doors poured a
little crowd of devotees, and Gabriel, entering, stole softly up to the
Sacrament House, where so often the carved Christ had looked with gentle
eyes upon his lonely childhood.

Mass had begun, and the great church was hardly a third full, for
Nuremberg's weakening faith exempted her children from such untimely
services. But in the faces of the scattered worshippers there was
something never seen before--a grave severity, a solemn purpose, as when
men are banded together to resist in silence an advancing foe. Gabriel,
dimly conscious of this, strove to restrain his wandering thoughts, and
fixed his eyes upon the gleaming altar. But no prayer rose to his lips,
though into his heart came that deep sense of rest and contentment which
found an utterance long ago in the words of an apostle: "Lord, it is
good for us to be here." Like a child he had come to his Father's feet,
and, laying there his rejected human love, his ungratified human
ambition, he gained in their place the peace which passeth all
understanding. The two shadows which had mocked him during life vanished
into nothingness at the hour of death, and with clear eyes he saw the
value of an immortal soul.

Mass was over, and the congregation moved slowly through the shadowy
aisles out into the starlit night. But Gabriel sat still, his head
resting against the stone pillar, his dead eyes fixed upon the Sacrament
House, and upon the sculptured Christ rising triumphant from the grave.

* * * * *

Four weeks had gone by since the body of the humpback had been carried
sorrowfully past the stations of the Seilersgasse into the quiet
churchyard beyond. The dusk of a winter evening shrouded the empty
streets when a stranger, of grave demeanor and in the prime of life,
knocked at the stone-mason's door. Kala opened it, and her father,
recognizing the visitor, rose with wondering respect to greet him. It
was Veit Stoss, the wood-carver, then at the zenith of his fame. With
quick, keen eyes he glanced around the homely room, taking in every
detail of the scene before him--Lisbeth weaving placidly by the fire;
Kala fair and blushing in the lamp-light; and Sigmund playing idly with
the crooked little turnspit at his feet. Then he turned to Peter, and
for a minute the two men stood looking furtively at one another, as
though each were trying to read his companion's thoughts. Finally, the
wood-carver spoke.

"I grieve, Master Burkgmaei