The surgeon of the little town had bled Ulrich, and soon after he fell into a sound sleep, and breathed quietly.  The artist and jester now dined together, for the monks had finished their meal long before, and were taking a noonday nap.  Moor ordered roast meat and wine for the Lansquenet, who sat modestly in one corner of the large public room, gazing sadly at his wounded arm.

“Poor fellow!” said the jester, pointing to the handsome young man.  “We are brothers in calamity; one just like the other; a cart with a broken wheel.”

“His arm will soon heal,” replied the artist, “but your tool”—­here he pointed to his own lips—­“is stirring briskly enough now.  The monks and I have both made its acquaintance within the past few days.”

“Well, well,” replied Pellicanus, smiling bitterly, “yet they toss me into the rubbish heap.”

“That would be . . . . .”

“Ah, you think the wise would then be fools with the fools,” interrupted Pellicanus.  “Not at all.  Do you know what our masters expect of us?”

“You are to shorten the time for them with wit and jest.”

“But when must we be real fools, my Lord?  Have you considered?  Least of all in happy hours.  Then we are expected to play the wise man, warn against excess, point out shadows.  In sorrow, in times of trouble, then, fool, be a fool!  The madder pranks you play, the better.  Make every effort, and if you understand your trade well, and know your master, you must compel him to laugh till he cries, when he would fain wail for grief, like a little girl.  You know princes too, sir, but I know them better.  They are gods on earth, and won’t submit to the universal lot of mortals, to endure pain and anguish.  When people are ill, the physician is summoned, and in trouble we are at hand.  Things are as we take them—­ the gravest face may have a wart, upon which a jest can be made.  When you have once laughed at a misfortune, its sting loses its point.  We deaden it—­we light up the darkness—­even though it be with a will ’o the wisp—­and if we understand our business, manage to hack the lumpy dough of heavy sorrow into little pieces, which even a princely stomach can digest.”

“A coughing fool can do that too, so long as there is nothing wanting in his upper story.”

“You are mistaken, indeed you are.  Great lords only wish to see the velvet side of life—­of death’s doings, nothing at all.  A man like me—­ do you hear—­a cougher, whose marrow is being consumed—­incarnate misery on two tottering legs—­a piteous figure, whom one can no more imagine outside the grave, than a sportsman without a terrier, or hound—­such a person calls into the ears of the ostrich, that shuts its eyes:  ’Death is pointing at you!  Affliction is coming!’ It is my duty to draw a curtain between my lord and sorrow; instead of that, my own person brings incarnate suffering before his eyes.  The elector was as wise as if he were his own fool, when he turned me out of the house.”