was not himself.
Never before had he stopped rehearsal and dismissed his men on the
morning preceding a concert night, and, moreover, the night of the
first performance of a new symphony--Von Barwig's own work.

The men were rapidly disappearing, and the Gewandhaus concert platform
was almost empty. Von Barwig seemed deeply interested in watching his
men carry off their instruments, and yet, when Poons looked closely
into his face, he knew that the leader did not see that which he was
apparently watching so closely.

"Shall I wait for you, Anton?" ventured Poons finally. As if to remind
Von Barwig of his presence, he touched him gently on the arm. Von
Barwig started. A look of recognition came into his eye, and with it a
smile that metamorphosed his homely, almost ugly face into something
beyond mere beauty; a smile that transformed a somewhat commonplace
personality into an appealing and compelling individuality. There is
no need to describe the delicate, sensitive, rugged countenance, which,
when he smiled, radiated love and sympathy for his fellow-beings and
made him what is ordinarily described as magnetic.

Poons caught this smile, and his own broad grin deepened as he
recognised his old friend again.

"Come, let's go," Von Barwig said briefly; and without another word
they walked out of the Gewandhaus. They passed the statue of
Mendelssohn erected in front of the building, walking down the August
Platz as far as the University. Poons noticed that unusual things were
happening that morning. First, his friend was walking rapidly, so
rapidly that he himself almost had to trot to keep up with him; second,
he was muttering to himself, a most unusual thing for Von Barwig to do;
third, every now and then a look of intense hatred beclouded his face;
and last, he was not talking over the events of the morning with his
friend. Furthermore, so engrossed was Von Barwig in his own thoughts
that he passed Schumann's monument without lifting his hat, and
Bismarck's monument without shaking his fist; and these two things Von
Barwig had done, day in and day out, ever since Poons had known him.
Finally, when at the Thomas Kirche Poons ventured to ask, "Where are we
going?" Von Barwig stopped short in the middle of the street he was
crossing.

"That's it, that's it!" he said excitedly; "where am I going? Where am
I going?" and he looked at Poons as if he expected that his frightened
friend would answer his question.