“And your coming back in this way, Herr Harris, has pleased us all so much,” joined in the Bruder on his left.  “We esteem you for it most highly.  We honour you for it.”

Harris made a deprecating gesture.  “I fear, for my part, it is only a very selfish pleasure,” he said a trifle unctuously.

“Not all would have had the courage,” added the one who resembled Bruder Pagel.

“You mean,” said Harris, a little puzzled, “the disturbing memories—?”

Bruder Pagel looked at him steadily, with unmistakable admiration and respect.  “I mean that most men hold so strongly to life, and can give up so little for their beliefs,” he said gravely.

The Englishman felt slightly uncomfortable.  These worthy men really made too much of his sentimental journey.  Besides, the talk was getting a little out of his depth.  He hardly followed it.

“The worldly life still has some charms for me,” he replied smilingly, as though to indicate that sainthood was not yet quite within his grasp.

“All the more, then, must we honour you for so freely coming,” said the Brother on his left; “so unconditionally!”

A pause followed, and the silk merchant felt relieved when the conversation took a more general turn, although he noted that it never travelled very far from the subject of his visit and the wonderful situation of the lonely village for men who wished to develop their spiritual powers and practise the rites of a high worship.  Others joined in, complimenting him on his knowledge of the language, making him feel utterly at his ease, yet at the same time a little uncomfortable by the excess of their admiration.  After all, it was such a very small thing to do, this sentimental journey.

The time passed along quickly; the coffee was excellent, the cigars soft and of the nutty flavour he loved.  At length, fearing to outstay his welcome, he rose reluctantly to take his leave.  But the others would not hear of it.  It was not often a former pupil returned to visit them in this simple, unaffected way.  The night was young.  If necessary they could even find him a corner in the great Schlafzimmer upstairs.  He was easily persuaded to stay a little longer.  Somehow he had become the centre of the little party.  He felt pleased, flattered, honoured.

“And perhaps Bruder Schliemann will play something for us—­now.”

It was Kalkmann speaking, and Harris started visibly as he heard the name, and saw the black-haired man by the piano turn with a smile.  For Schliemann was the name of his old music director, who was dead.  Could this be his son?  They were so exactly alike.

“If Bruder Meyer has not put his Amati to bed, I will accompany him,” said the musician suggestively, looking across at a man whom Harris had not yet noticed, and who, he now saw, was the very image of a former master of that name.

Meyer rose and excused himself with a little bow, and the Englishman quickly observed that he had a peculiar gesture as though his neck had a false join on to the body just below the collar and feared it might break.  Meyer of old had this trick of movement.  He remembered how the boys used to copy it.