Coffee was served presently, made by a black-haired Brother who sat
in the corner by the piano and bore a marked resemblance to Bruder
Schliemann, the musical director of thirty years ago. Harris exchanged
bows with him when he took the cup from his white hands, which he
noticed were like the hands of a woman. He lit a cigar, offered to him
by his neighbour, with whom he was chatting delightfully, and who, in
the glare of the lighted match, reminded him sharply for a moment of
Bruder Pagel, his former room-master. “_Es ist wirklich merkwürdig_,” he said, “how many resemblances I see,
or imagine. It is really _very_ curious!”

“Yes,” replied the other, peering at him over his coffee cup, “the
spell of the place is wonderfully strong. I can well understand that
the old faces rise before your mind’s eye--almost to the exclusion of
ourselves perhaps.”

They both laughed pleasantly. It was soothing to find his mood
understood and appreciated. And they passed on to talk of the mountain
village, its isolation, its remoteness from worldly life, its peculiar
fitness for meditation and worship, and for spiritual development--of a
certain kind. “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. He glanced sharply from face to face, feeling as though some silent,
unseen process were changing everything about him. All the faces seemed
oddly familiar. Pagel, the Brother he had been talking with, was of
course the image of Pagel, his former room-master; and Kalkmann, he now
realised for the first time, was the very twin of another master whose
name he had quite forgotten, but whom he used to dislike intensely in
the old days. And, through the smoke, peering at him from the corners
of the room, he saw that all the Brothers about him had the faces he
had known and lived with long ago--Röst, Fluheim, Meinert, Rigel, Gysin. He stared hard, suddenly grown more alert, and everywhere saw, or
fancied he saw, strange likenesses, ghostly resemblances,--more, the
identical faces of years ago. There was something queer about it all,
something not quite right, something that made him feel uneasy. He
shook himself, mentally and actually, blowing the smoke from before his
eyes with a long breath, and as he did so he noticed to his dismay that
every one was fixedly staring. They were watching him. This brought him to his senses. As an Englishman, and a foreigner, he
did not wish to be rude, or to do anything to make himself foolishly
conspicuous and spoil the harmony of the evening. He was a guest, and a
privileged guest at that. Besides, the music had already begun. Bruder
Schliemann’s long white fingers were caressing the keys to some purpose. He subsided into his chair and smoked with half-closed eyes that yet
saw everything. But the shudder had established itself in his being, and, whether he
would or not, it kept repeating itself. As a town, far up some inland
river, feels the pressure of the distant sea, so he became aware that
mighty forces from somewhere beyond his ken were urging themselves
up against his soul in this smoky little room. He began to feel
exceedingly ill at ease. And as the music filled the air his mind began to clear. Like a lifted
veil there rose up something that had hitherto obscured his vision. The words of the priest at the railway inn flashed across his brain
unbidden: “You will find it different.” And also, though why he
could not tell, he saw mentally the strong, rather wonderful eyes of
that other guest at the supper-table, the man who had overhead his
conversation, and had later got into earnest talk with the priest. He
took out his watch and stole a glance at it. Two hours had slipped by. It was already eleven o’clock. Schliemann, meanwhile, utterly absorbed in his music, was playing a
solemn measure. The piano sang marvellously.