Now it was all over with studying.

And yet—­it could not be so very serious a matter, for Doctor Eberbach had just read something aloud at which the young Nuremberg ambassador, Lienhard Groland, could not help laughing heartily.  It seemed to amuse the others wonderfully, too, and even caused the astute Dr. Peutinger to strike his clinched fist upon the table with the exclamation, “A devil of a fellow!” and Wilibald Pirckheimer to assent eagerly, praising Hutten’s ardent love for his native land and courage in battling for its elevation; but this Hutten whom he so lauded was the ill-advised scion of the knightly race that occupied Castle Steckelberg in his Hessian home, whom he knew well.  The state of his purse was evident from the fact that the landlord of The Pike had once been obliged to detain him because he could not pay the bill—­though it was by no means large—­in any other coin than merry tales.

But even the best joke of the witty knight would have failed to produce its effect on the listening waiter just now; for the gentlemen outside were again discussing the Reuchlin controversy, and in doing so uttered such odious words about the Cologne theologians, whom Dietel knew as godly gentlemen who consumed an ample supply of food, that he grew hot and cold by turns.  He was a good man who would not hurt a fly.  Yet, when he heard things and opinions which his mother had taught him to hold sacred assailed, he could become as angry as a savage brute.  The little impious blasphemer Eberbach, especially, he would have been more than ready to lash with the best hazel rod which he had ever cut for his dead father.  But honest anger affords a certain degree of enjoyment, so it was anything rather than agreeable to him to be called away.

The feather curler and his table companions wanted Kitzing wine, but it was in the cellar, and a trip there would have detained him too long from his post of listener.  So he turned angrily back into the room, and told the business men that princes, bishops, and counts were satisfied with the table wine of The Blue Pike, which had been already served to them, and the sceptre and crozier were of more importance than their twisted feathers.  “Those are not the wisest people,” he added sagely, “who despise what is good to try to get better.  So stick to the excellent Blue Pike wine and say no more about it!”

Without waiting for an answer from the astonished guests, he limped back to his window to resume his listening.  The conversation, however, had already taken a new turn, for Dr. Peutinger was describing the Roman monument which he had had put up in the courtyard of his Augsburg house, but, as this interested Dietel very little, he soon turned his attention to the high road, whence a belated guest might still come to The Blue Pike.

The landlady’s little kitchen garden lay between it and the river Main, and there—­no, it was no deception—­there, behind the low hawthorn hedge, a human figure was moving.