Then he turned to the score, and drooping over the desk, seemed to pass back into himself, alone, by himself companioned. And in an agony of fear lest I should intrude for a moment even, I sped as fast as I had entered from his mysterious presence. To this hour I cannot find in my memory the tone in which he spoke that day. Though I have heard that voice so often since, have listened to it in a trance of life, I can never realize _it_,--it was too unearthly, and became part of what I shall be, having distilled from the essence of my being, as I am. Well, I came upon Lenhart Davy in one of the passages as I was running back. I fell, in fact, against him, and he caught me in his arms. "Charles Auchester, where have you been? You have frightened me sorely. I thought I had lost you, I did indeed, and have been looking for you ever since we came out of the hall." As soon as I could collect enough of myself to put into words, I exclaimed ecstatically, "Oh, Mr. Davy! I have been talking to the man in the orchestra!" "You have, indeed, you presumptuous atomy!" and he laughed in his own way, adding, "I did not expect you would blow into an hero quite so soon. And is our hero up there still? My dear Charles, you must have been mistaken, he must be in the committee-room." "No, I was not. The idea of my mistaking! as if anybody else could be like him! He is up there now, and he would not come down, though they asked him; and he said he would only drink a glass of water, and I heard him, for I waited to see, and I fetched it, and he drank it--there!" and I flung myself round Davy again, almost exhausted with joy. "And he spoke to you, did he, Charles? My own little boy, be still, or I shall have to fetch _you_ a glass of water. I am really afraid of all this excitement, for which you seem to come in naturally." "So I do, Mr. Davy; but do tell me who is that man?" "I cannot tell," said Davy, himself so flushed now that I could hardly think him the same person, "unless, by some extraordinary chance, it may be Milans-André." "No, no!" exclaimed one of our contemporaries, who, in returning to the orchestra, overheard the remark. "No, no! it is not Milans-André. Mr. Hermann, the leader, has seen Milans-André in Paris. No, it is some nobleman, they say,--a German prince. They all know Handel in Germany." "Nonsense!" replied Davy, "they don't know Handel better in Germany than we do in England;" but he spoke as if to me, having turned from the person who addressed him. "Don't they, Mr. Davy? But he does look like a prince." "Not a _German_ prince, my Charles. He is more like one of your favorite Jews,--and that is where it is, no doubt." "Davy, Davy!" exclaimed again another, one of the professors in the town, "can it be Milans-André?" "They say not, Mr. Westley. I do not know myself, but I should have thought Monsieur André must be older than this gentleman, who does not look twenty." "Oh! he is more than twenty."