The jester obeyed his wish, and opened the door leading into the tap-room, for some one had knocked.  The artist’s servant entered, to fetch his master’s portmanteau.  Old Count von Hochburg had invited Moor to be his guest, and the painter intended to spend the night at the castle.  Pellicanus was to take care of the boy, and if necessary send for the surgeon again.  An hour after, the sick jester lay shivering in his bed, coughing before sleeping and between naps.  Ulrich too could obtain no slumber.

At first he wept softly, for he now clearly realized, for the first time, that he had lost his father and should never see Ruth, the doctor, nor the doctor’s dumb wife Elizabeth again.  Then he wondered how he had come to Einmendingen, what sort of a place it was, and who the queer little man could be, who had taken him for a young noble—­the quaint little man with the cough, and a big head, whose eyes sparkled so through his tears.  The jester’s mistake made him laugh, and he remembered that Ruth had once advised him to command the “word,” to transform him into a count.

Suppose he should say to-morrow, that his father had been a knight?

But the wicked thought only glided through his mind; even before he had reflected upon it, he felt ashamed of himself, for he was no liar.

Deny his father!  That was very wrong, and when he stretched himself out to sleep, the image of the valiant smith stood with tangible distinctness before his soul.  Gravely and sternly he floated upon clouds, and looked exactly like the pictures Ulrich had seen of God the Father, only he wore the smith’s cap on his grey hair.  Even in Paradise, the glorified spirit had not relinquished it.

Ulrich raised his hands as if praying, but hastily let them fall again, for there was a great stir outside of the inn.  The tramp of steeds, the loud voices of men, the sound of drums and fifes were audible, then there was rattling, marching and shouting in the court-yard.

“A room for the clerk of the muster-roll and paymaster!” cried a voice.

“Gently, gently, children!” said the deep tones of the provost, who was the leader, counsellor and friend of the Lansquenets.  “A devout servant must not bluster at the holy Christmas-tide; he’s permitted to drink a glass, Heaven be praised.  Your house is to be greatly honored, Landlord!  The recruiting for our most gracious commander, Count von Oberstein, is—­to be done here.  Do you hear, man!  Everything to be paid for in cash, and not a chicken will be lost; but the wine must be good!  Do you understand?  So this evening broach a cask of your best.  Pardon me, children—­the very best, I meant to say.”

Ulrich now heard the door of the tap-room open, and fancied he could see the Lansquenets in gay costumes, each one different from the other, crowd into the apartment.

The jester coughed loudly, scolding and muttering to himself; but Ulrich listened with sparkling eyes to the sounds that came through the ill-fitting door, by which he could hear what was passing in the next room.