cowl interrupted the impressive speech which he was delivering to the people who surrounded his coffer.  This group also—­soldiers, travelling artisans, peasants, and tradesfolk with their wives, who, like most of those present, were waiting for the vessel which was to sail down the Main early the next morning—­gazed toward the door.  Only the students and Bacchantes,—­[Travelling scholars]—­who were fairly hanging on the lips of a short, slender scholar, with keen, intellectual features, noticed neither the draught of air caused by the entrance of the distinguished arrivals and their followers, nor the general stir aroused by their appearance, until Dr. Eberbach, the insignificant, vivacious speaker, recognised in one of the group the famous Nuremberg humanist, Wilibald Pirckheimer.

CHAPTER II.

At first Dietel, the old waiter, whose bullet-shaped head was covered with thick gray hair, also failed to notice them.  Without heeding their entrance, he continued,—­aided by two assistants who were scarcely beyond boyhood,—­to set the large and small pine tables which he had placed wherever he could find room.

The patched tablecloths which he spread over the tops were coarse and much worn; the dishes carried after him by the two assistants, whose knees bent under the burden, were made of tin, and marred by many a dent.  He swung his stout body to and fro with jerks like a grasshopper, and in doing so his shirt rose above his belt, but the white napkin under his arm did not move a finger’s width.  In small things, as well as great ones, Dietel was very methodical.  So he continued his occupation undisturbed till an inexperienced merchant’s clerk from Ulm, who wanted to ride farther speedily, accosted him and asked for some special dish.  Dietel drew his belt farther down and promptly snubbed the young man with the angry retort; “Everybody must wait for his meal.  We make no exceptions here.”

Interrupted in his work, he also saw the newcomers, and then cast a peevish glance at one corner of the room, where stood a table covered with fine linen and set with silver dishes, among them a platter on which early pears and juicy plums were spread invitingly.  The landlady of The Pike had arranged them daintily upon fresh vine leaves an hour before with her own plump but nimble hands.  Of course they were intended for the gentlemen from Nuremberg and their guests.  Dietel, too, now knew them, and saw that the party numbered a person no less distinguished than the far-famed and highly learned Doctor and Imperial Councillor, Conrad Peutinger.  They were riding to Cologne together under the same escort.  The citizens of Nuremberg were distinguished men, as well as their guest, but Dietel had served distinguished personages by the dozen at The Blue Pike for many years—­among them even crowned heads—­and they had wanted for nothing.  His skill, however, was not sufficient for these city demigods; for the landlord of The Pike