"The shadows in the courtyard grew longer, and finally the hot day gave way to slate- gray dusk and a moonlit night. The talk was still going on when, quite suddenly, a young violinist appeared on a balcony above the courtyard. There was a hush as, high above us, he struck up the first great D minor chords of Bach's Chaconne. All at once, and with utter certainty, I had found my link with the center. The moonlit Altmuhl Valley below would have been reason enough for a romantic transfiguration; but that was not it. The clear phrases of the Chaconne touched me like a cool wind, breaking through the mist and revealing the towering structures beyond. There had always been a path to the central order in the language of music, in philosophy and in religion, today no less than in Plato's day and in Bach's. That I now knew from my own experIence. We spent the rest of the night around campfires and in our tents on a meadow above the castle, giving full rein to our romantic and poetic sentiments. The young musician, himself a student, sat near our group and played minuets by Mozart and Beethoven interspersed with old folk songs; I tried to accompany him on my guitar. Otherwise, he proved a very gay young fellow and was reluctant to discuss his solemn rendering of the Chaconne. When pressed, he came back at us with "Do you know the key of the trumpets of Jericho?" "No." "D minor [d-moll] also, of course." "Why?" "Because they d-moll-ished the walls!" He escaped our wrath only by taking to his heels."