an had at once recognised the pianist as Daniel. She had to hold
fast to the bars of the window and lean her knees against the
wainscoting. It was not for nothing that Jason Philip was known as a
thorough wag. The comparison to Daniel in the lion's den was too much
for him. He whispered the words to Marian. But since the window was open
and the music had first risen and then, at this moment, paused, his
words penetrated to the people below, and several heads turned toward
him. Marian was thoughtless. She believed that the piece had ended.
Faintly and fearfully she cried: "Daniel!"

Daniel leaped up, stared at her, saw Jason Philip's mocking face,
hastened to the door, the steps, and was beside them.

He stood in the doorway, and his lips began to form words. The unhappy
boy, she thought, and it seemed to her as though power would be given
her to press back to his heart the words she trembled to hear.

It was in vain. The words were uttered. He did not wish to see his
mother any more; he was content to live alone and for himself and to be
free. He needed no one. He needed only to be free.

Jason Philip hurled a glance of contempt at the blasphemous wretch, and
drew Marian away with him. To the very corner of the alley they were
accompanied by the excited voices of the people in the Vale of Tears.

Next morning Marian returned to Eschenbach.

FOES, BROTHERS, A FRIEND AND A MASK

I

Daniel had rented a room of the brush-maker Hadebusch and his wife, who
lived on Jacob's Square behind the church.

It was March, and a sudden cold had set in; and Frau Hadebusch had a
superstitious fear of coal, which she characterised as Devil's dung. At
the back of the yard was the wood pile, and logs were brought in with
which to feed the oven fires. But wood was dear, and had Daniel fed his
little iron stove in the garret with such costly food, his monthly bill
would have reached a fabulous height. He paid seven marks a month for
his room and counted every penny so as not to shorten the period of his
liberty by any needless expenditure.

So he sat freezing over his books and scores until the first warmth of
spring stole in through the windows. The books he borrowed from the
library at the King's Gate, and paid six pfennigs a volume. Achim von
Arnim and Jean Paul were his guides in those days: the one adorned the
world of the senses for him, the other that of the soul.