like this.

After Nicolas had also glanced around the tap-room, he touched his
father, saying in a low tone:

"Did you notice the men yonder? The younger one--he's lifting the cover
of the tankard now--is the organist who released me from the boys and
gave me his cloak yesterday."

"The one yonder?" asked the nobleman. "A handsome young fellow. He might
be taken for an artist or something of that kind. Here, landlord, who
is the gentleman with brown hair and large eyes, talking to Allertssohn,
the fencing-master?"

"It's Herr Wilhelm, younger son of old Herr Cornelius, Receiver General,
a player or musician, as they call them."

"Eh, eh," cried the baron. "His father is one of my old Leyden
acquaintances. He was a worthy, excellent man before the craze for
liberty turned people's heads. The youth, too, has a face pleasant to
look at.

"There is something pure about it--something-it's hard to say,
something--what do you think, Nico? Doesn't he look like our Saint
Sebastian? Shall I speak to him and thank him for his kindness?"

The baron, without waiting for his son, whom he treated as an equal,
to reply, rose to give expression to his friendly feelings towards the
musician, but this laudable intention met with an unexpected obstacle.

The man, whom the baron had called the fencing-master Allertssohn, had
just perceived that the "Glippers" cloaks were hanging by the fire,
while his friend's and his own were flung on a bench. This fact seemed
to greatly irritate the Leyden burgher; for as the baron rose, he pushed
his own chair violently back, bent his muscular body forward, rested
both arms on the edge of the table opposite to him and, with a jerking
motion, turned his soldierly face sometimes towards the baron, and
sometimes towards the landlord. At last he shouted loudly:

"Peter Quatgelat--you villain, you! What ails you, you, miserable
hunchback!--Who gives you a right to toss our cloaks into a corner?"

"Yours, Captain," stammered the host, "were already--"

"Hold your tongue, you fawning knave!" thundered the other in so loud a
tone and such excitement, that the long grey moustache on his upper lip
shook, and the thick beard on his chin trembled. "Hold your tongue! We
know better. Jove's thunder! Nobleman's cloaks are favored here. They're
of Spanish cut. That exactly suits the Glippers' faces. Good Dutch cloth
is thrown into the corner. Ho, ho, Brother Crooklegs, we'll put you on
parade."

"Pray, m