A Story of Nuremberg [pp. 523-536]

534 A SToRYoFJVUREMBERG. [Jan'.,
Peter, and for a minute the two men stood looking furtively at
one another, as though each were trying to read his companion's
thoughts. Finally the wood-carver spoke.
"I grieve, Master Burkgma~ier," he said with courteous sympathy, "that you should have lost your foster-son, to whom
report says you were much attached. And I hear also that the
young man promised highly in his calling."
"Then you heard not all," answered the stone-mason slowly.
Gabriel did more, for he fulfilled his promise.
A sudden light came into the artist's eyes. "It is true, then,"
`he said eagerly, "that the boy left behind`him a rare piece of
-work, which has not yet been seen outside these walls. I heard
the rumor, but thought it idle folly."
Peter Burkgma~ier crossed the room and opened a deep cupboard. "You shall see it," he said simply, "and answer for
yourself. No one in Nuremberg is more fit to judge." ~hen,
lifting out something wrapped in a heavy cloth, he carried it to
the table, unveiled it with a reverent hand, and, stepping back,
waited in silence for a verdict.
There was a long, breathless pause, broken only by the low
whir of Lisbeth's busy wheel. Veit Stoss stood motionless,
while Peter's eyes never stirred from the table before them.
There, carved in the fair white wood, rested the divine Babe, as
on that blessed Christmas night when his Mother "wrapped him
up in swaddling-clothes and laid him in a manger." The lovely
little head nestled on its rough pillow as though on Mary's bosom;
the tiny limbs were relaxed in sleep; the whole figure breathed
at once the dignity of the Godhead and the pathetic helplessness
of babyhood. Instinctive,ly one loved, and pitied, and adored.
Nor was this all. Every broken bit of straw that thrust, its
graceful, fu'zzy head from between the rough bars of the manger,
every twisted knot of grass, every gnarl and break in the wood
itself, had been wrought with the tender accuracy of the true
artist, who finds nothing too simple for his utmost care and
skill.
Veit Stoss drew a heavy breath and turned to his companjon. "It is a masterpiece," he said gravely, "which I should be
proud to call my own. I congratulate you on the possession of
so great a treasure."
"It is not mine," returned the artisan, "but my daughter's
Gabriel wrought it for lier wedding-gift."
The wood-carver's keen blue eyes scanned Kala's pretty, stoJid face, and then wandered to Sigmund's broad shoulders an4