was called Father Leonhard; he was a short, wiry
fellow with black eyes and a dark complexion. He seemed to have had a
great deal of experience with the world, and to have no little cause for
contrition and repentance: there was nothing conventional about his
religious practices; they were, on the contrary, of almost redundant
fervour and renunciation. Daniel was impressed by the man's faith,
though his soul shuddered when in his presence: he regarded him as an
enemy, a Philistine, and preferred not to look at him at all.

He lived close by the monastery in the house of a railroad official.
Father Leonhard came in to visit him once. Daniel was sitting by the
window busily engaged in making some corrections. The Father looked
about the room: his eyes fell on a round, wooden box lying on a chair;
it looked like a cake box.

"The people at home have sent you something to nibble at," remarked the
Father, as Daniel got up.

Daniel riveted his eyes on the monk, took the box, hesitated for a
while, and then opened it. In it, carefully packed in sawdust, was the
mask of Zingarella. It was a part of Daniel's meagre luggage; wherever
he went it followed him.

Father Leonhard sprang back terrified. "What does that mean?" he asked.

"It means sin and purification," said Daniel, holding the mask up in the
light of the setting sun. "It means grief and redemption, despair and
mercy, love and death, chaos and form."

From that day on, Father Leonhard never said another word to Daniel
Nothafft. And whenever the strange musician chanced to play the organ,
the monk arose as quickly as possible, left the church, and sought out
some place where the tones could not reach him.

III

That summer Daniel came to Aix-la-Chapelle and the region of Liege,
Louvain, and Malines. From there he wandered on foot to Ghent and
Bruges.

In places where he had to make investigations, he was obliged to depend
upon the letters he received from his publisher to make himself
understood. Condemned to silence, he lived very much alone; he was a
stranger in a strange land.

He had no interest in sights. It was rare that he looked at old
paintings. The beautiful never caused him to stop unless it actually
blocked his way. He went about as if in between two walls. He followed
his nose, turned around only with the greatest reluctance, and never
felt tired until he was ready to lie down to sleep.

And even when he was