Spanish army is a
bloody pest, nothing more."

"There never were braver soldiers."

"Very true; but every defeat, all the blood you have shed, has angered
him and this nation, and wrath, which daily receives fresh food and to
which men become accustomed, at last turns to hate. All great crimes
committed in this war are associated with Alba's name, many smaller ones
with yours, and so your father. . . ."

"Then we will teach him a better opinion! I return to him an honest
soldier, the commander of thousands of men! To see him once more, only to
see him! A son remains a son! I learned that from my mother. We were
rivals and enemies, when I met her! And then, then--alas, that is all
over! Now I wish to find in my father what I have lost; will you go to
the smithy with me?"

"No, Ulrich, no. I have said everything to your father that can be urged
in your defence, but he is so devoured with rage. . . ."

"Santiago!" exclaimed the Eletto, bursting into sudden fury, "I need no
advocate! If the old man knows what share I have taken in this war, so
much the better. I'll fill up the gaps myself. I have been wherever the
fight raged hottest! 'Sdeath! that is my pride! I am no longer a boy and
have fought my way through life without father or mother. What I am, I
have made myself, and can defend with honor, even to the old man. He
carries heavy guns, I know; but I am not accustomed to shoot with feather
balls!"

"Ulrich, Ulrich! He is an old man, and your father!"

"I will remember that, as soon as he calls me his son."

One of the count's servants showed Ulrich the way to the smith's house.

Adam had entirely given up the business of horseshoeing, for nothing was
to be seen in the ground floor of the high, narrow house, except the
large door, and a window on each side. Behind the closed one at the right
were several pieces of armor, beautifully embossed, and some
artistically-wrought iron articles. The left-hand one was partly open,
granting entrance to the autumn sunshine. Ulrich dismissed the servant,
took the mementos of his mother in his hand, and listened to the
hammer-strokes, that echoed from within.

The familiar sound recalled pleasant memories of his childhood and cooled
his hot blood. Count Philipp was right. His father was an old man, and
entitled to demand respect from his son. He must endure from him what he
would tolerate from no one else. Nay, he again felt that it was a great
happiness to be near the b