Deep, scarlet wounds, brave breasts adorn,
               Impoverished, crippled age I shun
               A death of honor, ’mid glory won,
               This too is good fortune, good fortune!

               A soldier-lad composed this ditty
               Hans Eitelfritz he, fair Colln’s son,
               His kindred dwell in the goodly city,
               But he himself in fortune, good fortune!

“He himself in fortune, good fortune,” sang Ulrich also, and while, amid loud shouts of joy, the glasses again clinked against each other, he repeated the glad “fortune, good fortune.”  Suddenly, it flashed upon him like a revelation, “Fortune,” that might be the word!

Such exultant joy, such lark-like trilling, such inspiring promises of happiness had never echoed in any word, as they now did from the “fortune,” the young lansquenet so gaily and exultantly uttered.

“Fortune, Fortune!” he exclaimed aloud, and the jester, who was lying sleepless in his bed and could not help smiling at the lad’s singing, raised himself, saying: 

“Do you like the word?  Whoever understands how to seize it when it flits by, will always float on top of everything, like fat on the soup.  Rods are cut from birches, willows, and knotted hazel-sticks-ho! ho! you know that, already;—­but, for him who has good fortune, larded cakes, rolls and sausages grow.  One bold turn of Fortune’s wheel will bring him, who has stood at the bottom, up to the top with the speed of lightning.  Brother Queer-fellow says:  ‘Up and down, like an avalanche.’  But now turn over and go to sleep.  To-morrow will also be a Christmas-day, which will perhaps bring you Fortune as a Christmas gift.”

It seemed as if Ulrich had not called upon Fortune in vain, for as soon as he closed his eyes, a pleasant dream bore him with gentle hands to the forge on the market-place, and his mother stood beside the lighted Christmas-tree, pointing to the new sky-blue suit she had made him, and the apples, nuts, hobby-horse, and jumping jack, with a head as round as a ball, huge ears, and tiny flat legs.  He felt far too old for such childish toys, and yet took a certain pleasure in them.  Then the vision changed, and he again saw his mother; but this time she was walking among the angels in Paradise.  A royal crown adorned her golden hair, and she told him she was permitted to wear it there, because she had been so reviled, and endured so much disgrace on earth.

When the artist returned from Count von Hochburg’s the next morning, he was not a little surprised to see Ulrich standing before the recruiting-table bright and well.

The lad’s cheeks were glowing with shame and anger, for the clerk of the muster-rolls and paymaster had laughed in his face, when he expressed his desire to become a Lansquenet.

The artist soon learned what was going on, and bade his protege accompany him out of doors.  Kindly, and without either mockery or reproof, he represented to him that he was still far too young for military service, and after Ulrich had confirmed everything the painter had already heard from the jester, Moor asked who had given him instruction in drawing.