But as Graham neared the precincts of the cathedral his ear caught a
grave and solemn music, which he at first supposed to come from within
the building. But as he paused and looked round, he saw a group of the
German military, on whose stalwart forms and fair manly earnest faces the
setting sun cast its calm lingering rays. They were chanting, in voices
not loud but deep, Luther's majestic hymn:

"Nun danket alle Gott." The chant awed even the ragged beggar boys who
had followed the Englishman, as they followed any stranger, would have
followed King William himself, whining for alms. "What a type of the
difference between the two nations!" thought Graham; "the Marseillaise,
and Luther's Hymn!" While thus meditating and listening, a man in a
general's uniform came slowly out of the cathedral, with his hands
clasped behind his back, and his head bent slightly downwards. He, too,
paused on hearing the hymn; then unclasped his hand and beckoned to one
of the officers, to whom approaching he whispered a word or two, and
passed on towards the Episcopal palace. The hymn hushed, and the singers
quietly dispersed. Graham divined rightly that the general had thought a
hymn thanking the God of battles might wound the feelings of the
inhabitants of the vanquished city--not, however, that any of them were
likely to understand the language in which the thanks were uttered.
Graham followed the measured steps of the general, whose hands were again
clasped behind his back--the musing habit of Von Moltke, as it had been
of Napoleon the First. Continuing his way, the Englishman soon reached
the house in which the Count von Rudesheim was lodged, and, sending in
his card, was admitted at once through an anteroom in which sate two
young men, subaltern officers apparently employed in draughting maps,
into the presence of the Count.