At these words, Gutenberg, without answering, placed a marker in his in-folio, shut it up, tied up his bags which contained his letters, and put them away in the drawer of his table, with the frame containing the unfinished page; he then washed his hands, and began pacing up and down his room. “Now you have made him angry,” whispered Beildech to the Syndic, “look to yourself to make your peace with him.” Upon which the faithful servant went out slamming the door after him, the latch falling noisily into the staple. The Syndic took the arm of Gutenberg kindly. “Master, do not be vexed with me if I now and then say a word which may doubtless appear rather harsh to you, but which I speak from my heart. See how many hours you spend in dreaming, in devising means to perfect your art, and in the meanwhile hands more active than yours rob you of your discoveries. Peter Schoeffer, for instance, has he not made a fortune with his impressions? and he has secured a rich wife into the bargain. Besides,” continued the Syndic, while the other maintained an obstinate silence, walking all the time, with long strides, backwards and forwards in his workshop, “besides, as you grow in years, your temper becomes so whimsical and touchy that it is next to impossible not to lose patience with you. Recollect all the law-suits, all the quarrels, which have disturbed your younger days, and, as we are speaking freely to one another, tell me what have you gained by keeping your art secret, to such an excess even that you only work with bolted doors, and you forbid your workmen to loiter in the streets, for fear they should be tempted to divulge your secret? These are no longer similar times to those when you came from Strasburg, and when you printed your first _Donat_; it was then allowable to make a mystery of your discovery, but now that Fust and Schoeffer have publicly established a workshop at _the Great St. Humbert_, with workmen and apprentices from all parts of the world, when such towns of Germany as Strasburg, Bamberg, and Frankfort, and Holland are hastening to reap what you have sown, one asks oneself of what use it is to keep your art concealed, as if it were the philosopher’s stone. This mystery, instead of serving your purposes, can only be of use to your enemies and further their interests!” Here the wise Syndic Humery was silent, awaiting the impression that so eloquent a discourse would certainly produce on his interlocutor, who until now had never uttered a word. Gutenberg had taken down his cloak from the peg where it hung, and, having covered his head with his black velvet cap, he contented himself with saying to the Syndic, while he looked fixedly at him, “There exists an old proverb which says that many fools are capable of asking more questions in a breath than a wise man can answer in a whole day.” Thereupon Gutenberg, without adding another word, passed before the Syndic, bowing coldly, and was going out at the door, when he turned