Each one the fool’s cap doth attire;
               He who the bauble will not wear,
               The worst of fools doth soon appear. 
               Thee may the motley still adorn,
               When, an old man, the laurel crown
               Thy head doth deck, while gifts less vain,
               Thine age to bless will still remain. 
               When fair grandchildren thee delight,
               Mayst then recall this Christmas night. 
               When added years bring whitening hair,
               The draught of wisdom then wilt share,
               But it will lack the flavor due,
               Without a drop of folly too. 
               And if the drop is not at hand,
               Remember poor old Pellican,
               Who, half a rogue and half a fool,
               Yet has a faithful heart and whole.”

“Thanks, thanks!” cried the artist, shaking the jester’s hand.  “Such a Christmas ought to be lauded!  Wisdom, art, and courage at one table!  Haven’t I fared like the man, who picked up stones by the way side, and to-they were changed to pure gold in his knapsack.”

“The stone was crumbling,” replied the jester; “but as for the gold, it will stand the test with me, if you seek it in the heart, and not in the pocket.  Holy Blasius!  Would that my grave might lack filling, as long as my little strong-box here; I’d willingly allow it.”

“And so would I!” laughed the soldier: 

“Then travelling will be easy for you,” said the artist.  “There was a time, when my pouch was no fuller than yours.  I know by the experience of those days how a poor man feels, and never wish to forget it.  I still owe you my after-dinner speech, but you must let me off, for I can’t speak your language fluently.  In brief, I wish you the recovery of your health, Pellican, and you a joyous life of happiness and honor, my worthy comrade.  What is your name?”

“Hans Eitelfritz von der Lucke, from Colln on the Spree,” replied the soldier.  “And, no offence, Herr Moor, God will care for the monks, but there were three poor invalid fellows in your cart.  One goblet more to the pretty sick boy in there.”

CHAPTER XII.

After dinner the artist went with his old servant, who had attended to the horses and then enjoyed a delicious Christmas roast, to Count von Hochburg, to obtain an escort for the next day.

Pellicanus had undertaken to watch Ulrich, who was still sleeping quietly.

The jester would gladly have gone to bed himself, for he felt cold and tired, but, though the room could not be heated, he remained faithfully at his post for hours.  With benumbed hands and feet, he watched by the light of the night-lamp every breath the boy drew, often gazing at him as anxiously and sympathizingly, as if he were his own child.