Shortly after sunset Appenzelder received the order to have the boy choir
sing before the Emperor.

During the noon hour, which the monarch had spent alone, thoughts so sad,
bordering upon melancholy, had visited him, although for several hours he
had been free from pain, that he relinquished his resentful intention of
showing his undutiful sister how little he cared for her surprise and how
slight was his desire to enjoy music.

In fact, he, too, regarded it as medicine, and hoped especially for
a favourable effect from the exquisite soprano voice in the motet "Tu
pulchra es."

He still had some things to look over with Granvelle, but the orchestra
and the boy choir must be ready by ten o'clock.

Would it not have been foolish to bear this intolerable, alarming mood
until the midnight meal? It must be dispelled, for he himself perceived
how groundless it was. The pain had passed away, the despatches
contained no bad news, and Dr. Mathys had permitted him to go out the
next day. When Adrian already had his hand on the door knob, he called
after him, "And Appenzelder must see that the exquisite new voice--he
knows--is heard."

Soon after, when Granvelle had just left him, the steward, Malfalconnet,
entered, and, in spite of the late hour--the Nuremberg clock on the
writing table had struck nine some time before--asked an audience for Sir
Wolf Hartschwert, one of her Highness the regent's household, to whom she
committed the most noiseless and the most noisy affairs, namely, the
secret correspondence and the music.