder.
The other nodded. "Yes, it is schoen," he said wistfully.
"Come, I will teach it to thee!"
And the notes of Reinken's choral, "An den Wasserfluessen Babylon,"
floated with a clear, fresh sound on the spring morning air, two hundred
years ago, and more, as two charity pupils walked along the road to
Lueneburg.