drink, sleep or talk, the latter instantly carried the suggestion into
execution, rarely neglecting to establish, by wise words, for what reason
the act in question should be performed precisely at that time.

Farther towards the front, with his back resting against a chest, lay a
fine-looking young Lansquenet. He was undoubtedly a gay, active fellow,
but now sat mute and melancholy, supporting with his right hand his
wounded left arm, as if it were some brittle vessel.

Opposite to him rose a heap of loose straw, beneath which something
stirred from time to time, and from which at short intervals a slight
cough was heard.

As soon as the door in the back of the vehicle opened, and the cold snowy
air entered the dark, damp space under the tilt, Magister Sutor's lips
parted in a long-drawn "Ugh!" to which his lean companion instantly added
a torrent of reproachful words about the delay, the draught, the danger
of taking cold.

When the artist's head appeared in the opening, the priest paused, for
Moor paid the travelling expenses; but when his companion Sutor drew his
cloak around him with every token of discomfort and annoyance, he
followed his example in a still more conspicuous way.

The artist paid no heed to these gestures, but quietly requested his
guests to make room for the boy.

A muffled head was suddenly thrust out from under the straw, a voice
cried: "A hospital on wheels!" then the head vanished again like that of
a fish, which has risen to take a breath of air.

"Very true," replied the artist. "You need not draw up your limbs so far,
my worthy Lansquenet, but I must request these reverend gentlemen to move
a little farther apart, or closer together, and make room for the sick
lad on the leather sack."

While these words were uttered, one of the escort laid the still
senseless boy under the tilt.

Magister Sutor noticed the snow that clung to Ulrich's hair and clothing,
and while struggling to rise, uttered a repellent "no," while Stubenrauch
hastily added reproachfully: "There will be a perfect pool here, when
that melts; you gave us these places, Meister Moor, but we hardly
expected to receive also dripping limbs and rheumatic pains. . . ."

Before he finished the sentence, the bandaged head again appeared from
the straw, and the high, shrill voice of the man concealed under it,
asked? "Was the blood of the wounded wayfarer, the good Samaritan picked
up by the roadside, dry or wet?"

An enco