“My father, and afterwards Father Lukas in the monastery,” replied the boy.  “But don’t question me as the little man did last night.”

“No, no,” said his protector.  “But there are one or two more things I wish to know.  Was your father an artist?”

“No,” murmured the lad, blushing and hesitating.  But when he met the stranger’s clear gaze, he quickly regained his composure, and said: 

“He only knew how to draw, because he understood how to forge beautiful, artistic things.”

“And in what city did you live?”

“In no city.  Outside in the woods.”

“Oho!” said the artist, smiling significantly, for he knew that many knights practised a trade.  “Answer only two questions more; then you shall be left in peace until you voluntarily open your heart to me.  What is your name?”

“Ulrich.”

“I know that; but your father’s?”

“Adam.”

“And what else?”

Ulrich gazed silently at the ground, for the smith had borne no other name.

“Well then,” said Moor, “we will call you Ulrich for the present; that will suffice.  But have you no relatives?  Is no one waiting for you at home?”

“We have led such a solitary life—­no one.”

Moor looked fixedly into the boy’s face, then nodded, and with a well-satisfied expression, laid his hand on Ulrich’s curls, and said: 

“Look at me.  I am an artist, and if you have any love for my profession, I will teach you.”

“Oh!” cried the boy, clasping his hands in glad surprise.

“Well then,” Moor continued, “you can’t learn much on the way, but we can work hard in Madrid.  We are going now to King Philip of Spain.”

“Spain, Portugal!” murmured Ulrich with sparkling eyes; all he had heard in the doctor’s house about these countries returned to his mind.

“Fortune, good fortune!” cried an exultant voice in his heart.  This was the “word,” it must be, it was already exerting its spell, and the spell was to prove its inherent power in the near future.

That very day the party were to go to Count von Rappoltstein in the village of Rappolts, and this time Ulrich was not to plod along on foot, or he in a close baggage-wagon; no, he was to be allowed to ride a spirited horse.  The escort would not consist of hired servants, but of picked men, and the count was going to join the train in person at the hill crowned by the castle, for Moor had promised to paint a portrait of the nobleman’s daughter, who had married Count von Rappoltstein.  It was to be a costly Christmas gift, which the old gentleman intended to make himself and his faithful wife.

The wagon was also made ready for the journey; but no one rode inside; the jester, closely muffled in wraps, had taken his seat beside the driver, and the monks were obliged to go on by way of Freiburg, and therefore could use the vehicle no longer.