“Man, man!” exclaimed Ulrich, striking his clenched fist on the table.

“Do you suppose a dog can’t scent a spring?” asked Eitelfritz, with comical wrath.  “Lelaps here was born in Africa, the native land of tigers, and his mother....”

“I thought you got him in Tubingen?”

“I said just now that I tell lies.  I imposed upon you, when I made you think Lelaps came from Swabia; he was really born in the desert, where the tigers live.

“No offence, Herr Ulrich!  We’ll keep our jests for another evening.  As soon as I’m knocked down, I stop my nonsense.  Now tell me, where shall I find Navarrete, the standard-bearer, the hero of Lepanto and Schouwen?  He must be a bold fellow; they say Zorrillo and he....”

The lansquenet had spoken loudly; the quartermaster, who caught the name Navarrete, turned, and his eyes met Ulrich’s.

He must be on his guard against this man.

The instant Zorrillo recognized him as a German, he would hold a powerful weapon.  The Spaniards would give the command only to a Spaniard.

This thought now occurred to him for the first time.  It had needed the meeting with Hans Eitelfritz, to remind him that he belonged to a different nation from his comrades.  Here was a danger to be encountered, so with the rapid decision, acquired in the school of war, he laid his hand heavily on his countryman’s, saying in a low, impressive tone:  “You are my friend, Hans Eitelfritz, and have no wish to injure me.”

“Zounds, no!  What’s up?”

“Well then, keep to yourself where and how we first met each other.  Don’t interrupt me.  I’ll tell you later in my tent, where you must take up your quarters, how I gained my name, and what I have experienced in life.  Don’t show your surprise, and keep calm.  I, Ulrich, the boy from the Black Forest, am the man you seek, I am Navarrete.”

“You?” asked the lansquenet, opening his eyes in amazement.  “Nonsense!  You’re paying me off for the yarns I told you just now.”

No, Hans Eitelfritz, no!  I am not jesting, I mean it.  I am Navarrete!  Nay more!  If you keep your mouth shut, and the devil doesn’t put his finger into the pie, I think, spite of all the Zorrillos, I shall be Eletto to-morrow.

“You know the Spanish temper!  The German Ulrich will be a very different person to them from the Castilian Navarrete.  It is in your power to spoil my chance.”

The other interrupted him by a peal of loud, joyous laughter, then shouted to the dog:  “Up, Lelaps!  My respects to Caballero Navarrete.”

The Spaniards frowned, for they thought the German was drunk, but Hans Eitelfritz needed more liquor than that to upset his sobriety.

Flashing a mischievous glance at Ulrich from his bright eyes, he whispered:  “If necessary, I too can be silent.  You man without a country!  You soldier of fortune!  A Swabian the commander of these stiffnecked braggarts.  Now see how I’ll help you.”