t such demands, it is ridiculous."

"You had better not say so," David answered, significantly. "I want
you to know that the great Mastersingers of Nuremberg run this thing;
and it doesn't make any difference to anybody but you and Herr
Pogner's daughter whether you approve or not." At the mention of Eva,
Walther tried to control his feelings; he must try at least, the Lord
help him--to come out somewhere in the midst of all that shoemaker's
music of "modes" and "thread" and "buttons" and what-not!

By this time the apprentices had erected a small stage with a chair
and a desk upon it and a blackboard behind, with a piece of chalk
hanging from a long string upon the board, and all about that funny
arrangement were black curtains which could be drawn close.

"The Marker will let seven faults slip by," David explained to the
knight; but if he finds more than seven it is all over for the
candidate.

So God save you from disaster,
May you, to-day, be a master,

he wound up poetically.

Having finished their preparations, the apprentices began to dance
about in a ring. In the midst of the jollity in came Pogner from the
sacristy; also, Beckmesser, who was the town clerk and a singer who
believed in himself.

David took his place at the sacristy door, to let in the other
Mastersingers, and the other apprentices stood waiting before the
bench at back. Walther, sick to death through being teased by the
apprentices, had sat himself down on the very front seat, and there,
before all, was the dreaded Marker's seat. There was the great
"singing chair"--where the candidate was to sit while under trial.
Pogner stood talking with the town clerk, Beckmesser.

"Herr Pogner," the latter was saying, "I know what this prize is to
be, and I love your daughter with all my soul." Beckmesser, who was a
rather old and absurd chap, made a sentimental and dramatic gesture.
"I want to beg of you if there is any preference shown, that it be
shown to me."

"I cannot say there will be any favours shown, Beckmesser, but my plan
should serve you well. Eva is to go to the best singer--in case of
course that she loves him. She shall not be forced; and who sings so
well as you?"

"Yet, in certain respects, I am weak," Beckmesser murmured. "I should
like those weak points to be passed over." He was a foxy old fellow,
far too old for the lovely Eva, and he was quite willing to take an
unfair advantage of his brother singers.

Walth