Numerous carts and sledges, on which blocks of light grey granite had
been drawn hither, barred his way.  He rode around them at the peril of
falling with his horse over a precipice, and now found himself before a
labyrinth of scaffolds and free-stone, in the midst of a wild, grey,
treeless mountain valley.  What kind of a man was this, who had chosen
this desert for his home, in life as well as in death!  The Escurial
suited King Philip, as King Philip suited the Escurial.  Here he felt
most at ease, from here the royal spider ceaselessly entangled the world
in his skilful nets.

His majesty was attending vespers in the scarcely completed chapel.  The
chief officer of the palace, Fray Antonio de Villacastin, seeing Ulrich
slip from his horse, hastened to receive the tottering soldier's tidings,
and led him to the church.

The 'confiteor' had just commenced, but Fray Antonio motioned to the
priests, who interrupted the Mass, and Ulrich, holding the prophet's
standard high aloft, exclaimed: "An unparalleled victory!--Don Juan....
October 7th....! at Lepanto--the Ottoman navy totally destroyed....!"

Philip heard this great news and saw the standard, but seemed to have
neither eyes nor ears; not a muscle in his face stirred, no movement
betrayed that anything was passing in his mind.  Murmuring in a
sarcastic, rather than a joyous tone: "Don Juan has dared much," he gave
a sign, without opening the letter, to continue the Mass, remaining on
his knees as if nothing had disturbed the sacred rite.

The exhausted messenger sank into a pew and did not wake from his stupor,
until the communion was over and the king had ordered a Te Deum for the
victory of Lepanto.

Then he rose, and as he came out of the pew a newly-married couple passed
him, the architect, Herrera, and Isabella Coello, radiant in beauty.

Ulrich clenched his fist, and the thought passed through his mind, that
he would cast away good-fortune, art and fame as carelessly as soap-
bubbles, if he could be in Herrera's place.




CHAPTER XXIV.

What fame is--Ulrich was to learn!

He saw in Messina the hero of Lepanto revered as a god.  Wherever the
victor appeared, fair hands strewed flowers in his path, balconies and
windows were decked with hangings, and exulting women and girls, joyous
children and grave men enthusiastically shouted his name and flung
laurel-wreaths and branches to him.  Messages, congratulations and gifts
arrived from all the monarchs and great men of the world.

When he saw the wonderful youth dash by, Ulrich marvelled that his steed
did not put forth wings and soar away with him into the clouds.  But he
too, Navarrete, had done his duty, and was to enjoy the sweetness of
renown.  When he appeared on Don Juan's most refractory steed, among the
last of the victor's train, he felt that he was not overlooked, and often
heard people tell each other of his deeds.

This made him raise his head, swelled his heart, urged him into new paths
of fame.

The commander-in-chief also longed to press forward, but found himself
condemned to inactivity, while he saw the league dissolve, and the fruit
of his victory wither.  King Philip's petty jealousy opposed his wishes,
poisoned his hopes, and barred the realization of his dreams.

Don Juan was satiated with fame.  "Power" was the food for which he
longed.  The busy spider in the Escurial could not deprive him of the
laurel, but his own "word," his highest ambition in life, his power, he
would consent to share with no mortal man, not even his brother.

"Laurels  are  withering leaves,  power is arable land," said Don Juan to
Escovedo.

It befits an emperor's son, thought Ulrich, to cherish such lofty wishes;
to men of lower rank fame can remain the guiding star on life's pathway.

The elite of the army was in the Netherlands; there he could find what he
desired.

Don Juan let him go, and when fame was the word, Ulrich had no cause to
complain of its ill-will.

He bore the standard of the proud "Castilian" regiment, and when strange
troops met him as he entered a city, one man whispered to another: "That
is Navarrete, who was in the van at every assault on Haarlem, who, when
all fell back before Alkmaar, assailed the walls again, it was not his
fault that they were forced to retreat....he turned the scale with his
men on Mook-Heath....have you heard the story?  How, when struck by two
bullets, he wrapped the banner around him, and fell with, and on it, upon
the grass."

And now, when with the rebellious army he had left the island of Schouwen
behind him and was marching through Brabant, it was said:

"Navarrete!  It was he, who led the way for the Spaniards with the
standard on his head, when they waded through the sea that stormy night,
to surprise Zierikzee."

Whoever bore arms in the Netherlands knew his name; but the citizens also
knew who he was, and clenched their fists when they spoke of him.

On the battle-field, in the water, on the ice, in the breaches of their
firm walls, in burning cities, in streets and alleys, in council-chambers
and plundered homes, he had confronted them as a murderer and destroyer.
Yet, though the word fame had long been embittered to him, the inhumanity
which clung to his deeds had the least share in it.

He was the servant of his monarch, nothing more.  All who bore the name
of Netherlander were to him rebels and heretics, condemned by God,
sentenced by his king; not worthy peasants, skilful, industrious
citizens, noble men, who were risking property and life for religion and
liberty.

This impish crew disdained to pray to the merciful mother of God and the
saints, these temple violaters had robbed the churches of their statues,
driven the pious monks and nuns from their cloisters!  They called the
Pope the Anti-Christ, and in every conquered city he found satirical
songs and jeering verses about his lord, the king, his generals and all
Spaniards.

He had kept the faith of his childhood, which was shared by every
one who bore arms with him, and had easily obtained absolution, nay,
encouragement and praise, for the most terrible deeds of blood.

In battle, in slaughter, when his wounds burned, in plundering, at the
gaming-table, everywhere he called upon the Holy Virgin, and also, but
very rarely, on the "word," fame.

He no longer believed in it, for it did not realize what he had
anticipated.  The laurel now rustled on his curls like withered
leaves.  Fame would not fill the void in his heart, failed to satisfy
his discontented mind; power offered the lonely man no companionship of
the soul, it could not even silence the voice which upbraided him--the
unapproachable champion, him at whom no mortal dared to look askance--
with being a miserable fool, defrauded of true happiness and the right
ambition.

This voice tortured him on the soft down beds in the town, on the straw
in the camp, over his wine and on the march.

Yet how many envied him.  Ay! when he bore the standard at the head of
the regiment he marched like a victorious demi-god!  No one else could
support so well as he the heavy pole, plated with gold, and the large
embroidered silken banner, which might have served as a sail for a
stately ship; but he held the staff with his right hand, as if the burden
intrusted to him was an easily-managed toy.  Meantime, with inimitable
solemnity, he threw back the upper portion of the body and his curly
head, placing his left hand on his hip.  The arch of the broad chest
stood forth in fine relief, and with it the breast-plate and points of
his armor.  He seemed like a proud ship under swelling sails, and even in
hostile cities, read admiration in the glances of the gaping crowd.  Yet
he was a miserable, discontented man, and could not help thinking more
and more frequently of Don Juan's "word."

He no longer trusted to the magic power of a word, as in former times.
Still, he told himself that the "arable field" of the emperor's son,
"power," was some thing lofty and great-ay, the loftiest aim a man could
hope to attain.

Is not omnipotence God's first attribute?  And now, on the march from
Schouwen through Brabant, power beckoned to him.  He had already tasted
it, when the mutinous army to which he belonged attempted to pillage a
smithy.  He had stepped before the spoilers and saved the artisan's life
and property.  Whoever swung the hammer before the bellows was sacred to
him; he had formerly shared gains and booty with many a plundered member
of his father's craft.

He now carried a captain's staff, but this was mere mummery, child's
play, nothing more.  A merry soldier's-cook wore a captain's plume on the
side of his tall hat.  The field-officer, most of the captains and the
lieutenants, had retired after the great mutiny on the island of Schouwen
was accomplished, and their places were now occupied by ensigns,
sergeants and quartermasters.  The higher officers had gone to Brussels,
and the mutinous army marched without any chief through Brabant.

They had not received their well-earned pay for twenty-two months, and
the starving regiments now sought means of support wherever they could
find them.

Two years since, after the battle of Mook-Heath, the army had helped
itself, and at that time, as often happened on similar occasions, an
Eletto--[The chosen one.  The Italian form is used, instead of the
Spanish 'electo'.]--had been chosen from among the rebellious subaltern
officers.  Ulrich had then been lying seriously wounded, but after the
end of the mutiny was told by many, that no other would have been made
Eletto had he only been well and present.  Now an Eletto was again to be
chosen, and whoever was elected would have command of at least three
thousand men, and possibly more, as it was expected that other regiments
would join the insurrection.  To command an army!  This was power, this
was the highest attainment; it was worth risking life to obtain it.

The regiments pitched their camp at Herenthals, and here the election was
to be held.

In the arrangement of the tents, the distribution of the wagons which
surrounded the camp like a wall, the stationing of field-pieces at the
least protected places, Ulrich had the most authority, and while
exercising it forced himself, for the first time in his life, to appear
gentle and yielding, when he would far rather have uttered words of
command.  He lived in a state of feverish excitement; sleep deserted his
couch, he imagined that every word he heard referred to himself and his
election.

During these days he learned to smile when he was angry, to speak
pleasantly while curses were burning on his lips.  He was careful not to
betray by look, word, or deed what was passing in his mind, as he feared
the ridicule that would ensue should he fail to achieve his purpose.

One more day, one more night, and perhaps he would be commander-in-chief,
able to conquer a kingdom and keep the world in terror.  Perhaps, only
perhaps; for another was seeking with dangerous means to obtain control
of the army.

This was Sergeant-Major and Quartermaster Zorrillo, an excellent and
popular soldier, who had been chosen Eletto after the battle of Mook-
Heath, but voluntarily resigned his office at the first serious
opposition he encountered.

It was said that he had done this by his wife's counsel, and this woman
was Ulrich's most dangerous foe.

Zorrillo belonged to another regiment, but Ulrich had long known him and
his companion, the "campsibyl."

Wine was sold in the quartermaster's tent, which, before the outbreak of
the mutiny, had been the rendezvous of the officers and chaplains.

The sibyl entertained the officers with her gay conversation, while they
drank or sat at the gaining-table; she probably owed her name to the
skill she displayed in telling fortunes by cards.  The common soldiers
liked her too, because she took care of their sick wives and children.

Navarrete preferred to spend his time in his own regiment, so he did not
meet the Zorrillos often until the mutiny at Schouwen and on the march
through Brabant.  He had never sought, and now avoided them; for he knew
the sibyl was leaving no means untried to secure her partner's election.
Therefore he disliked them; yet he could not help occasionally entering
their tent, for the leaders of the mutiny held their counsels there.
Zorrillo always received him courteously; but his companion gazed at him
so intently and searchingly, that an anxious feeling, very unusual to the
bold fellow, stole over him.

He could not help asking himself whether he had seen her before, and when
the thought that she perhaps resembled his mother, once entered his mind,
he angrily rejected it.

The day before she had offered to tell his fortune; but he refused point-
blank, for surely no good tidings could come to him from those lips.

To-day she had asked what his Christian name was, and for the first time
in years he remembered that he was also called "Ulrich."  Now he was
nothing but "Navarrete," to himself and others.  He lived solely for
himself, and the more reserved a man is, the more easily his Christian
name is lost to him.

As, years before, he had told the master that he was called nothing but
Ulrich, he now gave the harsh answer: "I am Navarrete, that's enough!"




CHAPTER XXV.

Towards evening, the members of the mutiny met at the Zorrillos to hold a
council.

The weather outside was hot and sultry, and the more people assembled,
the heavier and more oppressive became the air within the spacious tent,
the interior of which looked plain enough, for its whole furniture
consisted of some small roughly-made tables, some benches and chairs, and
one large table, and a superb ebony chest with ivory ornaments, evidently
stolen property.  On this work of art lay the pillows used at night,
booty obtained at Haarlem; they were covered with bright but worn-out
silk, which had long shown the need of the thrifty touch of a woman's
hand.  Pictures of the saints were pasted on the walls, and a crucifix
hung over the door.

Behind the great table, between a basket and the wine cask, from which
the sibyl replenished the mugs, stood a high-backed chair.  A coarse
barmaid, who had grown up in the camp, served the assembled men, but she
had no occasion to hurry, for the Spaniards were slow drinkers.

The guests sat, closely crowded together, in a circle, and seemed grave
and taciturn; but their words sounded passionate, imperious, defiant, and
the speakers often struck their coats of mail with their clenched fists,
or pounded on the floor with their swords.

If there was any difference of opinion, the disputants flew into a
furious rage, and then a chorus of fierce, blustering voices rose like a
tenfold echo.  It often seemed as if the next instant swords must fly
from their sheaths and a bloody brawl begin; but Zorrillo, who had been
chosen to preside over the meeting, only needed to raise his baton and
command order, to transform the roar into a low muttering; the weather-
beaten, scarred, pitiless soldiers, even when mutineers, yielded willing
obedience to the word of command and the iron constraint of discipline.

On the sea and at Schouwen their splendid costumes had obtained a
beggarly appearance.  The velvet and brocade extorted from the rich
citizens of Antwerp, now hung tattered and faded around their sinewy
limbs.  They looked like foot-pads, vagabonds, pirates, yet sat, as
military custom required, exactly in the order of their rank; on the
march and in the camp, every insurgent willingly obeyed the orders of
the new leader, who by the fortune of war had thrown pairs-royal on the
drumhead.

One thing was certain: some decisive action must be taken.  Every one
needed doublets and shoes, money and good lodgings.  But in what way
could these be most easily procured?  By parleying and submitting on
acceptable conditions, said some; by remaining free and capturing a city,
roared others; first wealthy Mechlin, which could be speedily reached.
There they could get what they wanted without money.  Zorrillo
counselled  prudent  conduct;  Navarrete impetuously advised bold action.
They, the insurgents, he cried, were stronger than any other military
force in the Netherlands, and need fear no one.  If they begged and
entreated they would be dismissed with copper coins; but if they enforced
their demands they would become rich and prosperous.

With flashing eyes he extolled what the troops, and he himself had done;
he enlarged upon the hardships they had borne, the victories won for the
king.  He asked nothing but good pay for blood and toil, good pay, not
coppers and worthless promises.

Loud shouts of approval followed his speech, and a gunner, who now held
the rank of captain, exclaimed enthusiastically:

"Navarrete, the hero of Lepanto and Haarlem, is right!  I know whom I
will choose."

"Victor, victor Navarrete!"  echoed from many a bearded lilt.

But Zorrillo interrupted these declarations, exclaiming, not without
dignity, while raising his baton still higher.  "The election will take
place to-morrow, gentlemen; we are holding a council to-day.  It is very
warm in here; I feel it as much as you do.  But before we separate,
listen a few minutes to a man, who means well."  Zorrillo now explained
all the reasons, which induced him to counsel negotiations and a friendly
agreement with the commander-in-chief.  There was sound, statesmanlike
logic in his words, yet his language did not lack warmth and charm.  The
men perceived that he was in earnest, and while he spoke the sibyl went
behind him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and wiped the perspiration
from his brow with her handkerchief.  Zorrillo permitted it, and without
interrupting himself, gave her a grateful, affectionate glance.

The bronzed warriors liked to look at her, and even permitted her to
utter a word of advice or warning during their discussions, for she was a
wise woman, not one of the ordinary stamp.  Her blue eyes sparkled with
intelligence and mirth, her full lips seemed formed for quick, gay
repartee, she was always kind and cheer ful in her manner even to the
most insignificant.  But whence came the deep lines about her red mouth
and the outer corners of her eyes?  She covered them with rouge every
day, to conceal the evidence of the sorrowful hours she spent when alone?
The lines were well disguised, yet they increased, and year by year grew
deeper.

No wrinkle had yet dared to appear on the narrow forehead; and the
delicate features, dazzlingly-white teeth, girlish figure, and winning
smile lent this woman a youthful aspect.  She might be thirty, or perhaps
even past forty.

A pleasure made her younger by ten summers, a vexation transformed her
into a matron.  The snow white hair, carefully arranged on her forehead,
seemed to indicate somewhat advanced age; but it was known that it had
turned grey in a few days and nights, eight years before, when a
discontented blackguard stabbed the quartermaster, and he lay for weeks
at the point of death.

This white hair harmonized admirably with the red cheeks of the camp-
sibyl, who appreciating the fact, did not dye it.

During Zorrillo's speech her eyes more than once rested on Ulrich with a
strangely intense expression.  As soon as he paused, she went back again
behind the table to the crying child, to cradle it in her arms.

Zorrillo--perceiving that a new and violent argument was about to break
forth among the men--closed the meeting.  Before adjourning, however, it
was unanimously decided that the election should be held on the morrow.

While the soldiers noisily rose, some shaking hands with Zorrillo, some
with Navarrete, the stately sergeant-major of a German lansquenet troop,
which was stationed in Antwerp, and did not belong to the insurgents,
entered the wide open door of the tent.  His dress was gay and in good
order; a fine Dalmatian dog followed him.

A thunder-storm had begun, and it was raining violently.  Some of the
Spaniards were twisting their rosaries, and repeating prayers, but
neither thunder, lightning, nor water seemed to have destroyed the
German's good temper, for he shook the drops from his plumed hat with a
merry "phew," gaily introducing himself to his comrades as an envoy from
the Pollviller regiment.

His companions, he said, were not disinclined to join the "free army"--
he had come to ask how the masters of Schouwen fared.

Zorrillo offered the sergeant-major a chair, and after the latter had
raised and emptied two beakers from the barmaid's pewter waiter in quick
succession, he glanced around the circle of his rebel comrades.  Some he
had met before in various countries, and shook hands with them.  Then he
fixed his eyes on Ulrich, pondering where and under what standard he had
seen this magnificent, fair-haired warrior.

Navarrete recognizing the merry lansquenet, Hans Eitelfritz of Colln on
the Spree, held out his hand, and cried in the Spanish language, which
the lansquenet had also used:

"You are Hans Eitelfritz!  Do you remember Christmas in the Black Forest,
Master Moor, and the Alcazar in Madrid?"

"Ulrich, young  Master Ulrich!  Heavens and earth!"  cried Eitelfritz;--
but suddenly interrupted himself; for the sibyl, who had risen from the
table to bring the envoy, with her own hands, a larger goblet of wine,
dropped the beaker close beside him.

Zorrillo and he hastily sprung to support the tottering woman, who was
almost fainting.  But she recovered herself, waving them back with a mute
gesture.

All eyes were fixed upon her, and every one was startled; for she stood
as if benumbed, her bright, youthful face had suddenly become aged and
haggard.  "What is the matter?"  asked Zorrillo anxiously.  Recovering
her self-control, she answered hastily "The thunder, the storm...."

Then, with short, light steps, she went back to the table, and as she
resumed her seat the bell for evening prayers was heard outside.

Most of the company rose to obey the summons.

"Good-bye till to-morrow morning, Sergeant!  The election will take place
early to-morrow."

"A Dios, a Dios, hasta mas ver, Sibila, a Dios!"  was loudly shouted, and
soon most of the guests had left the tent.

Those who remained behind were scattered among the different tables.
Ulrich sat at one alone with Hans Eitelfritz.

The lansquenet had declined Zorrillo's invitation to join him; an old
friend from Madrid was present, with whom he wished to talk over happier
days.  The other willingly assented; for what he had intended to say to
his companions was against Ulrich and his views.  The longer the
sergeant-major detained him the better.  Everything that recalled Master
Moor was dear to Ulrich, and as soon as he was alone with Hans
Eitelfritz, he again greeted him in a strange mixture of Spanish and
German.  He had forgotten his home, but still retained a partial
recollection of his native language.  Every one supposed him to be a
Spaniard, and he himself felt as if he were one.

Hans Eitelfritz had much to tell Ulrich; he had often met Moor in
Antwerp, and been kindly received in his studio.

What pleasure it afforded Navarrete to hear from the noble artist, how he
enjoyed being able to speak German again after so many years, difficult
as it was.  It seemed as if a crust melted away from his heart, and none
of those present had ever seen him so gay, so full of youthful vivacity.
Only one person knew that he could laugh and play noisily, and this one
was the beautiful woman at the long table, who knew not whether she
should die of joy, or sink into the earth with shame.

She had taken the year old infant from the basket.  It was a pale, puny
little creature, whose father had fallen in battle, and whose mother had
deserted it.

The handsome standard-bearer yonder was called Ulrich!  He must be her
son!  Alas, and she could only cast stolen glances at him, listen by
stealth to the German words that fell from the beloved lips.  Nothing
escaped her notice, yet while looking and listening, her thoughts
wandered to a far distant country, long vanished days; beside the bearded
giant she saw a beautiful, curly-haired child; besides the man's deep
voice she heard clear, sweet childish tones, that called her "mother" and
rang out in joyous, silvery laughter.

The pale child in her arms often raised its little hand to its cheek,
which was wet with the tears of the woman; who tended it.  How hard, how
unspeakably, terribly hard it was for this woman, with the youthful face
and white locks, to remain quiet!  How she longed to start up and call
joyously to the child, the man, her lover's enemy, but her own, own
Ulrich:

"Look at me, look at me!  I am your mother.  You are mine!  Come, come to
my heart!  I will never leave you more!"

Ulrich now laughed heartily again, not suspecting what was passing in a
mother's heart, close beside him; he had no eyes for her, and only
listened to the jests of the German lansquenet, with whom he drained
beaker after beaker.

The strange child served as a shield to protect the camp-sibyl from her
son's eyes, and also to conceal from him that she was watching,
listening, weeping.  Eitelfritz talked most and made one joke after
another; but she did not laugh, and only wished he would stop and let
Ulrich speak, that she might be permitted to hear his voice again.

"Give the dog Lelaps a little corner of the settle," cried Hans
Eitelfritz.  "He'll get his feet wet on the damp floor--for the rain is
trickling in--and take cold.  This choice fellow isn't like ordinary
dogs."

"Do you call the tiger Lelaps?"  asked Ulrich.  "An odd name."

"I got him from a student at Tubingen, dainty Junker Fritz of Hallberg,
in exchange for an elephant's tusk I obtained in the Levant, and he owes
his name to the merry rogue.  I tell you, he's wiser than many learned
men; he ought to be called Doctor Lelaps."

"He's a pretty creature."

"Pretty!  More, far more!  For instance, at Naples we had the famous
Mortadella sausage for breakfast, and being engaged in eager
conversation, I forgot him.  What did my Lelaps do?  He slipped quietly
into the garden, returned with a bunch of forget-me-nots in his mouth,
and offered it to me, as a gallant presents a bouquet to his fair one.
That meant: dogs liked sausage too, and it was not seemly to forget him.
What do you say to that show of sense?"

"I think your imagination more remarkable than the dog's sagacity."

"You believed in my good fortune in the old days, do you now doubt this
true story?"

"To be sure, that is rather preposterous, for whoever loyally and
faithfully trusts good-fortune--your good fortune--is ill-advised.  Have
you composed any new songs?"

"'That is all over now!"  sighed the trooper.  "See this scar!  Since an
infidel dog cleft my skull before Tunis, I can write no more verses; yet
it hasn't grown quiet in my upper story on that account.  I lie now,
instead of composing.  My boon companions enjoy the nonsensical trash,
when I pour it forth at the tavern."

"And the broken skull: is that a forget-me-not story too, or was it...."

"Look here!  It's the actual truth.  It was a bad blow, but there's a
grain of good in everything evil.  For instance, we were in the African
desert just dying of thirst, for that belongs to the desert as much as
the dot does to the letter i.  Lelaps yonder was with me, and scented a
spring.  Then it was necessary to dig, but I had neither spade nor
hatchet, so I took out the loose part of the skull, it was a hard piece
of bone, and dug with it till the water gushed out of the sand, then I
drank out of my brain-pan as if it were a goblet."

"Man, man!"  exclaimed Ulrich, striking his clenched fist on the table.

"Do you suppose a dog can't scent a spring?"  asked Eitelfritz, with
comical wrath.  "Lelaps here was born in Africa, the native land of
tigers, and his mother...."

"I thought you got him in Tubingen?"

"I said just now that I tell lies.  I imposed upon you, when I made you
think Lelaps came from Swabia; he was really born in the desert, where
the tigers live.

"No offence, Herr Ulrich!  We'll keep our jests for another evening.  As
soon as I'm knocked down, I stop my nonsense.  Now tell me, where shall I
find Navarrete, the standard-bearer, the hero of Lepanto and Schouwen?
He must be a bold fellow; they say Zorrillo and he...."

The lansquenet had spoken loudly; the quartermaster, who caught the name
Navarrete, turned, and his eyes met Ulrich's.

He must be on his guard against this man.

The instant Zorrillo recognized him as a German, he would hold a powerful
weapon.  The Spaniards would give the command only to a Spaniard.

This thought now occurred to him for the first time.  It had needed the
meeting with Hans Eitelfritz, to remind him that he belonged to a
different nation from his comrades.  Here was a danger to be encountered,
so with the rapid decision, acquired in the school of war, he laid his
hand heavily on his countryman's, saying in a low, impressive tone: "You
are my friend, Hans Eitelfritz, and have no wish to injure me."

"Zounds, no!  What's up?"

"Well then, keep to yourself where and how we first met each other.
Don't interrupt me.  I'll tell you later in my tent, where you must take
up your quarters, how I gained my name, and what I have experienced in
life.  Don't show your surprise, and keep calm.  I, Ulrich, the boy from
the Black Forest, am the man you seek, I am Navarrete."

"You?"  asked the lansquenet, opening his eyes in amazement.  "Nonsense!
You're paying me off for the yarns I told you just now."

No, Hans Eitelfritz, no!  I am not jesting, I mean it.  I am Navarrete!
Nay more!  If you keep your mouth shut, and the devil doesn't put his
finger into the pie, I think, spite of all the Zorrillos, I shall be
Eletto to-morrow.

"You know the Spanish temper!  The German Ulrich will be a very different
person to them from the Castilian Navarrete.  It is in your power to
spoil my chance."

The other interrupted him by a peal of loud, joyous laughter, then
shouted to the dog: "Up, Lelaps!  My respects to Caballero Navarrete."

The Spaniards frowned, for they thought the German was drunk, but Hans
Eitelfritz needed more liquor than that to upset his sobriety.

Flashing a mischievous glance at Ulrich from his bright eyes, he
whispered: "If necessary, I too can be silent.  You man without a
country!  You soldier of fortune!  A Swabian the commander of these
stiffnecked braggarts.  Now see how I'll help you."

"What do you mean to do?" asked Ulrich; but Hans Eitelfritz had already
raised the huge goblet, banging it down again so violently that the table
shook.  Then he struck the top with his clenched fist, and when the
Spaniards fixed their eyes on him, shouted in their language: "Yes,
indeed, it was delightful in those days, Caballero Navarrete.  Your
uncle, the noble Conde in what's its name, that place in Castile, you
know, and the Condesa and Condesilla.  Splendid people!  Do you remember
the coal-black horses with snow-white tails in your father's stable, and
the old servant Enrique.  There wasn't a longer nose than his in all
Castile!  Once, when I was in Burgos, I saw a queer, longish shadow
coming round a street corner, and two minutes after, first a nose and
then old Enrique appeared."

"Yes, yes," replied Ulrich, guessing the lansquenet's purpose.  "But it
has grown late while we've been gossiping; let us go!"

The woman at the table had not heard the whispers exchanged between the
two men; but she guessed the object of the lansquenet's loud words.  As
the latter slowly rose, she laid the child in the basket, drew a long
breath, pressed her fingers tightly upon her eyes for a short time, and
then went directly up to her son.

Florette did not know herself, whether she owed the name of sibyl to her
skill in telling fortunes by cards, or to her wise counsel.  Twelve years
before, while still sharing the tent of the Walloon captain Grandgagnage,
it had been given her, she could not say how or by whom.  The fortune-
telling she had learned from a sea-captain's widow, with whom she had
lodged a long time.

When her voice grew sharp and weaker, in order to retain consideration
and make herself important, she devoted herself to predicting the future;
her versatile mind, her ambition, and the knowledge of human-nature
gained in the camp and during her wanderings from land to land, aided
her to acquire remarkable skill in this strange pursuit.

Officers of the highest rank had sat opposite to her cards, listening to
her oracular sayings, and Zorrillo, the man who had now been her lover
for ten years, owed it to her influence, that he did not lose his
position as quartermaster after the last mutiny.

Hans Eitelfritz had heard of her skill and when, as he was leaving, she
approached and offered to question the cards for him, he would not allow
Ulrich to prevent him from casting a glance into the future.

On the whole, what was predicted to him sounded favorable, but the
prophetess did not keep entirely to the point, for in turning the cards
she found much to say to Ulrich, and once, pointing to the red and green
knaves, remarked thoughtfully: "That is you, Navarrete; that is this
gentleman.  You must have met each other on some Christmas day, and not
here, but in Germany; if I see rightly, in Swabia."

She had just overheard all this.

But a shudder ran through Ulrich's frame when he heard it, and this
woman, whose questioning glance had always disturbed him, now inspired
him with a mysterious dread, which he could not control.  He rose to
withdraw;  but she detained him, saying: "Now it is your turn, Captain."

"Some other time,"  replied  Ulrich,  repellently.  Good fortune always
comes in good time, and to know ill-luck in advance, is a misfortune I
should think."