ring melody
crept a note of doubt, undefined and terrible, a spirit echo of the
flying hoofs. It caught up question and answer, and turned them to
sharp, swift flight. The pursuing hoofs struck the sound and broke it;
with a cry the child leaped to her feet. Her hands were outstretched,
and her face worked. The man by the door turned slightly. He held out a
quiet, imperious hand, and the child fled across the room, clasping the
hand in both her own, and burying her face in his shoulder. The swift
sound was upon them, around them, over them, sweeping past, whirling
them in its leaping, gigantic grasp. It hesitated a second, grew
strangely sweet and hushed, and dropped through a full, clear octave on
a low note. It ceased. The air quivered. The player sat motionless,
gazing before him.

The dark man sprang to his feet, his face illumined, the child clinging
to his hand. He patted the dark curls carelessly as he flashed a smile
to the young man at the other side of the room.

"That's mine, Schoenstein," he said exultantly; "your tenor voice won't
carry that."

The other nodded half grudgingly.

They were both looking toward the player. He swayed a little on the
stool, stared at the ceiling a moment, and swung slowly about, blinking
uncertainly.

The older man stepped forward, holding out a quick hand.

"Wunderschoen!" he said warmly. "What is it? Are there words to it? Can
you get it for me?"

The tiny man seemed to shrink a little. He put out his fat hand and
waited a moment before he spoke. The full, thick lips groped at the
words.

"It is--it is something--of my own," he said at last.

They crowded about him, questioning and delighted.

"Have you published it? What is it?"

"'Der Erlkoenig,'" said Schubert shortly. The child's face quivered.

"I know," she said.

Her father glanced down at her, smiling.

"What do you know?" he said gently.

"I read it," said the child, simply. She shivered a little. "The Erlking
carried him off," she said. She covered her face, suddenly in tears. She
was quivering from head to foot.

The count glanced significantly at his wife. She came forward and laid
her hand on the child's shoulder.

"Come, Caroline. Come, Marie," she said. "Later, Herr Schubert, I shall
have the pleasure of thanking you." She swept from the room.

The three men remained, looking a little uncomfortably toward the closed
door.

The count shrugged his shoulders and glanced at the musician.