All these things led Pellicanus—­so the jester was named—­to make many a conjecture, and he left none untried.

As a mosaic picture is formed from stones, he by a hundred signs, conjured up a vision of the lad’s character, home, and the school from which he had run away.

He called him the son of a noble of moderate property.  In this he was of course mistaken, but in other respects perceived, with wonderful acuteness, how Ulrich had hitherto been circumstanced, nay even declared that he was a motherless child, a fact proved by many things he lacked.  The boy had been sent to school too late—­Pellicanus was a good Latin scholar—­and perhaps had been too early initiated into the mysteries of riding, hunting, and woodcraft.

The artist, merely by the boy’s appearance, gained a more accurate knowledge of his real nature, than the jester gathered from his investigations and inferences.

Ulrich pleased him, and when he saw the pen-and-ink sketch on the back of the exercise, which Pellicanus showed him, he smiled and felt strengthened in the resolve to interest himself still more in the handsome boy, whom fate had thrown in his way.  He now only needed to discover who the lad’s parents were, and what had driven him from the school.

The surgeon of the little town had bled Ulrich, and soon after he fell into a sound sleep, and breathed quietly.  The artist and jester now dined together, for the monks had finished their meal long before, and were taking a noonday nap.  Moor ordered roast meat and wine for the Lansquenet, who sat modestly in one corner of the large public room, gazing sadly at his wounded arm.

“Poor fellow!” said the jester, pointing to the handsome young man.  “We are brothers in calamity; one just like the other; a cart with a broken wheel.”

“His arm will soon heal,” replied the artist, “but your tool”—­here he pointed to his own lips—­“is stirring briskly enough now.  The monks and I have both made its acquaintance within the past few days.”

“Well, well,” replied Pellicanus, smiling bitterly, “yet they toss me into the rubbish heap.”

“That would be. . . .”

“Ah, you think the wise would then be fools with the fools,” interrupted Pellicanus.  “Not at all.  Do you know what our masters expect of us?”

“You are to shorten the time for them with wit and jest.”

“But when must we be real fools, my Lord?  Have you considered?  Least of all in happy hours.  Then we are expected to play the wise man, warn against excess, point out shadows.  In sorrow, in times of trouble, then, fool, be a fool!  The madder pranks you play, the better.  Make every effort, and if you understand your trade well, and know your master, you must compel him to laugh till he cries, when he would fain wail for grief, like a little girl.  You know princes too, sir, but I know them better.  They are gods on earth, and won’t submit to the