laps do? He slipped quietly
into the garden, returned with a bunch of forget-me-nots in his mouth,
and offered it to me, as a gallant presents a bouquet to his fair one.
That meant: dogs liked sausage too, and it was not seemly to forget him.
What do you say to that show of sense?"

"I think your imagination more remarkable than the dog's sagacity."

"You believed in my good fortune in the old days, do you now doubt this
true story?"

"To be sure, that is rather preposterous, for whoever loyally and
faithfully trusts good-fortune--your good fortune--is ill-advised. Have
you composed any new songs?"

"'That is all over now!" sighed the trooper. "See this scar! Since an
infidel dog cleft my skull before Tunis, I can write no more verses; yet
it hasn't grown quiet in my upper story on that account. I lie now,
instead of composing. My boon companions enjoy the nonsensical trash,
when I pour it forth at the tavern."

"And the broken skull: is that a forget-me-not story too, or was it. . . ."

"Look here! It's the actual truth. It was a bad blow, but there's a grain
of good in everything evil. For instance, we were in the African desert
just dying of thirst, for that belongs to the desert as much as the dot
does to the letter i. Lelaps yonder was with me, and scented a spring.
Then it was necessary to dig, but I had neither spade nor hatchet, so I
took out the loose part of the skull, it was a hard piece of bone, and
dug with it till the water gushed out of the sand, then I drank out of my
brain-pan as if it were a goblet."

"Man, man!" exclaimed Ulrich, striking his clenched fist on the table.

"Do you suppose a dog can't scent a spring?" asked Eitelfritz, with
comical wrath. "Lelaps here was born in Africa, the native land of
tigers, and his mother. . . ."

"I thought you got him in Tubingen?"

"I said just now that I tell lies. I imposed upon you, when I made you
think Lelaps came from Swabia; he was really born in the desert, where
the tigers live.

"No offence, Herr Ulrich! We'll keep our jests for another evening. As
soon as I'm knocked down, I stop my nonsense. Now tell me, where shall I
find Navarrete, the standard-bearer, the hero of Lepanto and Schouwen? He
must be a bold fellow; they say Zorrillo and he. . . ."

The lansquenet had spoken loudly; the quartermaster, who caught the name
Navarrete, turned, and his eyes met Ulrich's.

He must be on his guard against this man.

The instant Zorrillo recog