died away, many came up to congratulate him, and a critic of
music spoke.

"I am ashamed of myself," said the critic. "I confess that I had
thought, in company with many others, that you declined in power,
_maestro_. You have given us to-night something more superb than we have
ever heard from you before. You are at your very highest at this
minute."

The master did not seem to hear, did not seem to see the hands which
were stretched out to him. He sat looking intently before him, as at
some presence not visible to the others. And when he was summoned to
speak to the King, he rose stiffly and moved mechanically, looking now
and again over his shoulder, as at someone who followed him.

And when the King had finished his compliments, he drew a deep breath,
as of one who makes an effort. He swung round and pointed with a wave of
his hand.

"Alas, sir," he said, "I am not he who made 'The Sylvan Sonata'. But the
composer is here. See him. He stands behind me. The face was somewhat
crushed by the fall of the tree, but it is made well again. It is as it
always was. It is his music, not mine, that I have played to you."

He stepped backward from the royal presence. The shiver of sensation
went through the great assembly. This was clearly aberration. Someone
should see to the old man. The trial had been too great for him, and his
reason had been overcome. A doctor should be summoned.

But before anything could be done, the old man had slipped out of the
assembly and left the palace and gone back to his own house. Once more
he poured the laudanum, and this time his hand did not fail him. When he
had drunk, he went up to the music-room again and unlocked the piano
that had once been his pupil's. He opened it and began to play.

It was there they found him in the morning.

It was late at night and I had gone out to see the September moon. It
was one of those nights which people like to say are as light as day. It
was not in the least as light as day. It was light grey and silver. It
was even black in places. I heard a faint crackle and could smell the
acrid smoke which mounted thin and straight in the still air from the
fire which had been made in the morning. There burned things which had
done their work and had been beautiful, but were now over.

The fire had been lit that morning and the lawn had been swept that
morning; but there was a rustle of fallen leaves about my feet. The air
was shrewd and chill. Next mornin