All heads turned to the far end of the table where Albert sat, tears streaming down his pale face, shaking his lowered head from side to side while he sobbed and repeated, over and over, “No… no… no… no…”
Finally, Albert rose, wiped the tears from his cheek and said, “No, brother. I cannot go to Nuremberg. It is too late for me. Look what four years in the mines have dome to my hands! The bones in every finger have been smashed, and lately I have been suffering from arthritis so badly in my right hand that I cannot make delicate lines on parchment or canvas with a pen or brush. No, brother, for me it is too late.”