e floated upon clouds, and looked
exactly like the pictures Ulrich had seen of God the Father, only he wore
the smith's cap on his grey hair. Even in Paradise, the glorified spirit
had not relinquished it.

Ulrich raised his hands as if praying, but hastily let them fall again,
for there was a great stir outside of the inn. The tramp of steeds, the
loud voices of men, the sound of drums and fifes were audible, then there
was rattling, marching and shouting in the court-yard.

"A room for the clerk of the muster-roll and paymaster!" cried a voice.

"Gently, gently, children!" said the deep tones of the provost, who was
the leader, counsellor and friend of the Lansquenets. "A devout servant
must not bluster at the holy Christmas-tide; he's permitted to drink a
glass, Heaven be praised. Your house is to be greatly honored, Landlord!
The recruiting for our most gracious commander, Count von Oberstein,
is--to be done here. Do you hear, man! Everything to be paid for in cash,
and not a chicken will be lost; but the wine must be good! Do you
understand? So this evening broach a cask of your best. Pardon me,
children--the very best, I meant to say."

Ulrich now heard the door of the tap-room open, and fancied he could see
the Lansquenets in gay costumes, each one different from the other, crowd
into the apartment.

The jester coughed loudly, scolding and muttering to himself; but Ulrich
listened with sparkling eyes to the sounds that came through the
ill-fitting door, by which he could hear what was passing in the next
room.

With the clerk of the muster-rolls, the paymaster and provost had
appeared the drummers and fifers, who the day after to-morrow were to
sound the license for recruiting, and besides these, twelve Lansquenets,
who were evidently no novices.

Many an exclamation of surprise and pleasure was heard directly after
their entrance into the tap-room, and amid the confusion of voices, the
name of Hans Eitelfritz fell more than once upon Ulrich's ear.

The provost's voice sounded unusually cordial, as he greeted the brave
fellow with the wounded hand--an honor of great value to the latter, for
he had served five years in the same company with the provost, "Father
Kanold," who read the very depths of his soldiers' hearts, and knew them
all as if they were his own sons.

Ulrich could not understand much amid the medley of voices in the
adjoining room, but when Hans Eitelfritz, from Colln on the Spree, asked