--of the disgrace he had endured--he had never cast a recollection
on the being who, next to his art, was dearer to him than all the world.
The fair maid of Haarlem occupied but the second place in the musician's
heart; but not less true is it, that to kiss off a tear from the white
eyelid of the beautiful Maina, he would have sacrificed his life. And
now to hear that she was about to be carried off by his rival--by
Castero--that Castero whom he hated so much--that Maina was to be the
prize of the conqueror! His courage revived. Hope played once more round
his heart--he felt conscious of his superiority; but--oh misery!--his
fiddle--his Straduarius, which could alone insure his victory--it was
lying in a million pieces on his floor!

The Unknown divined what was passing in his mind; a smile of strange
meaning stole to his lip. He went close up to Frederick, whose agitated
features betrayed the struggle that was going on within. "Maina will be
the reward of the protege of the Stadtholder, and Castero will be the
happy man if you do not contest the prize," he whispered in poor
Frederick's ear.

"Alas! my fate is settled--I have no arms to fight with," he answered in
a broken voice.

"Does your soul pant for glory?" enquired the stranger.

"More than for life--more than for love--more than for--"

"Go on."

"More than for my eternal salvation!" exclaimed the youth in his
despair.

A slight tremour went through the stranger as he heard these words.

"Glory!" he cried, fixing his sparkling eyes on the young man's face
"glory, the passion of noble souls--of exalted natures--of superior
beings!--Go home to your room, you will find your fiddle restored," he
added in a softer tone.

"My fiddle?" repeated Frederick.

"The fiddle of which the wreck bestrewed your chamber when you left it,"
replied the stranger.

"But who are you?" said Frederick amazed. "You who know what passes in
my heart--you whose glances chill me with horror--you, who promise me a
miracle which only omnipotence can accomplish. Who are you?"

"Your master," answered the man in the mantle, in an altered voice.
"Recollect the words you used a minute or two ago, 'Glory is dearer to
me than life--than love--than eternal salvation!' That is quite enough
for me; and we must understand each other. Adieu. Your favourite
instrument is again whole and entire, and sweeter toned than ever. You
will find it on the table in your room. Castero, your rival, wil